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FUR & FEATHERS
Winter is when the land rests. Some of its creatures spend this snowy time in deep slumber. Their heart and respiratory rates fall to the near death levels. For most others, it is survival as usual, and trying to reach spring in good enough condition for breeding and rearing young. With some humans, well, it’s all turned around. Folks that like to lie like slugs around the pool or in their air conditioned abode all summer delight in winter vacations skiing, snowboarding and snowmobiling, often a long way from home. The day after the Lions Club derby at North Pond, Terry Hanson held a Becoming an Outdoors Woman event there. Ladies from across the state iced pike, pickerel, bass and panfish, many of which became lunch on the frozen lake. Hal and Muffy Park provided necessary facilities and parking for the ladies, many of whom had never ice-fished before. Maybe next year some of the ladies from the Cape can get Terry down there to fish some of those fine fish factories. Recently, a Beagler of local legend was running a pair of hounds in the Wolf Swamp area when they set up a racket at a blowdown and kept circling it. Warren wasn’t carrying a gun, just out getting exercise for himself, the dogs, and whatever bunnies or hare were out leaving scent, so he got leashes on the howling pair and found a long branch, the better to poke under the blowdown, from a distance. A fisher squirted out of the other side and took off about as fast as fishers can. This large member of the weasel family is mostly legs, teeth and a bottle-brush tail, as long as its two-foot-long body, with the fierce nature of this clan. Warren was happy to see it go the other way, instead of coming after the dogs. It took about a quarter mile of walking back toward the truck to get the beagles to forget about the fisher, and not want to loop back and pick up its trail. One nice sunny afternoon, Anthony Thurlow and I went predator hunting on a friend’s farm, he equipped with my turkey gun, loaded with absolute maximum Hevi Shot turkey loads, and I with a nice accurate .22 rifle. I hadn’t been able to find my old rabbit squealer call (it sounds like you are skinning a poor rabbit alive), so I bought a new one at Quaboag Sporting Goods. While I was there, poring over his selection of calls, Dick Hibbard, the owner, said he had seen bobcat tracks in his backyard. “Maybe you’ll call one in with your new call,” he said. Well, that call sounds like you are pulling the feathers off an indignant turkey, a handful at a time, rather than a rabbit, but I blew it in a way hopefully that would make it sound like some predator had injured a turkey badly, and it was squawking its piteous last. Lo and behold, about 10 minutes after the first set of calls, Anthony poles me and points to the front of our blind, where a bobcat is emerging from the woods, looking for that turkey dinner. He slowly circled the blind (an elevated structure about 12 feet up in the air to keep critters from encountering human scent) and at one point had to cross a wet area. He didn’t like getting his paws wet and was high-stepping and shaking them vigorously. He got up on a stone wall and followed that out into the swamp 100 yards upwind of us, marking his territory all the way. The sun was half set by this time so I tried another set of calls, kind of hoping a coyote would show up and figure the bobcat had the turkey. That would have been interesting. The bobcat came back toward us quickly, crossed the brook where he could keep his feet dry and climbed a tree that was taken down when the blind was erected. This tree leaned on one of the wooden posts that support the blind. I could see the cat out of the corner of my eye, and hear his claws on the rough bark. He was about 15 feet from Anthony’s boots and looking hungry. I forgot to mention that the farmer had asked us not to shoot bobcats, if we saw them, or things would not have gotten this far. I had another call in my pocket, a mouse squeaker. It emits a tiny little squeak and is sure to keep a predator’s attention when they are close enough to hear it. I squeaked it, half expecting to hear the thump of a bobcat jumping from tree to post and maybe Anthony greeting it with the shotgun blast, figuring we were under attack. But it never came. Perhaps his excellent night vision saw us and he decided that those two large lumps in the box on posts were not good for bobcats, and he melted back into the marsh. Thanks for the thrill, fella. Those upland bird hunter surveys are out there. Give me a call if you need one. 508-867-8426. Let me know about your outdoor adventures… |
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