I have had two of these lately. One was from a gentleman that used to hunt around here, and he somehow found the site and emailed with questions about food plots and my involvement with the Quality Deer Management Association. In my reply to his email, I let him know that I knew many of the people that used to hunt here, and that I had even posted some stories and pictures about them… Well, he read those articles and looked at those pictures, and then he called me and we talked for a long time about all of it. To say that he was moved would be an understatement!

After we spoke, he left a comment under the stories that I had written about our old friend Dwight (click his name to read it or click Photographs from the Shooter to see them all of the pictures from him). I thought that I would include it here for everyone to read since Chris has promised to write up some stories from that time. And if you are new to this site, please take a moment to read the articles and look at the old hunting pictures that he was referring to. They are an important part of our lowcountry hunting heritage, especially Hampton County’s!

Jeff,

What a great story.  I grew up in the seventies hunting with major jones’ club;  my father took me there when i was six. One of the first men i met was Dwight Moore (camera man) as we called him. And that part that you tell about him teaching kids how to hunt is true.  He always had me on a great stand and always took care of me, and on Sunday morning he was always at church and he made it a point after church to come back by Brighton to say by before we headed back to the upstate to go home.

Some of the pictures on your post bring back so many memories; its great to see those pieces of time. I can’t wait to make a trip over that way to go through his hunting log. As a kid all of these guys molded my life as a child.  joe hadwin,  maj. jones, mrs chris, the whole crowd around dog hunting. Nothing like a cold autumn morning and hearing the whoops of Dwight and Joe and Jimmie Spearman through the forest. Their voices rang out and a strong pack of dogs coming your way -  you just knew that something was gonna bust through the brush at any second.

It’s a lost sport that was a lot of fun and fellowship. I will dig up some old memories and post them soon. Thanks a lot Chris  (smokeyjoe)

Another of them was from the niece of a Southern hunting celebrity that died a few years ago named Ken Tucker. I wrote this piece about Ken and his outdoor show The Sportsman’s Showcase, and his niece happened to find it. She wrote me the following email:

Hello! I know that you don’t know me, but I just wanted to let you know how nice your article was about Ken Tucker. I always referred to him as my uncle, even though him and my aunt Charlotte were never married (i guess dating for 20-so years is close enough!). He was always the one person in my family that I felt like I related to the most, and to hear someone else say that he touched their life like that means alot to me. I was gonna call you on the number from your website, but I couldn’t really think of what to say then. I guess what I just wanted to tell you is thank you. I haven’t been able to watch any of his videos since then, but I guess after almost 5 years, I may break out my vcr too! Its kinda weird how I found your site. When Ken passed away, he left my parents a good bit of his hunting gear, and since no one else in the family bow hunts I figured it would be a waste to let his bow sit out in our storage house. So I got out his bow and brought it back to my house only to find out that it’s a little hard for me to pull back. it’s been hard when i’ve seen his tapes and stuff before, but I was trying to search online for his old sponsers to see if they might know where to find those parts, and I just stumbled upon your site, and i’m very glad that i did. It was nice thinking about all the time that we spent together, and even though I miss him, just seeing what you wrote kinda makes me feel like everyone’s memories of him make him live on. So, thank you again. Hopefully you and your family will get some “big game” hunting in this year!

I just can’t tell you how it feels to have touched people with this site and my writing, and I truly appreciate everyone that visits here. Please keep sending the emails…

Jeff

However that was not the case last week at Cypress Creek Hunting Lodge. We had several guests kill nice animals, and I am looking forward to sharing all of those new harvests on Monday along with details of my new project. I will also be back to full speed on my posting, so make sure and stay tuned!

And with finally getting caught up on things around here, something had to go wrong or it wouldn’t be life… this time it is sick kids. Will has been sick off and on all week, but his big brother Bo woke up last night with a very  high fever and a terrible cough, so they are at the doctor right now. But mama and dada had to keep him calm this morning until we could get an appointment, so what did we do? Well, we called “Big Hog” to entertain him.

Who is “Big Hog” you ask. He is a giant, black boar that answers on channel 2 of our walkie talkies – really mama. But what the boys don’t know, won’t hurt them. All they know is that when dada calls “Big Hog” on the special radios, the giant boar answers and tells them where he is at the moment, whether he is feeding or bedding and other hog details. Both of the boys really enjoy talking to him, and Bo really likes to hear him squeal when he shoots in to the radio! As a matter of fact, Bo told me this morning that he got him “right in the heart, so he is ready to be made in to meat”.

Demented I know, but what can you do when it is too cold to get outside to hunt, and you have to keep their interest in the outdoors up? Parents, you should try it. Remember, “Big Hog” is on channel 2. Have a great weekend, and see you on Monday!

Jeff

We were talking about hog hunting the other night at the Lightsey Hunting Club for Ladies cookout when my friend Will told the story about how I once called in a giant boar with my snoring…

Well, it’s true! And interestingly enough, last night while I was cleaning out a box that held things from our move, I found a picture of that hog from my August 2001 hunt.

I had been up hunting for the entire opening week of deer season and had killed a spike for some meat to take home. However I thought I would hunt one more morning before going back to Florida, so I hit one of my favorite stands on our Garnett tract – the second barrel.

There I spent the morning looking at nothing since daylight, so I was about to go when I decided that I was just too tired to get on the road and kicked back in my stand for a quick catnap to recharge. I had been asleep about 45 minutes when the next thing I know, I am snoring so loudly that I can hear it in my sleep, causing me to jolt awake. And when the fog of slumber cleared my eyes, I noticed that a huge hog was standing about 60 yards in front of my stand just staring right up at me with a very puzzled look on his face. We had never seen a hog on this property before, so it took me a minute to even realize what it was. However I quickly tightened up, eased the gun to my shoulder and sent a round at his shoulder. He flinched, spun around and ran off. Then another smaller pig ran out in to the road, and I sent a round at him as well.

I then sat there for about 30 minutes to make sure he was down while also contemplating my new hog hunting technique of snoring them in, then eased up to the spot where I last saw him. When I got there, I could hear more hogs back in the bush, so I slowly walked in to the swampy area where I found a giant white hog standing next to my hog. I tried to shoot him too, however he ran off before I could get a shot at him. But that was OK since I had found my hog with no problem…

But as I got close, I saw his eyes move! I jerked the gun up to shoot him again, but it was too late. He was already up and running just as I shot, causing me to hit him in the ham. So knowing that he was still very much alive, I backed out of the swamp and went to meet two other of my friends that were up hunting to see if they couldn’t come and help me find the hog I had called in with my snoring. Sure enough, they were at my grand mothers packing up, so I grabbed the master hog hunter of the two and headed back to where I had lost him.

Once there, we spread out and searched the entire area where he had ran in to. However after 45 minutes, we still had not located him. I was just about to give up when I heard my friend Shane yell that he had found him… I was ecstatic over my huge boar with good cutters! And he weighed over 250 pounds, so it took us a while to get him out to the road where it took everything we had to get him loaded up and back to my grandmothers. There we took quite a few good close up pictures of his teeth, but this shot of him filling the back of the truck is the only one I have found so far.

To this day, snoring in a hog is still one of the strangest, craziest hunts I have ever had… except for the SWAT team almost killing me during a hog hunting/camping trip. But that is another story for another day!

Jeff

It has a been exactly a year since I posted this story about my dad, and with so many new readers, I thought I would put it up again…

It has now been five years since my dad died, and I still think about him all of the time, especially when I am alone in the woods where I spent so much time with him. I wanted to remember him in a post since he was the person who introduced me to the outdoors and first took me hunting. The picture above is of us on opening day in 2002 after I killed a young 8 point. The picture means a lot to me because he had worked all summer to keep my stands corned up although he was already in failing health. I was just thrilled to kill something so we could take a picture together before he passed away. It now hangs on my office wall, and I often refer to it when I talk about my dad with my two baby boys.

I have also written a short story about our last days together, and I thought I would share it here…Caution: This is not my usual post. If you are here only for the hunting reports, you may want to skip this.

Jeff

Listening To Turkeys

As I came into the hospital room, my dad’s eyes lit up. His face said it all. He was always excited to have a visitor, but especially his only son.

I strode over to him and gave him a big hug, then a kiss on his forehead and leaned close.

“You should be hunting” my dad said, his hoarse voice barely audible over the steady inhale and exhale of the ventilator.

“I can go later” I replied, trying to hold back the tears. “Those turkeys will be there tomorrow”.

His deep blue eyes welled up, and he gripped my hand tight. “You’re a good man, bubba”, he replied.

As I stared deep into his eyes, I could no longer deny that my 63 year old father was now quickly losing his war with ALS. Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, it is an incurable neurological disease that paralyzes all of a body’s muscles and ultimately ends in death. I just did not want to believe that his disease had progressed so fast, and that it was just a year ago in April that we had gone to listen to the turkeys

It was near the end of South Carolina’s 6 week season, and the birds were gobbling like crazy in the lowcountry. And although my dad had been born and raised here, he had never heard a wild turkey gobble. Turkeys were literally non existent in this part until about 20 years ago, and he had been lured away by city life and big money long before their return. However due to a string of bad choices, he had ended up back home two years ago, just before he got sick.

I was up from Florida for the week hunting, so I encouraged him to go with me one morning late in the season, not to kill one, but to hopefully just hear one. And since he had just been diagnosed with basically a death sentence, I thought it may also be a good time to talk about the things we both knew were coming in the days ahead. On average, ALS patients live less than a year and a half after diagnoses of the disease!

We arrived just before daylight on our lease. I parked my 87 Jeep Cherokee, and we headed off through the planted pines towards the line with our neighbor. He had just recently burned the fields across from us, and I knew a couple birds were usually roosting nearby. And while I also knew those birds were pretty much impossible to call close enough for a shot this late in the season, they would be the perfect candidates to provide the turkey mating calls I longed for my dad to hear.

About a 100 yards into our 200 yard walk, I stopped and made a quick owl hoot to see if their were any birds ready to entertain us. Thankfully not just one, but three big birds fired back from near the line! Two were close and another was just past them.

My heart jumped into my throat. That was all I wanted. For my dad to hear a big gobbler do his thing, and possibly see one strut. We tried to hurry along, but my dad’s balance was already going, and he was having to walk carefully over the downed trees and limbs.

We eased up close to the line and sure enough, two big old redheads were sitting up in a giant pine about fifty yards out into his burn. I told my dad to just slide down against a tree where he could see them, and I began to yelp. Those two hammered back and went into full strut on the limb. I called some more, and they gobbled back, and so did their nearby buddy. I just kept on it, literally making them choke trying to answer my incessant calling. They double gobbled, triple gobbled and even quadruple gobbled back. Which was all I wanted them to do since I had no delusion that they would come in. I just wanted a full show for my dad, and they obliged with twenty minutes of it.

They then flew down and away from my calling, but continued to strut and gobble as they made their way further out into the regrowing burn. We just sat there watching and listening to them until they were more than 400 yards away. Then, after a few minutes of silence, we began excitedly replaying the morning’s events.

My dad was blown away! He said he couldn’t believe that just a couple of gobbling toms could provide such a amazing display, and he now knew why some hunters were fanatics about going after them. He also however marveled over the fact that he had grown up in this area and never heard them.

After a few more minutes of talking while basking in the rising sun’s warmth, I finally started in on the subject of his illness, beginning with his funeral.

“Dad, You know how Nana is. Is there anything you don’t want me to let them do?” I asked hesitantly.

“I don’t give a god damn!” he laughed. “Whatever will make her happy. I won’t be there, so I don’t give a shit”.

I couldn’t help but to laugh out loud too. I had worried that his funeral arrangements were going to cause a problem, and I was determined not to let that happen. My dad, just like his father, did not believe in God, and he had always been upset that he had let his mom give his dad a religious funeral. So I was prepared to make sure that did not happen if he did not want it. However he was obviously fine with it.

We then talked at length about the years he had wasted away from my mom and I, as well as many of the things he had done that he was not proud of – One of them bad enough to warrant three years in prison. I just reassured him that we all make mistakes, some just worse than others, and we talked of all of the people that had given him a second chance, including me.

It turned out to be one of the best times I had spent with my dad in a long time, but certainly the hardest conversation.

Several months later, as I visited him in his final nursing home, I found him weighing just over 100 pounds. Always a round man, my dad now looked like he had escaped the concentration camps of Europe. We went out in his electric wheelchair to the courtyard to eat, and I fed him a requested favorite meal, fried shrimp. By now nothing worked on him except his eyes, and he was supposed to use a feeding tube. However he wanted to try and taste it, so I cut them all up in to fine pieces and fed him slowly. He devoured his meal, and then even had a blizzard to finish it off while I updated him on our deer season that had just started. I also reminisced about the deer he had helped me kill on opening day just the year before.

Later that afternoon I wheeled him back inside, and since he could no longer speak, he just listened while I talked. I told him how he was one of the toughest people I knew, and that anyone else would have given up with such a horrible disease. I told him how proud I was that he was able to turn his life around, and how much I loved him for it. I then explained I had to go back to work in Florida, and that I would be back in two weeks, just like always. However deep inside I had a feeling that it would be much sooner.

We sat there for a while longer while I held his hand and told him about how our business was going and how my wife Amy was doing. I then gave him a kiss and said good bye. After such a exhausting day, he was already asleep by the time I got to the door, so just stood there for a few minutes watching him before I left.

He died two evenings later, just an hour after a visit from his sister. At the funeral, almost the entire town turned out. You would have thought that Elvis was being buried. He now rests just a few hundred yards from where he grew up, in Black Swamp Cemetery in Garnett, SC surrounded by ancient oaks that saw our country founded and shaded Sherman’s troops as they marched to the sea.

I now live and hunt just down the road, and often see flocks of birds going to roost on them, so I am sure he is still listening to the turkeys.

I also wanted to share a beautiful story with my readers that was written by my friend’s wife. Her name is Gillian, and she is married to legendary local hunter and former Pleasant Hill Plantation manager Mike Casstevens. She sent us many great photographs of mature bucks this past Spring, and I believe you will truly enjoy her story.

Behind Every Good Hunter, Is an Incredible…………DOG!
By Gillian Casstevens

When I first met my husband, Mike, and after all the vital information was exchanged (kids, hometown, political views, and all that important stuff), Mike told me about his best friend, his dog. I wish I could write this with Buck lounging at my feet, but as life happens, Buck’s ended after a wonderful life, but a battle against cancer that just could not be won.

Mike bought Buck as a puppy and raised him with the same amount of love he has for his children. Matter of fact, I met Buck before I met his two daughters! My first encounter with Buck was much like “meeting the parents.” Only instead of getting eyeballed by mom, I got the total sniff treatment from Buck, along with a little drool. At the point I met Buck, he was the reigning “Legend of Pleasant Hill.” Any hunter who needed a deer tracked, Mike and Buck were hot in pursuit. I had the pleasure of watching Buck flush deer on a few walks and one time, I saw the dynamic duo in first responder mode. The phone rang, all I could hear was Mike and a lot of guy talk. We flew to the house, Mike ran to the safe and as soon as he pulled out his handgun, ol’ Buck was mounting the truck and ready to go to work. Buck was like a 6-year old kid on Christmas morning, rambunctious and wide-eyed. I stayed at the house and waited. Within an hour they were home. Now out of those 60 minutes, it only took Buck 15 to find the deer. The rest of the time spent was the storytelling and dragging the deer out of the woods. I am not sure who had the greater pleasure, Mike or Buck. Most likely Mike, as he had the bragging rights on Buck.

Buck’s chocolate coat had many war wounds, snake bite scars included, but he wore each and every one with pride. Buck and Mike were two in the same, best friends, two old men growing old together. Mike used to tell me every morning when he took Buck outside, they both had their own bush to “fertilize.” I could just see those two boys each morning walking out on the front porch, griping about being stiff, Mike grumbling and Buck making those low rumbly grouchy dog noises, and finally assuming their positions. Most people who know Mike, know that he has a morning ritual, besides the bush fertilizing. Mike heads to the local diner each and every morning for his guy talk and storytelling with the locals. Many of mornings, Buck rode along proudly sitting up front with Mike. He was like a little kid who just worshipped his Dad. I just never understood why Buck was not allowed a seat of his own in the diner with all the other fellas!

I do not know who has loved white-tailed deer more, Buck or Mike. Buck loved to chase deer and many times he would disappear for a day or two and head to Tye Branch where he met up with the many women in his life. After a day or so, Mike would head up to Tye Branch, call for Buck and as Mike tells it (each and every time), “the ol’ bastard could barely get in the truck, he was so worn out.” Months later, driving through Tye Branch, Mike would spot little chocolate colored Buck puppies. As Mike would say, “a damn good thing I don’t have to pay child support on all of Buck’s kids.” Buck’s longest adventure was 15 days. Nobody had seen him and there were just no signs of Buck coming home. Now Mike would never admit this, but he was one sad soul. We would ride all through Pleasant Hill looking for Buck and it got to the point, Mike would actually look for buzzards. We all worried he met up with the snake who did him in, wondered if he got snatched by a gator, or shot by a land owner. As the fears mounted, Mike’s spirit was slowly breaking. One evening, with all hopes of Buck’s return dwindling, Mike went outside and up stumbled Buck. Thin and weary, fresh wounds and all, he made it home! Never have I seen Mike happier, to include our wedding day. After that scare, Mike would load Buck up in the truck, drive him to Tye Branch and Mike would take a nap or read the newspaper while Buck spread his DNA amongst his groupies! As he got older, Mike had to load the old man up after his passionate episodes.

The hunting season Buck died in was a sad one for everyone, but more so for Mike. Though he did not realize it at the time, I noticed he just did not have the same zest for deer hunting. I would ask him if he was going hunting and he would have something else to do. In seasons past, we never saw Mike during hunting season until well after dark only after meeting up with his friends to share what they had seen. Buck’s partner was aching for his best buddy, but again, Mike would never admit it!

Every trophy in Mike’s “guy room” has a story which includes Buck. Every person in Mike’s life had the pleasure of knowing this legendary dog and the only person who could have loved Buck more was Mike’s daughter, Faith. Losing Buck was equivalent to losing her twin brother because if Faith was a dog, she would most certainly be Buck’s equal. “Faith-ful” and loyal until the end with a love for their Daddy like no other.

Though we all miss him, Buck’s best running buddy, a black Lab named Luke, remains in our home. Luke grew up on Pleasant Hill with Buck and Faith, along with a few other dogs who guarded the property. Though he is not the tracker Buck was, he has filled a void in all our hearts and has made our new family complete.

Coincidentally, Mike is back in the deer stands and continues to tell his stories, however, now that we are married and live in town, he does not fertilize the bushes in this yard! At least, I hope not!

Rest in peace our precious Buck……We know you are up there on that plantation where all bucks are trophies, and all shots are true…….and you are looking and waiting…..

Truly a great story, and I also love the picture of Mike, Faith and Buck from about 10 years ago. Thanks Gillian for sharing that with us…

Jeff

One of the people most responsible for my love of the outdoors is retiring this week, and that would be my mom! Amy, the boys and I are heading to Florida this morning to attend a surprise retirement party for her, so I will have to write this post quickly. However I did want to relate a short story that, while just one example, perfectly illustrates how hard she tried to make sure I had ample opportunities in the woods as a young man. And being a single mother, that was definitely not always easy!

Normally she would arrange for me to hunt with family friends, but we were just stopping to visit here for a day on our way home from a Christmas trip up north. I was about 13, and I only had one afternoon that I could hunt before we continued on back to Florida. I really wanted to hunt so I begged her to take me. And my Uncle J.O. (sr) said that I could sit in the oak tree stand in the back of Jenkins field on Cubbedge Hill if she would.

Well, our small hatchback car was loaded down with clothes and Christmas gifts, but she said as long as I didn’t kill anything, she would drop me off. I said no problem since I figured that it was 50/50 that I would even see anything that late in the season to shoot. So she put me out, and I sat watching over the field until near dark when a couple of does (couldn’t shoot them then) came out followed by a spike. I watched them all the while trying to remember my mom’s command not to shoot anything. But, I just couldn’t take it.

I put the cross hairs on his shoulder and dropped him. I then went and dragged him over to the edge of the field by the road to proudly wait on my mom to pick me up. I don’t even want to repeat what she said when she arrived, but to say that she was not counting on me having a deer would be an understatement. However like she always does, she made the best of the situation by rearranging the entire car’s worth of luggage and presents so that the back was empty enough for my deer to fit. However the only thing we had to keep the blood out of the car was her hanging clothes bag! So down it went, in went the deer, and off we went to the deer processors.

My mom still tells this story to this day as an example of the many problems I have caused her over the years. And I wouldn’t trade the memory for anything. Thanks mom!

While he still watches cartoons and kid’s videos like Cars, Babe, Open Season and Bambi, anymore he is more likely to ask to watch a big buck video from Realtree or a coyote hunting video from World Hunting Group (his absolute favorite). And while we did not allow him to even have a toy gun until just recently, he now has several including one that is a friend’s muzzleloader stock with a dowel attached as a barrel. He carries these around at all times and even sleeps with them! He is also constantly “shooting” big bucks, mama does, coyotes and hogs; he also carries around his giant stuffed animal Easter bunny and shows it off as his “trophy” rabbit.

However, if all of that wasn’t enough, Amy and I are now considering an intervention to bring him back to childhood after the following exchange on Friday when we were headed fishing. We had stopped at our local bait shop, and Amy had run in to get some weights and crickets. I turned around in our van to speak to the kids and keep them from getting restless. I thought I would tell them about a couple of wild hogs that I had gotten to play with over at a friends (he had them in a pen)

Me: ” Boys, Dada saw a couple of big hogs the other day.”

Bo: “Let’s go shoot them!”

Me: “Bo, we don’t always have to shoot the animals. Sometimes it is just nice to watch them.”

Bo: “Yea, then we shoot them!”

Me: “Yes son, but sometimes it is fun to just watch them walking through the woods”

Bo: “That’s right. We have to let them walk until we have a clean shot, then we shoot them!”

I tried several more times to get my point across, but it was totally lost on a young man determined to get his first kill under his belt. Bo even told me that I could not shoot any more hogs since it was his turn…

Like the hunter’s wife, I am now in counseling!

Disclaimer: While our boys are obsessed with hunting, I don’t want any one to think that we are neglecting other important subjects like learning. Bo Hunt is 3.5 years old and knows all of his letters and numbers, and is even starting to read! Will Hunt is about to turn 2, and he also knows all of his letters, shapes, colors and most of his numbers. They are truly some incredibly smart young men, they just happen to love what dada does and want to be just like him. I could not be more proud!

I also want to let everyone know that my posting has been a little off due to being VERY busy making some important changes to our lives. I will be posting about them over the next few days, and I look forward to sharing these developments with you.

Jeff

With deer season just around the corner here in the lowcountry, and with hog season open all year, total scent control is something that every hunter should be working on to achieve the results they want!

But have you read all of the scent control articles in the many hunting magazines, and yet you still continue to get busted before you can pull the trigger on the monster whitetail or giant boar of your dreams?

That’s because most of the outdoor writers’ greatly oversimplify the truly difficult, and monotonous task of becoming and more importantly staying scent free. Most of the them just tell you to bathe in scent free soap, wash your clothes in scent free detergent, spay down with some type of scent killing spray, wear rubber boots and scent-adsorbing clothing and you will be fine.

However while saying this is going to save your hunting, the writers then insist that you stay down wind. Well, were I hunt, that just doesn’t cut it. Not only does the wind change all of the time, but on the small tracts of land that most sportsmen get to hunt in South Carolina, you must work darn hard to put a great buck, big hog or even an fat doe in front of you. Because with deer rifle season running from August 15 to January 1 and two bucks a day allowed in most of the low country, the deer that survive even one or two years become masters of evasion. Also, while some may disagree, the feral hogs that are hunted year-round are just as tough! So while taking the normal outdoor writer’s casual approach to scent control will help, it still won’t keep you from burning out a couple of hundred acre track over so long of a period without some important additional steps being taken.

Probably most critical to my success is NOT wearing rubber boots. Most rubber boots, even the ones that say they are scent free, are not. Smell them. If you can smell them, the deer and hogs certainly can. And since your feet sweat in the rubber, the bacteria builds up on your feet, their leftovers causing odor to be left on the ground as well as sent air born as you walk.

I wear Rocky snake boots pretty much all year round since it rarely gets that cold. And even when it does, my feet breath with the help of some synthetic socks, so they don’t sweat or get cold. More importantly, with some additional steps, they don’t stink. I soak them in Atsko’s sport wash for an hour, scrub them out and rinse them in fresh water before letting them hang in the sun all day. Make sure to start this process early in the day so they don’t stay damp overnight and get moldy, or put them in front of a strong fan until dry.

Next I wash all of my hunting stuff, not just my clothes, in sport wash as well. That means my sling, calls, pull up rope, and bino buddy in addition to my hat, gloves and head net. I also wash my rain gear and anything else that I plan to put into my also washed scentlok backpack.

I then spray anything that can’t be washed down with Atsko’s no odor spray. While it doesn’t absorb odor like some of the newer carbon-based sprays, it actually kills the odor molecules and prevents bacteria from growing while still being safe enough to wash out your mouth. Which, by the way, actually works to kill bad breath, another culprit of many hunts gone bad. Just as importantly, No Odor kills ALL odors not just human odor; this includes gasoline and oil! This is vitally important since hunters are likely to pick up all kinds of smells on the way to the stand.

I then suggest that you store everything in scent-tight bins until your ready to hunt. Or if you can, do what I do and just leave them out on your screened porch or on your clothes line. But watch out because there is something irresistible about scent-free things to animals. They just feel compelled to mark it in some way! And of course shake them out before you put them on; I say this because I haven’t been the same since a spider with a foot-wide diameter crawled out of my pants leg one day!

Next I thoroughly clean my weapon of choice with slip2000, a remarkable scent-free synthetic oil that blows away traditional gun oils. Not only does it not stink but it can actually make your gun shoot faster and better by greatly reducing friction in the barrel over standard oils.

The day of the hunt I shower with Atsko’s no odor soap and apply some scent-free deodorant just prior to walking out the door. I then quickly drive to my hunting area where I finish dressing and then dust down with Knight and Hale’s Stealth Dust. It’s a clay based powder that absorbs human odors that you apply by lightly rubbing a sock filled with it all over your clothes and in and on your boots. It works like a champ, even when my clothes are soaked with sweat from hunting in the 100 degree heat, I just keep dusting down throughout the day to keep all odors from forming.

Then after getting totally packed up and ready for my walk to my stand, I give my boot bottoms a spray with no odor to make sure that I am not transferring any truck odors to the ground in my hunting area. And while walking to my stand, I also try not to touch anything I don’t have to as well as not making any sound in case deer are bedded near by or already headed my way.

Once at my stand and having quietly climbed up, I periodically spray down with no odor and then redust myself. I also chew some of the new gumoflage gum that is on the market. It tastes like your eating a pine cone but it does kill the stench of anything that you have eaten. It also has cloraphyll in it which is supposed to help kill your body’s odor from the inside out.

This step by step fanatical approach allows me to go undetected as I slip into and out of my hunting area year round, and to take some great bucks and hogs. This program has also helped many of my friends like Will pictured above with his nice 9 point. However this is not a one time thing… You must do this each and every time you enter the woods for the program to truly work. Otherwise you just burn out your area and there are no animals left to shoot, even if you do happen to show up scent free a few times.

Try it, and I think you will find that even when that wind changes paths, your quarry won’t.

My friend Will and I were turkey hunting a couple of years ago on a tract by the Garnett post office when this coyote came sneaking in. We had just stopped on the logging road so that I could hit my favorite locator call, the high-pitched peacock, and when nothing responded, we kept walking. And since we were not scent free, that is the only thing that kept Mr. Coyote from getting down wind of us as he came to investigate the sounds he was hearing.

We were just slowly making our way up to one of my favorite spots to set up for a mid-morning session when I happened to see the dog heading towards the spot we had just left. I whispered to Will to stop and hold still, then eased my gun around to the right. The coyote slipped on through the brush, and when he hit the logging road, I let him have a load of 2 3/4 inch heavy shot…

I thought that would do it, so I didn’t fire again as the dog flopped all around. Will on the other hand figured that more is always better, and let loose with two rounds of 3 1/2 inch heavy shot in an effort to finish him off. However when the yote kept moving, Will grabbed his .22 pistol and put one round in to his head. That DID it. We grabbed our dog, high fived and called it a day! The coyote’s head now sits prominently on the top of a specially-made mount showing off my collection of predator kills.

Man, I love hunting in the lowcountry! You just never know what you will run in to while you are out in the woods here…

To say that it has been a tough season would be an understatement: quite a bit of rotten weather to make the hunting tough, lots of wedding work to keep me out of the woods and of course the Gobblinator. I guess that I could whine about it, but instead I think I will take comfort in the fact that I have been in this situation before and managed to shoot one with time running out.

I killed the thunderbird four years ago, and it was truly one of my greatest hunts ever. I can only say that every once in a great while, the stars align and everything in the hunt somehow goes perfectly. It so rarely happens that you can’t ever count on it, you just have to spend enough time in the woods for something like this to happen occasionally.

My wife stopped our Toyota corolla at the head of the dirt road leading to our 180 acre lease. Ahead lay two miles of muddy, torn up trail full of giant potholes that sometimes came close to claiming my Jeep Cherokee 4×4.
It was already 4:30pm, and the last day of turkey season was quickly coming to an end… without me having killed a turkey. I needed to get to my hunting area quickly, but the four wheel drive was out in the truck, so even attempting the drive in was out of the question. The only option left was to have my understanding wife drive me the mile and a half from our home to the road’s entrance and put me out with my Cannondale mountain bike. From there I would ride when I could, hike around the muddy craters when I couldn’t.

I unloaded my ultralight racing bike that I had converted into a hunting machine by adding an atv gun rack, and quickly assembled my gear. The sweat poured off of me in the South Carolina lowcountry’s May heat, but I was determined not to let my tag go to waste – No matter what it took!
I had already blown a chance with two big gobblers right at daylight near the back of the property by taking one too many steps towards them before deciding to set up. After that it was pretty quiet (if you discount the swarms of mosquitoes circling your head with their incessant buzzing) until 10am when I rode out, again on my bike, to shower and attend a small family reunion for a few hours.

Now I was back. I peddled to the far front corner and called loudly a couple of times. I figured that I needed a hot bird looking for some late season love to pull off this miracle, so why not give it all I had.
Nothing.
I didn’t even hesitate, I had already made up my mind that if one didn’t respond immediately, I was headed to the very back of the property. To the exact spot that I had squandered a sure thing this morning.
The mud was flying off of my knobby tires all over my back as I tore down the old logging road the split the property; I had to hurry since, not only was time running out, but the sky turning black with impending rain and the lightning was getting closer along with its booming thunder.
At the far end, about two hundred yards from the line, I ditched my bright yellow two-wheeler and grabbed my gun. While walking towards the corner, I pulled out my MAD high-frequency diaphragm, said a small turkey hunters prayer (you know the one, where you promise anything, just to hear that gobble), threw it into my mouth and prepared to call once I got into position.
My plan was to stalk up near the line so that I could glass the neighbors fallow fields for a strutting bird before calling. I always like to be able to see a bird I am calling to if at all possible; that way you can watch his reaction and adjust your tone or cadence accordingly as well as move to intercept them if they don’t come right in. I also hoped to possibly hear one sound off to the now startlingly loud claps of thunder.
I eased up to about 50 yards from the line, glassed the grown over field ahead of me and strained my ears after each burst.

There it was! A gobble… about 350 yards away, just off to my right but far enough down the road and out into the tall weeds so that I couldn’t see him.
My heart almost leaped out of my chest. It was all coming together perfectly. I had located a bird without even calling and that eliminated the possibly of getting busted while trying to set up closer. I was mapping out the rest of my plan when another, closer burst of thunder made him gobble again. Then again! I knew he must be fired up already, so I gave him what he wanted. I sent a string of moderately loud yelps his way followed by a quick cut.
Grrrobbb-grrrooobbble he fired back. I called again, this time with even more passion. Another double gobble. If this bird was any hotter, he would burn up I told myself as I dashed forward towards the other line that lay about 100 yards ahead. A little over half way there I called again. Grrroooble. This time he was definitely moving closer.
I unhooked my Bucklick creek vest and plopped down against a small pine 35 yards from the line, where I could see out into this grown up field and hopefully watch my bird’s progress. And what I really needed him to do was take a few extra steps beyond the field on to our side, and into the range of my old Winchester 1400 12 gauge.
And it sounded like he just might do that since he was really coming now. I knew because he was gobbling almost incessantly at the cracking thunder, giving his exact path away and keeping me from getting impatient and over-calling.
I just sat there in total amazement, drunk off of the sounds of this gobbling gift, waiting to unwrap him with some #4 heavy shot while he closed the distance. Finally I could see his tail feathers over the weeds. He was strutting down the road about 125 yards out. He was coming, but not as fast as the rain drops were starting to fall.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something if he was going to make it to me before the bottom fell out and ruined my hunt. I called one last time, pleading with him and surely making all kinds of dirty promises in turkey lingo.
He hammered back, but continued his crawl my way. I just knew the rain wasn’t going to hold off long enough. But then, there he was, 40 yards out into the field, but still technically 75 yards from the barrel. I tightened my grip, eased the safety off and waited while he just basically stood there, strutting back and forth.
There was nothing I could do. So I waited, and waited. Finally, after what seemed like an hour but in reality was probably only another 10 minutes, he started to slowly strut my way. A step here, another step there. I was getting nauseous just watching him.
He eased up to the edge of the field and peered deep into the woods for his lover. I was afraid to even blink. My red-headed savior was now just feet from the line and a mere 8 yards out of range.
Gooobbblle, he hollered into my face, still burning holes into the brush with those beady eyes. I held fast, knowing one small mistake would cost me everything.
He dropped out of strut, took a few more steps while cautiously scanning his surroundings, then caught a face full of tungstonalloy, knocking him right down.
I was up instantly, gliding over the humps in the planted pine rows towards my trophy. I was in total disbelief as I snatched him up and tried to admire his 11 inch beard and 1 inch spurs. But I couldn’t. The heat and excitement had gotten to me, and I crumpled to the ground on the verge of a heat stoke. I just sat there in a total daze while memories of so many hunts on the tract flashed through my mind. One of the most important ones was just to listen to the turkeys with my dad.

Just then the rain started coming down heavy and that helped me cool off enough that I regained my thoughts, packed up my bird and started peddling back to the highway. Once there I rode right down 321 with my bird bird sticking out of my vest and my gun on my handlebars. I just couldn’t wait to show my wife. She was as happy as I was and couldn’t believe that I had managed to kill a turkey on the last afternoon of the season. She grabbed the camera and we took some pictures before the sun disappeared. One of the shots was of me walking my bike down the old oak avenue by our hose. It is one of my alltime favorites and it now hangs in our den. On the opposite end of the house hangs the Thunderbird.

What an incredible hunt. Let’s see if I can do it again!

Jeff