Wilson Post Blogs

Although the college football season generates a lot of interest from fan bases and television networks willing to play Monopoly money for ratings, it is the recruiting season that is the lifeblood of college football.

Vanderbilt put the wraps on its football season, with a 31-24 loss New Years Eve in the Liberty Bowl. The Commodores got bowl eligible on the final regular season game.

It was a must-win game, played on the road at Wake Forest and the Commodores wasted little time in securing what I consider its most impressive win of the season.

By JOHN L. SLOAN, This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
It closed for business two years ago. The door slammed shut to the public. Over 25 years of tradition was over. White Oak Plantation as we all knew it was no more. Gone. However, you cannot close a reputation for excellence.

The boots of 16,000 hunters had trod the wood steps leading to the big lodge and the bedrooms and dining hall. Lord, the lies told and the memories created in the great room. Mounted heads looked down in amazement, antiques begged to be admired, all gone, now.

I worked and played at White Oak for some 25-years. I was part of the start of the largest bowhunt for women only. What a success that was. For 13-years Does and Bows was one of the highlights of the season. I helped with the first hunt for juveniles. Both those hunts started with conversations between Robert Pitman and me on the front porch.

I killed a few deer at White oak, too, including the biggest one ever killed there with a bow. I killed a turkey or two and Lord at the fish I caught, bass and bream. Over the year, I spent a lot of time down there. It was where I went to recover when I was sick. It was a place I could kick back and refill my swerve.

I watched the sunrises and sunsets from the large front and back porches. I swapped lies and facts and enjoyed the camaraderie of the hunters and especially Robert and Hilda Pitman, the owners. The doors are shut to the public, now. No more groups of 30 hunters creating a din of stories in the dining hall. The vast acres chopped up and sold.

Gone.

Maybe not all gone. There are still 1,200 acres surrounding the home place. The main lodge and out buildings are intact. Robert and Hilda still live there and Matt, their son and his family, wife Mary, and their two kids. Matt put in some green fields this year and made sure some stands were up just in case a few old friends stopped by to hunt. There are some stands back in the swamp where a creek I can neither pronounce or spell runs through the thick cypress, tupelo, hardwoods and pines. There are still a few fish left in the home lake…some big ones, too. Course, the drought this year hasn’t helped.

Mark Campbell, known locally as Big Bird and I will be visiting January 13-16. It will be a bit of a homecoming for me. We will fool with the deer some because there are some big bucks that haven’t been hunted for two years. See, it is the peak of the rut down there, prime time to hunt. There are plenty of does that need thinning. If one of those cussed hogs steps out, he is toast. We might fish a little, too. I have been saving a special backstrap from a dry doe I killed here for at least one meal.

The afternoon hunt on January 15 will be a special one for me. I have been asked to guide one Ryan Donald on special hunt for deer. Ryan, age 23, has a severe form of cerebral palsy. This may be his last hunt. Robert, Hilda, and them, are going all out to make it special. Matt built a stand to accommodate his wheel chair. Various companies have outfitted him in the latest hunting clothes and equipment. I am honored that he asked me to guide him and more than happy to oblige. I’ll try hard to get that young man a deer.

I know, there will be some porch activity complete with big glasses of the best grapefruit juice I have ever had and a lie or so punctuated with some “I told you so’s”. We will recall years past, going back over the special memories from special hunts, the great meals.

The bucks will be trailing if not actually chasing the does. Since the entire place was under a strict management plan for a quarter century, the buck/doe ratio is great and the age strata are about the best around. Therefore, the chances for a mature whitetail buck are better that average.

The Bird might have a chance for the biggest buck of his life. Won’t take much. For years, this week has been known as the premiere hunt of the year. Many families reserved this week for their hunt. I wonder how many young people have killed their first or maybe biggest buck on this week.

White Oak is closed to the public. No more 500-600 hunters a year. Those days are gone. The big lakes are sold, gone. No more racket from hunters messing with their turkey calls. Those days are gone. Walking in a straight line all day and never, leave the property will not happen again. Much of that property is gone.

White Oak is mostly no more. What is left, excluding the memories, is for sale, too and one day it will be gone. But not quite yet. Right now, it is not quite…

Gone.

You just had to be there -- Picture it. Jeanne in the kitchen with pots and pans everywhere. The ham just ready for glazing. So, Jeanne goes to take her shower, leaving the ham on the edge of the counter. My good dog Libby, can easily reach the edge of the counter.

I have to giver her credit, Jeanne; she did not melt down as she might have a few years ago.

There was enough left that with careful trimming, it was okay.  In fact, it was downright hilarious.

By JOHN L. SLOAN, This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
It happens every year,

Christmas.

If it were not for the grandkids, I would just about prefer to skip Christmas. I am not anti-Christmas, Rather enjoy the feeling, just tired of all the commerciality. Besides, through the years, I have had some miserable ones. But I won’t go into that.

Jeanne and I pretty much buy whatever we want or need during the year so there is not a lot of anticipation over the box of socks or underwear or the new jogging suit. All are pretty much standard fare. I enjoy watching the GK’s destroy the pretty paper. However, I did think of something I would like.

Some weeks ago, via email, Jimmy Holt, Larry Woody and I kicked something around. We mused around about a fishing trip to Center Hill, the three of us. The fact we all either currently or formerly worked or are working in the same field together does not pose a problem. Jimmy and I were on television together for four years and fished the Hill a lot. Larry and I have shared a boat on a few occasions and he worked at the Nashville paper with Jimmy. I think it would be fun for all three of us to go fish the Hill for a couple days. The fact that we are all also getting a little long in the tooth also figures in.

I know my newspapers, The Wilson Post, Gallatin News and the Hendersonville Standard would not object to Larry and me writing about it. Larry, you see, tries to write for the other paper in Lebanon. I hope that would not be a problem for him. I think it would make a good column, one our readers would enjoy. It would give Jimmy something to lie about.

If we can get some water this spring as we did last spring, the lake would be primo. I am thinking-take Jimmy’s big ole deep breathing boat and spend a night in one of the cabins at  Edgar Evins State park. We would fish an afternoon and a morning, not beating ourselves to death, just easing down some of our old favorite banks, lying about the fish we caught there in years past.

We would start on the long, rocky bank leading into the deep cove straight across from Holmes Creek. Dave Ramsey has a shack built on the bluff overlooking that fine cove. I doubt it cost much over a million. Then, we would just whip around the corner to the second cove, the one I have always called, strangely enough, “Second Cove”. That is a great place to catch spotted bass in the spring and sometimes a crappie will hit a minnow jigged deep.

From there, we might try the left-hand bank coming out of Indian Creek. What a super bank to fish with a medium crankbait in the spring. Lots of rock and mud mix to make it warm a little quicker that some other banks.  Porter Waggoner loved to fish that bank, wrote the song, “Indian Creek” there. My uncle Lester caught his first Center Hill bass there, a largemouth.

Of course, we would have to fish the bank straight across from that. It is called the Jimmy Holt bank. I have no idea why but I do recall a good brown fish I stuck there one late spring afternoon. Mickey Pope and I both estimated her at well over seven pounds. I released her in great shape. I had one explode on a floating worm there, fishing with the Holt one spring morning. Missed the hook set.

That night, I would grill to perfection some superbly marinated deer backstrap. Some garlic mashed potatoes and green beans would fit nicely along side. I’d have to have some of Big Bird’s fantastic squash relish and perhaps a tossed salad. Maybe some butter pecan ice cream for desert. I no longer drink but the “boys” might enjoy a cocktail before dinner.

I am sure the night will be interesting. I can’t speak for Woody but I’m sure Jimmy and I sleep poorly. We would have to get our bathroom trips coordinated to fit our prostate schedules.

In the morning, we would start on the right bank of the second cove on the right as you come out of Cove Hollow. That use to be one of Dave Hughes’ favorite banks and Harold Dotson liked it, too. Those were two of the best smallmouth anglers to ever come out of Hendersonville. I have started my day well there on several occasions. The smallmouth seem to really like both my dark green GitZit and a brown/black hair fly with pork trailer. Early morning with a floating Rapala can be exciting as well. The water jumps up from 90 feet to 18 and is filled with big rocks.

It is a quick jump to the round at the front of the cove straight across from the number two ramp at the park. Boy, that place can be exciting. However, it can be a cold sumbuck before the sun gets to it. I watched Foster Butt shiver the rivets out of my old jon boat many years ago. I thought he was going to freeze to death before we got a fire started. I still laugh about that. We had a ton of fish that morning. I believe it was in early April.

Plenty of good banks to fish and plenty of memories among the three of us. I think it would make a great column. Can you just imagine the stories that would be told? I think I’ll get started working on it.

But first, I have a trip back to Alabama with Big Bird for one last try at a bragging size buck. Right now, G-kids will be here soon. I need to get my Ho-Ho on.

Merry Christmas everyone and remember, not all the good presents come wrapped in shiny paper.

It is hard to believe that Christmas is here, and before we blink it will be 2012. I hope you have all had a great year and are looking forward to another exciting adventure in the coming one. Ray and I would like to wish all of you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

I live in Mt. Juliet and while traveling around town this past week or two I’ve noticed a frequent feathered friend perched on some power lines near Old Lebanon Dirt Road.  It is a beautiful American Kestrel, and he has been keeping a keen eye on some open fields from his perch.  I decided to look him up this week and learn more about him since I’m not familiar with our smallest falcon. Here are some of the interesting things I learned…

By JOHN L. SLOAN
I guess after 57 years of hunting deer, one would expect that I would learn a few things. I think I have. I know for sure I have learned some things about stand placement and positioning. No, they are not the same thing. Placement is where you put the stand. Positioning is how you place it. Maybe there is something I here that will help as you hunt next year.

Scouting and experience is how you learn to place a stand, where it should go. The type of stand-hanging, climbing, ladder or ground blind-will dictate a great deal about placement. Experience will dictate positioning. There is no substitute. You have to lay eyes on the entire situation.

I have two stands that are less than 100 yards apart. Too close you ask? I have killed 38 deer from those stands, 25 from one, 13 from the other. They are in the right places and both places are ones many hunters would pass up. To add to the mix, I park my truck or ATV within sight of both stands. That is stand placement. Now about positioning.

One thing I always try to take into consideration is the time of day I intend to hunt the stand. That is important because it will often dictate how I am going to position it. It often dictates the direction the deer will come from and that concerns the sun. See, many hunters never consider the angle of the sun. If possible, I always want the sun behind me. And yes, it does, to some degree, tend to silhouette me. However, it gives me a much greater advantage in two ways. They are important ways.

First, it puts the sun in the game’s eyes instead of mine. Have you ever tried to look through a riflescope when shooting directly into the sun? A man can starve down to a slim shadow trying that.

Secondly. It tends to make an animal travel with their head down and with a reluctance to look up. I have learned that many hunters never considered that. Just something to keep in mind.

While I am talking about the angle of the sun, let me mention that when I hang  a stand with the early morning or late evening sun as a consideration, I also try to put the stand on the side of the tree away from the direction I expect the game to come. That way, I have the tree between the game and me. Sounds crazy to have to look behind you all the time, doesn’t it. It may be but it is one heck of an advantage to have a tree silhouetted against the sun and you peeking around it. That single tactic has probably accounted for me killing well over 100 deer that I would not have killed had I been on the other side of the tree. I want the deer in the sun and looking into the sun. I want the sun behind me and a tree between me and the deer.

Just something over a half-century of deer hunting taught me.

Moving. Let’s talk about moving. I mean moving the whole dang thing. Say you are hunting a stand for the first or maybe second time and you notice most of the deer are using (an old timers term for traveling), just out of range or in an area, you cannot shoot.

Move right then. Do not plan to come back tomorrow and move the stand, do it right then. I don’t care if a deer is watching you, climb down and move. Several times, I have done that, climbed right back up and killed a deer. You cost yourself by waiting…every time. Often, the biggest buck will come through last. Move the stand, climb up and maybe kill him. Remember, if they can’t see or hear you move, it didn’t happen.

Just something else I learned.

Build a highway. Deer do not like briars and thick weeds anymore than we do. I cannot count the number of times I have actually made deer walk within shooting distance of my stand simply by creating a highway for them to travel. The latest instance was just a few weeks ago.

I was not able to hunt much last year, just not healthy enough. As a result, one of my stands went unhunted and the weeds grew shoulder high on the trail going to it. To hunt it this year, I had to use a sling-blade and actually cut a trail three feet wide and 75 yards long to it. Within three days, the trail was beaten down with deer tracks.

The first time I hunted it, September 28, late in the afternoon deer just poured down the trail and right past my stand. I killed two, a doe and a buck, within three minutes of each other. I was shooting the TenPoint crossbow.

So use that knowledge and look for places you can do the same. Make a highway through tall weeds and grass. If you have a bushog, make one pass in a place you want deer to travel -- don’t make it wide. They still like cover, just wide enough to walk. Then place a stand in a good ambush spot.

Just something, I learned from experience.

You learn, after watching a few thousand deer, to read body language. You begin to understand what is about to happen seconds before it happens. You come to understand that deer “crouch” before running. That mean their entire body lowers by as much as 18 inches. Why is this important? If you are a bowhunter, it is very important because it tells you where to aim. Over 60% the deer that are missed with a bow and arrow are missed because the arrow goes high. If you aim low-at the lower part of the vitals-quite often, the deer ducks into the arrow.

Just something, I learned from experience.

Bowhunting makes you a better hunter or at least it should. Over half the deer, I have killed in five decades and change of deer hunting I killed with a bow or crossbow. For 30 some years it has been almost a passion and for many of those years a part of my profession.

Sitting in trees, waiting for deer to come within 35 yards of me forced me to watch and learn. With a rifle, you do not usually have a lot of waiting and watching. You shoot. Being forced to watch deer, you learn how they move and why they do things.

You learn to decipher  head-bobs, foot-stomps, snorts, and “blowing”. You learn to read the language of the tail. A deer, especially a mature doe, communicates a great deal with her tail. Watch it enough and you learn to understand that communication. Learn from your own experience. Don’t depend on what some, even me, tell you. They could be wrong.

Just something, I learned from experience.

I urge all hunters to study deer, don’t just hunt them. It will make your hunting experience more enjoyable. Watch a deer do something strange, say stand with one leg raised and tail twitching from side to side and ask yourself, what is that all about? Then keep watching and see if you can figure it out. Watch an old doe stomp, flick her tail, and stare a hole through something. What did the foot stomp mean? She  was communicating. Was she trying to elicit movement? What did she say? (BTW- The answer is yes to both.)

There is a lot more “fun” in the deer woods than just killing. Go to school and study. You will be surprised how much you will learn. I have learned far more sitting in a tree than I have sitting in a classroom. Pretty good education to share and pass on to the button bucks in your family, too.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
I remember Thanksgiving 1957. I was 13 and the proud owner of a beautiful, 16-gauge double barrel. It was a mint condition L. C. Smith. I later traded it for a 12-gauge but at the time, it was my prize possession. It was drizzly and cold in the Saline swamp and the afternoon before we had hunted ducks. I killed four.

Thanksgiving morning we would deer hunt for a few hours, make just one drive, and then head to camp to start the hog roast. The fire was already burning and coming to cooking coals. For one of the first times, I had the duty of handling the dogs. That meant I had scant chance at seeing a deer but I thought the job held great responsibility.

Uncles Lloyd, Lester, and Alphus dropped the dogs and I off on the Muddy bayou road and I sat shivering in the dark waiting for the first light to start. It would be a foggy morning, clear with patchy fog laying close to the ground, spooky in a way but I liked it, made the swamp mysterious. I would drive through the swamp about two miles until I hit the Alligator Bayou swamp road, just a mud track.

In a drive, you walk quickly, directing the dogs.

Dark-eyed Junco or Snowbird

Hello to all my birding friends. You do not know how much I have missed you. I have had a very rough time and even looked death straight in the eye. Thanks to our Lord and Savior, Jesus, I have been given an extension on my life. We are planning on giving you the full story on my health problem with a stern warning which may save your life. Many churches have me on their prayer list, and my good friends on Facebook and Bc Yahola and the members of “If you grew up in Lebanon you remember...” have prayed without ceasing. Thanks to all of you.

My mother, Margie Pope, took care of me for a little over two weeks while new friends from Donelson Home Health taught me exercises to help build my muscles which had deteriorated from my two weeks of ICU in a coma. The first chance I went out to my house, my binoculars were a “must-have” so I could see what all was feeding on and below my brother’s sock feeder. There were Chickadees eating the stale Nyjer seed from the sock while other ground feeders were scratching below for leftovers. There was one solitary White-throated Sparrow out by the old shed in the backyard.

It was great to have Karen Franklin and her two children, Anna and Nick, visit me on a Saturday afternoon. The first thing I saw when I awoke in the hospital was a couple of drawings from Nick and Anna, wishing Mr. Ray to get well soon. They are such a loving family. I would like to thank Karen for keeping you informed on my situation and to her husband John for his patience while she wrote articles for your enjoyment. You don't really know what it takes to write something each week, especially when you don't want to repeat yourself.

Dotty Kim and her daughter, Tammy, along with a couple of her grandchildren, Britney and Steven, hijacked me one night to go to Ponderosa for supper. Since I was not working, there was not enough money for a steak, so I ordered the salad bar. The manager Billy Mullinax spotted me and was asking where I had been and why I wasn't eating steak. I explained everything about my condition and my empty wallet. In no time Billy returned to our table with a juicy sirloin steak, compliments of the manager. It was the first real meal that I have eaten outside of what my mother cooked. Thanks Billy!

Finally, like Dorothy said in her famous movie, "There's no place like home." You don't know how many times I have joked with some of my visiting friends, telling them that I have clicked my heels three times and repeated Dorothy’s line. My mother was afraid that I might want to go home too early, but I reminded her about our trips to Florida. It was a lot of fun, but it was so nice to see the lights of Lebanon when we topped Four Mile Hill.

My birdfeeders were dry as a bone and had been for over a month when I finally got around to refilling them. It took two whole days before anything showed up to feast, and the first birds were Carolina Chickadees. The next day one of my favorites showed up. The Dark-eyed Junco was scratching beneath the feeder on the seed that was scattered just for the ground scratchers. My left ring finger is starting to get sore, so I will close this article and hope to have another for you next Wednesday.

I would love to hear from you as to what’s lurking about in your neighborhood and at your feeders. You can write me at 606 Fairview Ave., Lebanon, TN, 37087 or e-mail me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

by Ray Pope

By JOHN L. SLOAN
November is dead. The river is almost frozen. There is skim ice out three feet in some places. Brown brittle leaves scud across the hard ground. Just to make it more miserable, the wind is from the north and gusting. A flock of mallards whistles by. I blow my nose and use my left sleeve as intended. I check the scope one more time. Four power is enough.

I have come to this bleak part of Nebraska on a whim. When I was here, shooting a video during the October bow season, a much more hospitable time, I saw evidence of one, possibly two large deer. One rub on a tree larger than my cameraman’s leg got me excited. The rub got me excited,  not his leg. When one of the local hunters killed a Pope and Young class buck near here.  I did some scouting and determined where the river crossing was.

The deer feed over in the Iowa during the night and cross back into Nebraska at dawn. Since gun season is not open in Iowa, I was waiting for them to make their nightly pilgrimage. I intend to catch them on the Nebraska side before they cross into Iowa. My only chance was on the river bank. The brush was too thick leading to the bank and I had no way of knowing where in the hills and thickets they bedded. I had to take my stand just as they reached the clear river bank.

They must come soon or both November and my hunt will be over. The does, three of them, come with head bobs and ear flicking. Earlier, I had seen one pause in the scrub before entering the bottom. The last rays of weak sun seemed to warm her. She was young, an early fawn.

That was an hour ago. Now this trio moves down the bank. They look stuffed in their winter coats. They tiptoe across the ice and enter the water. Somewhere a fire is going in a house. I can smell the smoke. Across the river, a light begins to wink in a house over a mile away. The grain train at the elevator blows its’ whistle, preparing to pull out for somewhere. I sniff the smoke again.

A fox trips through the bottom, walking large fallen logs and investigating mice burrows. He provides color in drab afternoon. I stretch my legs and wiggle my cold toes. I have been semi-hidden behind the log, a big piece of driftwood, for an hour. The river bottom is full of blow-down trees and driftwood. It is a maze, treacherous to walk. One more hour until dark. He I remember an afternoon when I was young. I can’t recall the exact age but it was a cold afternoon for Louisiana and I am walking down Colony Road, heading home. It is twilight and I can smell wood smoke from a stove. Perhaps it was Audrey Edwards’ house. How or why do I remember her name? I doubt it was her eyes.

Again I scan the river bank. I think of the old camp on Back Camp Slough. The smoke would come through the walls and make your eyes water.

We called it the Smoke House. We used it mostly to duck hunt and sometimes to run the big swamp rabbits with beagles. We would pack in like sardines, Lloyd, Lester, Alphus, Flytrap Wakefield and old Frank Chatelein.

It was always my job to start the morning fire to knock off the chill. That reminds me of the chill-X2, I am currently fighting. I check the riverbank again. Cold and still, just wisp of smoke, barren…almost.

He is dim in the gathering dusk. Even through the scope I can’t clearly see his antlers, just that he has some. He is not the buck I am hunting. In scant minutes it will be too dark to shoot, hunt over. I know the big, bent cottonwood tree he is approaching. It is just about 200 yards away. I let the .308 rest on my big, left-hand glove on top the log. The crosshairs hold rock steady. I take a deep breath and let half of it out. One inch low at 200-yards so I hold one inch high and gently squeeze the trigger.

The rifle jumps and the sound echoes up and down the river, bouncing off the big trees. I do not know if I hit or missed. He just vanished.

I am assuming a hit. Unless you know for sure otherwise, you always assume so. A raft of small ducks signal the end of daylight and the clouds curtain out what little is left. It is dark.

Walking the drift detritus is too hazardous in the dark. The river, when at flood, dumps everything on the banks. To walk it in the dark is to ask for a broken leg. It is below freezing. A dead deer will keep well until daylight. November and my hunt are over. Tomorrow I will know how it went.

Tomorrow I will bundle again in my warmest and perhaps the sun will shine. We will find out the truth, not a memory on the wind yet, but one day soon. Then I will head home, 713 miles south and east of the log, I lean against.  

Again, I smell the smoke. As I gather up my equipment, I have no choice but to think of other smokes I have smelled through the years. Campfires and  fireplaces and stoves. November is gone, the happiness of Thanksgiving just another memory on the wind.

Many memories on the wind tonight.

This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Assuming you have killed a deer or maybe someone gave you a deer roast. Maybe you have never cooked a deer roast you liked.
Maybe you want something different for Thanksgiving. If you have four people or less to feed, try this. I got this recipe from two top-notch deer cooks in the Midwest.
Tommy Linguine and Strogh Beefenough turned me on to this.

Step one -- Thaw meat to room temperature and pat with paper towel. Sprinkle liberally with Worcestershire sauce. Season well with Tony Chachere Cajun Seasoning and plenty of meat tenderizer. Do both sides. Then seal in ZipLoc bag and place in refrigerator for 12 hours. Repeat meat tenderizer, rubbing in well, at six hours.

Step two -- Remove from bag and stab a bunch of times with a long-tine fork, (tenderizes it more) and wrap completely in bacon, securing bacon with toothpicks. Place in Dutch oven or Crockpot. Cover with sliced red onions and one tablespoon of minced roasted garlic or fresh garlic, crushed.  Pour one can of cream of mushroom soup, blended with 1/2 can of water over top and spread around. I like to cover mine with a selection of diced mild peppers. Place in oven at 325-350 degrees for 1-1.5 hours. Check internal temperature of meat, 155-159 degrees is perfect. Internal temperature is the best guide.

Step three -- Remove bacon and slice in ¾-inch cuts against the grain and serve over bed of long grain and wild rice. Ladle pot drippings on top. Serve with corn on the cob and stove-top sautéed asparagus, Add whatever else you want to go with it. It is fit to eat. Warning: Do not overcook. If it is well done, the dog won’t eat it. Medium rare-good pink to red center-is perfect. Call me when done.

I’m sure many of you have special bird seed treats you like to put out or make. And I know you have all battled squirrels at one time or another!  I hope you are gleaming a little bit of useful information from recent articles.  My neighbor, Bill, makes a special suet cake he puts out in the winter. It always draws a crowd. However, he does not enjoy the squirrels that make short work of his cakes…so he shoots blanks from his back porch to scare them off.  My kids holler when they hear the shots, “Mr. Bill’s got squirrels again!” 

One type of bird is particularly fond of his suet cakes: the woodpeckers. Both of our yards are frequented by Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers and Downy Woodpeckers. The Red-bellied and Downy are daily visitors especially in the winter when we put out suet and peanut butter!  Bill has also seen Pileated on several occasions in our neighborhood. One time last year he spied one on an old stump in our yard and tried to call to let me know I needed to look out the window. Unfortunately, I missed his call but we had been wondering what was turning the stump into mulch and he solved the mystery.

Growing up I was never around mature trees, so woodpeckers were a bird I was not familiar with until my husband and I moved to Tennessee from Indiana.  We bought a house with more than 30 mature trees, and I was immediately rewarded with woodpeckers. They not only enjoyed my regular feeders, but the Downys enjoyed my humming bird feeders and taught their cute youngsters to drink from them in the summer months.  Woodpeckers are amazing creatures! They have elongated sticky tongues they use as a tool to remove insects from the holes they drill or to lick up sap.  Unlike other birds that have three toes pointing forward and one back, most woodpeckers have two pointing forward and two pointing back to help them balance. They also have stiffer tail feathers which help support them on vertical services.  However, what amazes me most is that they can hammer an estimated 8,000 to 12,000 times a day!  Can you imagine the massive headache most of us would have if we slammed our heads into something hard that many times in a single day?  Yet they are designed to handle this action with no side effects!

By JOHN L. SLOAN
I sat in the graying, waiting for the first boom of a rifle or shotgun to float through the moss-shrouded arms of the giant cypress. The big trees lined the edge of Belle’s Beak in the vast Saline Swamp. I hoped the boom would come from my L.C. Smith 12 gauge. It was the opening day of the Louisiana deer season, 1957.

It was not the Saturday before Thanksgiving.

There have been many opening days in many places since then. Much has changed. One thing that has not changed here in Tennessee is our opening day of rifle deer season. It opens the Saturday before Thanksgiving, this Saturday, November 19. There have been some changes to our deer seasons this year however, the opening day is not one of them.

It will open Saturday November 19 and continue through January 1, 2012. You may use a centerfire rifle, a muzzleloader or archery equipment. Here in Unit L, you may kill three does a day and one buck a day, not to exceed three bucks for the entire year. Contrary to some rumors, baiting is not legal. Among the changes in the seasons is the continuous rifle season. There are no breaks. That keeps it more simple.

Weather and health permitting, I’ll be among the army of orange. I will don my vest and hat of blaze orange and just before good daylight, I’ll make my way to a ground blind I built in a huge blow down I know about. One of the big winds we had back in the spring must have had me in mind when it blew the huge red oak down. The fork in the main trunk, now lying on the ground, makes a perfect ground blind. My folding camp chair, complete with back and arms, fits perfectly in that crotch. Even better is the fact that it is on a ridge splitting two large bowls. The deer travel the edges of the bowl and down the spine of the ridge to get from point A to point B. None of those trails is more than 50 yards from my natural ground blind.

I found the spot a couple weeks before our archery season opened and have been saving it. The tracks in the trails tell me it is getting plenty of use. I am banking a buck, immersed in the throes of passion, we call it the rut, will either chase or trail a doe by my blow-down. If/when he does, I shall plant a .308, 165-grain, silver tip behind his shoulder and anchor him in place. He will then be converted into dinner packages.

On that morning so many years ago, I sat squirming on a cypress log, straining to hear the first cry of a deer dog or the boom of a gun. My toes were cold in the black, solid rubber hip boots and I feel sure my nose was running. Some woodies buffeted through the trees of the break and splashed down in the shallow water. A Pileated woodpecker tried to beat his brains out on a hollow tree and something made me look behind me.

A fat spike with new antlers about five inches long was 20 yards behind me, looking right at me. As he turned to run, the bronze bead on my shotgun shook and shimmied and finally settled somewhere behind his shoulder and I pulled the first trigger. He made a high jump and I pulled the second trigger. He jumped again and fell over backwards. I had my buck. My deer season was over.

Since then, there have been many changes. For one thing, I have learned there is no such thing as my buck. Unless I am hunting behind a high-fenced deer farm enclosure, I do not own any deer. They are our deer. We all own them equally.

In the early days of deer hunting, does were not legal. A true hunter would not shoot a doe. A real man only killed bucks. We preached that and now we have to convince some of the older hunters that is no longer true. A real hunter, one who cares about the game, will indeed, even should kill a doe.

As our deer were restocked and restored they survived so well it became a problem to maintain a healthy herd population and balance. To do so, we need to kill some does.

In this area, designated as Unit L, the L standing for liberal, we have so many deer we are allowed three does per day. However, if a hunter will just kill as many does as he does bucks, we will be okay.

In addition, although there have been some whiners who want a reduction in the three buck limit, that too is sound management. Since such a small percentage of TN hunters kill two or three bucks a reduction in the buck limit would prove useless. Our age strata are among the best in the country if you go by solid facts and not rumor.

In short, our deer herd is healthy and doing well in most parts of Tennessee. So venture forth with your equipment of choice and enjoy a safe and productive deer season.

I have had many opening days. There was one when I used a boat and braved hot weather to kill a nice little buck on an island in AL. One in the Midwest when I killed two good bucks in two states in one morning and one that I recall as being just a little cold. However, barring an unforeseen something, I’ll be there this Saturday, rifle in hand. Join me won’t you?

Hunt safe and good luck. 

Contact the author at: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Hello, again!  Has anyone spotted any of our winter visitors?  I've been keeping an eye out for them but have yet to spot any. Please send me an email if you have seen any!

Last week I talked about the types of bird seed available and what our little feathered friends prefer most.  Many of you may be wondering about squirrels and how to protect our bird seed from their greedy little paws. There is no quick or simple solution to this problem and many, including our Bird Guru Ray, have found it is easier to just feed them (in a separate area).  Feeding them inexpensive cracked corn, ears of dried corn and peanuts in their shells is an easy way to fill them up and prevent them from going after your expensive bird seed. This is the solution Ray gave me a few years ago when I was doing battle with some squirrels of my own.  My daughter, Anna, told me to go with Ray’s suggestion.  She said they needed to eat as well, and they were “cute.”  Therefore, we installed a special squirrel feeder given to her by Kenneth Morgan, who read of her interest in one of Ray’s articles and offered his hand made creation for her enjoyment.  It has been one of her favorite and most cherished gifts!

As you most likely know, squirrels are not only very smart but rather agile. They can jump eight feet straight up and 11 feet if jumping off something, like a roof or tree branch. They also love to chew, and anything you put out will likely be chewed and tested. So you need to start with a strong bird feeder, preferably one made out of an indestructible material like Lexan or metal.  You can go with a cheaper plastic feeder if it is reinforced with metal around the seed holes/ports. 

If possible try to ensure your feeder is more than 10 feet from any jump off point.  Using a baffle can be very effective, but be sure it is at least 18 inches in diameter. Anything less and the squirrels will likely be able to maneuver around it. If putting the baffle on a hanging bird feeder, be sure the baffle is just above the feeder and opens down towards the ground. If you use a baffle for a post mounted feeder, be sure the baffle is just below the feeder. The direction of a post mounted feeder is up for debate. It seems it has its benefits both ways, so you may want to try it opening up and down to determine which works best for you. A post mounted feeder away from any “launch zone” and with a proper baffle is one of the best methods to feed our feathered friends!  However, if you are like me with lots of trees, I lack an area that is free of a launch zone, so it is easiest to hang the feeders.  If you have hanging feeders do not use chain or rope, which is easy for them to climb! Instead use a thick nylon fishing line (with a baffle).

If you have a horizontal line with feeders it is also wise to use a fishing line, but you can add sections of plastic tubing on the line which will spin when the squirrel tries to climb across. Many people will grease or oil their poles or lines, and this can be semi effective for short periods of time.  However, it is dangerous not only for the squirrels, but other animals that can get the oil in their hair or feathers and freeze to death in cold temps.

There are also fancy weighted bird feeders that will shut when a heavy animal tries to feed from them, but I’ve heard many stories of squirrels who have outsmarted these. You can also try adding hot peppers/powder to your bird seed which the squirrels can taste and hate but has no effect on our feathered friends.  Please let me know if you have any successful methods or devices you use to protect your bird feeders so I can pass the info along. You can email me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .  Again, we wish our dear friend Ray a speedy recovery!

By JOHN L. SLOAN, This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
It creeps across the prairie at a speed that is deceiving. It is both beautiful and dangerous. Hoar frost is nothing but frozen fog and it can happen in the blink of a frozen eyelid. It started that morning as fog, a dense fog laying over and along the Assiniboine River. Disconcerting but harmless if you wait it out. The sun will burn it off sooner or later. Now, it was something more.

The rustling in the frozen leaves behind me came again. Bear?

I did not have a bear permit and knew how much damage a bear could do to a bow hunter even shot in the heart with a bow. The bear shuffled on, if it was indeed a bear and I believe it was. At last, I could hear it no more. I have killed a few bears, maybe several. I am not unduly afraid of them. However, the bears of the Manitoba prairie have an attitude. They don’t like humans.

I will admit to a mild case of the gollywobbles as I sat back down in the treestand. Truth is I was shaking like a dog trying to pass a peach pit. Damn fog. I hate not being able to see. I hate hoar frost even more. A raven scolded me for interfering in his morning routine. Ravens often follow bears, dining on their leftovers.

Again, something moved to my right. Again, I lifted the bow from the holder and tried to slice the fog. Something was rustling the fallen, frozen birch leaves in the fencerow that split the prairie.

I had driven to Manitoba for this late season bow hunt. I had to stop in Thief River Falls and pick up my new Arctic Cat ATV. They wanted to talk with me about a promotion they had in mind and figured they could save shipping money. Therefore, I had a 3,600 mile roundtrip.

I met the Shebaylo Brothers, Bob and Jeff in Winnipeg and we drove to their hunting camp, actually a nice, three-bedroom house, in the Assiniboine River Valley.

We arrived just at dark, after getting settled, put some steaks on the grill, and kicked back. Since I was not on any real timeline, we slept in the next morning. I got up late, almost daylight and jumped on the ATV to scout some fields from the roads and fence rows. At the edge of one field, I saw a better than average buck. I watched him through binoculars and planned a hunt.

After breakfast, we placed a ladder stand in the fencerow, a 100-yard wide band of birch trees that stood out on the prairie 400 yards from the river. I then spent the morning flinging practice arrows. That afternoon I hunted a stand on the edge of an alfalfa field. I saw several deer but nothing big enough to shoot. With one tag, I get selective.

For November, the weather was nice. Cold mornings, warming to 50’s in the day and not the usual, biting north wind. I had expected the same for today. Overnight the mercury had dropped to 16 degrees. There was a skim of ice on the shallow river. It would warm as the sun bathed the brown grasses. But that would be quite a few shivering minutes away. Say 380 minutes. Then add the fog.

Daylight brought the fog that had me shivering in the newly placed ladder stand, 12-feet off the ground and 22-yards from a narrow road through the trees. Rubs and tracks were all around me. I had parked the Arctic Cat 300-yards away and the walk to the stand had warmed me. Now, the fog, turning to hoar frost, and the bear had me shaky.

I tried to cut through the fog and see the source of the rustling. I hoped the bear had not decided to return and check me out. I saw something and then a light breeze swirled the fog just enough to give me one clear look. The bow came up and the string came back. The 125-grain Thunderhead glistened with drops of frost. In one, slow, fluid motion, the single sight pin settled and I opened my fingers. The arrow was gone and I heard a solid thump, hooves pounding and then silence. In those days, I could shoot with the best of them when it came to live game.

Now I really had the gollywobbles!

Instead of waiting my usual 30-40 seconds before getting down, locked in the fog, I just sat in the stand and tried to get some semblance of a normal heartbeat and breathing restored. The facts are these: I had just shot what I thought to be a better than average deer, perhaps even a big deer. The sound of the arrow strike was good. I was locked in ground fog, now hoar frost and could not now even see said ground. I was also cold. It was cold enough I figured the fog was freezing on the trees along the river.

I lowered all the various and sundry equipment to the ground and slowly made my way down the slippery ladder steps. Then I did calisthenics. Since I could not see anything, I gripped the ladder and did 50 deep knee bends then 50 jumping jacks and finished with 25 vertical pushups, warm again at last.

I knew where the Arctic Cat was. I also knew how easy it is to get lost in ground fog on the prairie having done it once. You can lose your way in six easy steps. In hoar frost, you can die.

So I waited and shuffled and stomped my feet. I listened for the bear. I agonized over my shot. I replayed it several times in my mind. It was a good shot. Since I didn’t own a cell phone, I had little choice but to wait.

One single beam. A shaft of sunlight slender as a tendril of fettuccini touched the ground. The sun was out. The fog/frost began to dissipate like your breath on a cold morning. Inch by inch I could see the ground. Then I could see the break of the river with the fog frozen to the tree limbs. I smiled and imagined I was even warmer. Twenty minutes later I see could well enough to start the search.

First, I found the arrow. It was half-buried in the prairie grass and covered in blood. A few feet away, still glistening with frozen fog crystals was a drop of blood the size of a Canadian Looney, (their quarter). I looked out across the grassland. Something was sticking up above the tough grass.

An antler.

I retrieved the ATV complete with camera and spotting scope tri-pods and various equipment and after four tries got the buck loaded. I was younger, healthy and strong then. I grinned as I thought of the pile of great food in the form of offal, I left for the bear and coyotes and the ravens. Nothing goes to waste on the prairie. The sun shone warmly and I shed some clothes. It was a great day even in the fog.

This memory came to me the other day. The next year, about the same time, I got sick. I came quite close to dying. I have not been back to the Assiniboine Valley but if my health continues to improve, I just may go next year. Bob Shebaylo called 10 days ago and we talked about it. He urged me to plan on it. Crossbows are legal there and I just might have a chance to send and arrow flying across the prairie and let the raven scold me for interfering in his morning routine.

There are some good bucks up there in the fog.

My Manitoba buck after it warmed enough to shed some clothes. That was my last trip up there.

Well, here we are…another week has come and gone!  My grandmother use to tell me the older you get the faster time flies.  She sure was correct, and the older I get the more I realize that a lot of things she tried to warn me about have come to pass.  My grandmother use to feed the birds in her Illinois backyard. She now lives with my parents in Indiana and still insists on feeding them even though she can’t get out into the yard. Now she just cracks her bathroom window and pours seed on the windowsill.  She loves watching the little birds rush to eat as soon as she shuts the window. 

A friend mentioned I should write about bird seed/grain since fall is here and winter will quickly be upon us.  Most of us want to know what is best to stock up on and fill our feeders with. I’m sure Ray has covered this before, but I’ll share with you the different types of seeds and grains for birds. Many species of birds prefer certain types of seeds, so if you want to attract a specific type of bird, put out the seed they prefer.