Wilson Post Blogs

JOHN L. SLOAN
Not a tinge of color in the leaves or even much of a chill in the air. It is early October.

An occasional dove bombs the field and somewhere a dog is barking. Over 100 yards away, on the edge of the alfalfa, five bucks are browsing. Two are well deserving of an arrow and a place on my wall. Unfortunately, the arrow that scored was not mine but that of a friend, Bob Shebaylo, who I had placed in one of my stands. I knew I should have hunted that stand.

A huge misconception exists in the realm of deer hunting. Many believe that the only time a hunter can kill a monster trophy buck is during the rut. For us, that  would be mid-November. To subscribe to that theory is to overlook some of the best trophy hunting of the year.

No question about it, bucks may be more visible during the pre-rut and rut. They travel more and spend more daylight hours moving. They are more susceptible to the calls and scents and other gimmicks hunters use to coax one within range.

However, the early season provides a chance at a big buck a hunter can never get later in the year. It provides a shot at the unsuspecting buck, the less wary one, the one that is still, to some small degree, still in a pattern.

I am of the firm opinion mature bucks cannot be patterned. The reason for  that is simple. They have no pattern.  Mature bucks, those over 3.5 years of age follow no pattern 95% of the time. That leaves 5% of the time to pattern one and most of the time, when we try to do that, they pattern us first and avoid contact. There is an exception.

If done carefully and correctly, the hunter does have a chance. Careful observation of a buck during the late summer, just prior to the opening of the archery season can give us a glimmer.

This is best done by non-invasive scouting. That means staying out of their territory. No walking around scouting, leaving our scent in their dining room or bedroom.

A spotting scope mounted  on a car or truck window is my preferred method to scout and open crop fields are what I scout. I look for the buck I want. Usually, at that time of year, he will be in a bachelor group. That is good and bad. The good part is, you have a glimmer of knowledge as to  what order the bucks enter fields and travel. That allows you to be forewarned. The bad part is the number of eyes and noses is increased.

However, armed with some scouting information, i.e. where the bucks enter the field and in what order, the hunter can now place a stand well in advance of hunting it. That allows the deer to become accustomed to it.

Downside: The food source changes and they quit entering the field. That is my  forte. That is where I tend to shine. When it comes to hunting for a mature buck, for me, given the right circumstances, forget the fields and give me some oak trees.

My goal is to find an oak, preferably a white oak that is bearing mast and in a good location. I’ll hang a stand there and leave it alone. By doing my scouting for a food source instead of deer sign, I eliminate the chance of spooking the deer. How can I? I am doing my thing before he even knows he is going to be there. The first time I hunt that stand, providing I have timed it right, is the best chance I have of killing a mature buck.

One sweat-dripping hot morning in Alabama, I let six bucks walk past me before shooting the seventh. That deer was 5.5 years old and one of the biggest ever killed on that property. I had never been in the tree before other than to hang the stand. The deer were coming to a group of five oaks that were raining acorns.

It was cool and crisp, not frosty but a nice morning to be in the tree in Cheatham County. I hung the stand a week before. The fourth buck to come by was a dandy 10-pt by Cheatham County standards. For once, I actually hit where I was aiming and he went less than 100 yards.

Yes, the rut is a great time to hunt. However, for me, when it is bow season, I’ll take October.

Go climb a tree. The time is just right. Contact Sloan at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
At 13, you can expect your first bow hunt to have some surprises. A big buck, still with velvet-covered antlers, 15-yards in front of you is not usually one of them. Then add having to hold your bow at full draw, waiting for a smaller buck to move and open up a shot at the vitals of the bigger buck and you have the makings of a story that make campfire rounds for many years.

Arial Pasionek is an eighth grader at Knox Doss Middle School in Hendersonville.

She has a cell phone and a boyfriend, Casey Neighbours who is also a hunter. However, maybe she is not your typical 8th grade girl. “I like to do all things outdoors.” Arial said, “I like hunting, fishing, camping, hiking, you know, outdoors things like that.

"When I am not hunting with my dad, Robert Pasionek or step-grandparents, James and Melissa Warren, I hunt with Casey and his dad Paul Neighbours. I also have one girl friend, Dawn Canterbury and her dad Trent is my dad, James’ best friend so I hunt with them a lot.”

Therefore, it happened that the Arial and dawn and their dads were hunting on Arial’s step-grandparents property, a piece of deer heaven near Lynnville, KY on the opening weekend of Kentucky’s deer archery season.

As is often the case with teenagers, the girls probably stayed up a tad late and as a result, could not wake up the next morning. They slept in and missed the morning hunt.

Trent Neighbours killed a doe and that got them wide-awake and ready to go get  the deer from the woods. It also got them amped for the afternoon hunt.

That afternoon, they decided Arial would hunt the “Middle Stand”.

“I wanted to hunt the “North Bottom” stand where we had pictures of deer from the trail cameras,” said Arial.  “Instead, my step-grandmother and I walked to the “Middle Stand” and we were drenched with sweat by the time we got there. It was so hot, 100 degrees and so humid and I was scared that might spook the deer.”

The Warren’s land has become a hunting paradise for the family and friends. Aerial, prior to killing the big buck has killed five other deer with a variety of equipment. Her first buck and doe were killed in October of 2009, with a shotgun and slug. Her second doe was killed with a TenPoint crossbow. Her second buck was killed with a .270 and then another doe with an AR-15. How is that for versatility when you are younger than 13? Obviously, that experience was to help as events played out that afternoon.

“For the first couple hours we just sat and sweated. I was about ready to take a short power nap when my step-grandmother whispered, ‘Buck, nice buck. You might want to shoot this one.’ I woke up fast.

“I saw he was a for sure,  shooter buck, still in velvet and I watched as he slowly made his way in range.

Then, I saw a second smaller buck, a four-pointer that I would not shoot.

“Just as the bigger buck got inside 15 yards where I felt confident could shoot him, the smaller buck got in the way. At last, I had a shot and I pulled my bow back and the smaller buck got his head in the way again, just covering the vitals. I had to stay at full draw for like 15-seconds but it was happening so fast, I didn’t really get nervous. Finally the smaller buck lowered his head and I shot.

“When I released the arrow, all I heard was a loud pop. I was so excited and so was my step-grandmother. We got out of the blind and started looking for blood but couldn’t find any even though it was a complete pass through shot. I tried to get a cell phone signal but we were too far back in the woods. We started walking to where everyone was supposed to meet. I and saw my dad heading for his truck. I signaled him that I had shot a deer and he started getting all excited. Finally, everyone gathered up and I learned that Dawn had shot a doe but could not find her. I was sad for her. I wish she had found her deer. She was both sad and mad.

“They had Max, the tracking dog with them so we went to look for my deer. I was starting to get worried but they all kept encouraging me. It was getting dark and when we put Max on the trail, he just took off and we could not keep up with him. We quickly lost him so we kept calling and looking. We heard a little rustle in the leaves and walked that way.

"I saw the white belly on my deer and knew it was he. I ran to him and held him up for everyone to see. They were all so happy and proud he was so big. He only went about 80 yards, we just couldn’t find him in the dark.

"I asked her how her friends at school felt about her hunting and her great buck. “The boys at school were mostly cool with my buck. The girls didn’t like it much. None of my female friends hunts except Dawn

Arial’s first buck with a bow is one any bowhunter would be proud to claim.

In fact, any deer killed with a bow is trophy in my opinion and I have hunted all across the U.S. and Canada and killed plenty of deer.

If Arial is any indication, the future of hunting is in good hands.

Contact John L. Sloan at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
It was a beautiful morning. A typical late September morning if it isn’t one of those mornings with rain or blinding heat. The buck stood as if he was a statue or posing for a photo. In a way, I guess he was. The problem was he was standing with his butt facing me. Even with a crossbow, I will not take that shot. But I did…with my camera. And he just walked away. Oh well.

Our Tennessee bow season opens this Saturday. The limit is three does a day and one buck a day, not to exceed three for the entire year. Our deer population is in good shape and the rains have produced a good mast crop…at least they have where I have looked. I have found persimmons, paw-paws, acorns and plenty of green browse. The deer appear to be in good physical condition.

I am looking forward to hunting this year. As it has been for a few years, I will be shooting the TenPoint crossbow. It is an awesome piece of equipment and barring sticking an arrow in a tree instead of behind a deer’s shoulder, I feel confident. If I can get a good shot out to 40 yards, I should have freezer meat. I once shot a tree with my TenPoint and split it wide open.

Also as in past years, I shall not be too selective in what I shoot. Anything but a spotted fawn or a doe with a spotted fawn at her side is in trouble.

Note to readers: If you are having a deer problem, email me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it and I’ll try to come help. The crossbow is legal and perfectly suited to shooting in populated areas. I need a couple for my freezer and have promised some meat to other folks. I believe my health will permit me to hunt several days this year.

I hung a stand just a few yards from where I shot the picture of the deer walking away and I put one of my hunters in that stand 10 days later, hoping for a better shot angle. He made the shot at 11:15 in the morning. I took that picture of the buck I saw at 11:25. That is about as close to patterning a mature buck as I have ever come. What is funny is it was a different buck. It was a kind of cool that morning. I also believe they came to the edge of that green field for the shade. Deer prefer it cool.

I recall a cool morning a few years ago when a friend of mine decided he would try to rattle one in. Knowing it would be in the mid-80’s by 10 a.m., I had my doubts about how effective rattling would be. It worked on a good buck.

Can we grow deer like that in Tennessee? You bet your bippy we can. Hunters killed some big deer last year. A lot of them. The three-buck limit combined with good conditions in the last year or so, have done much to allow some deer to reach that size.

However, the major factor is the selectivity of hunters. They are starting to learn, if they want to kill a wall-hanger, they need to let a little one walk. I have been saying that for a long time. I found an article I wrote in 1982, preaching just that. Let a young buck walk and shoot a doe.

Before you throw a hissy fit, you are right. I don’t practice what I preach. I no longer have the slobbering desire to kill a monster buck. As I said earlier, with two exceptions, I shoot whatever is legal and walks by.

So let us all hope for a cool, crisp morning this Saturday. Not a lot of chance of that happening but we can hope.

If the low temperature is below 70, I’ll go. I can hang in there until the sweat starts dripping off my nose. Eventually, the deer will move. I once killed a big buck in Kentucky at one something in the afternoon on a day when it was in the 90’s. I also killed one in Wilson County that I am sure was going to jump in a pond to cool off.

Wear a fall restraint device (safety belt) if you are hunting off the ground and check for ticks, chiggers and snakes. Hunt safe and good luck. If you kill one, send me a picture at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

Good Luck.

Contact John L. Sloan at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Cool with no breeze. A light jacket is perfect and so is my cast. The devil horse, my old friend, the green and yellow one, nestles in tight against the grass. I let it sit until the ripples die down, then start it back toward the boat. Twitch-twitch-jerk stop. KaBloom! Fish on.

I guess the Higher Power decided to give me a break. For once, the fish measured-exactly 14-inches. In the box and back to work. Big Bird and I had the combination. For 90 minutes, we piddled and paddled around the weed beds on Old Hickory and were present for the Miracle of Misty Cove. Even the resident beaver approved. She came out of the big house on the ridge just long enough to slap the water and scare the bejeepers out of us. Someday I am going to blow that house up.

Ten of the 11 bass we caught on topwater lures were between 14 and 15 inches; all legal keepers and they were kept. Usually on Old Chickory, the bass are 13-inches and not legal. That is why it was a miracle. Talk about good eating size fish. It can only get slightly better.

And it did.

When the bass action stopped, we had some options. One option was to dig out the spoons and head for the top-secret hidey-hole that usually will produce a walleye or a sauger. That is what is slightly better eating than a bass of 14-inches.

Big Bird got the boat just right and I started fumbling around looking for a spoon. I knew I did not have a spoon but I figured if I fumbled enough, the Bird would offer me one.

Instead, he started catching fish. The first one in was a perfect walleye, just great eating size.

Then he put a sauger of the same size in the boat. That is when I spoke to him rather sharply about the silver spoon or lack thereof. Understanding as he is, he finally gave me one.

At 10 minutes past time for me to leave, we had exactly 10 bass, three walleye and three sauger in the box. The Bird allowed as how he did not want any of them. I did not try to change his mind. He had already given me a quart of his fantastic squash relish and I had visions of supper dancing in my head.

There is a trick to filleting walleye and sauger and it is hard to explain. Their rib cages contain a tremendous amount of meat and if you are careful, you can fillet out the rib cage and have meat in the amount of another fillet.

In mid-afternoon, after the fish had been on ice long enough to make the easy to fillet, I proceeded to put the knife to all the fish. What a small mountain of fillets. I set six aside for my supps.

You batter that delicate white meat differently. At least I do. I like a thin batter so I cut my cornmeal with flour about 60-40 in the cornmeal’s favor.

I dip the fillet in ice water and two beaten eggs and then shake it in the batter. Cooking oil in the fryer is at 375 and just a minute or two is all you want. Just get the batter golden brown and the fish starting to float.

Your tomatoes are sliced as is your onion and your French fries were salted while still hot and have drained on the paper towels.

Now all that is required is a big glass of tea and good helping of the squash relish. Talk about good eating!

Hard to beat fish and fixins if you know how to do the fixin.

And the fishin.

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By JOHN L. SLOAN
The fog lays close and thick. It is dawn but we can barely see. The forecast is for a high temperature of close to 100 degrees. I don’t care where you are, we call that hot. But I shiver slightly and button another button on my long sleeve shirt.

Seldom do I start an article or column about trout fishing on the Caney Fork that I don’t recall that opening paragraph or something similar. I wrote that somewhere around 1984, for Tennessee Sportsman magazine. I believe that article was the start of the influx of trout anglers on the river. I also recall July 4, 1974, when Harold Dotson and I floated from the dam down to Dick Samson’s store. We had 17 fish, a mixed bag of rainbow trout, walleye, spotted bass and a smallmouth. We did not see another angler either in a boat or on the bank.

I cannot say that about the blistering hot morning, July 28 of this year when Mark, “Big Bird” Campbell and I hit the river. It was, as I said blistering hot but again I wore long sleeves and they felt good until close to 10 AM. At daylight, it is cold on the Caney Fork regardless of what the temperature is back in the world.

There was no generation and the water was crystal clear and bone aching cold. We caught some fish, enough I guess, a mixture browns and brooks. One rainbow-the lone silver bullet. I don’t know what has happened to the rainbows. Maybe the rockfish ate them all. Maybe it is something in the dam repair work or maybe we just caught them all.

It was a good morning. The sun, as always, was slow to top the ridges and not a drop of sweat dripped until the sun was well up and coloring everything copper. The slow current moved us along and turkeys called in answer to my squeaky reel handle. No, I am not making that up. When it finally warmed enough for me to shed down to short sleeves, the fog still lay close on the water. I caught a fish that jumped and I could not see it in the fog.

It was a different river for me. This was the first time I had been down the Caney in three years. I just had not been physically able. However, I made this trip just fine, very little pain and as usual, I caught the most. But it was a different river for sure. The heavy rains and floods of the past two years have changed the gravel bars and the float pattern. New trees down, old ones gone.

There has been another change, a great one. It has been coming for some time and the movie, A River Runs Through It, broke it wide open. Fly fishing has proliferated to the point that time after time, Orvis clad figures, male and female and one unidentified, suddenly appeared in the fog. Standing waist or chest deep in the cold water, their upper bodies waving wraith-like in the fog, they presented yet another obstacle to avoid. All were obliging and friendly as we quietly slid past in the small float boat. Susan and her husband Bob, friends of Mark, even obliged by catching one from their top of the line kayak so I could get a picture.

One motor powered canoe, complete with well-tattooed fly anglers also smiled for a picture. Lots of people on the river even though it was a weekday.

It was not the non-stop action we have seen in the past and we did not boat any bragging fish. Bird did catch a bass, one of his best this year and strangely enough, we did not lose a single lure. We needed a little generation. The fish go on a feeding frenzy as the fresh water first water comes down. At Happy Hollow, our takeout point, we ran into a high-ranking TWRA employee who shall remain nameless just in case he should have been working. He emailed me later and told me just after we left; he caught a dandy brown trout of over 20-inches. That is what you said, isn’t it, Steve?

Are you hot? There are still some hot days left this year and time before we finish our last minute scouting, pick up the bows, and climb the trees.

The Caney, early in the morning, offers a sure fire escape from the heat. Trout and rockfish offer plenty of action. Maybe the rainbows will return and I can write another story about the Silver Bullets of the Caney Fork.

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

By JOHN L. SLOAN
I think I was 11-could have been 12. It was hot, so hot the road was sweating. We pulled the old red truck into the dusty lane and shut the engine down. The gate and the cornfield, picked four days ago, stretched in front of us. I got my Winchester 20-gauge and three boxes of shells from the back. Of course, they were Peters High-Velocity. The good ones. The gun was one of the now valuable, red W ones. Wish I still had it.

Sweating like pigs, Uncle Lloyd and I headed for the small pond where we would setup. It was September 1 and in 15-minutes, dove season would open and I would probably shoot my three boxes of shells. Hopefully I would kill a few doves. They make a great jambalaya and just the breasts, wrapped in bacon and grilled aren’t bad either.

How many years and how many shells have I spent since then? From that hot, dusty kid and through the miles of fields and acres of food spreads, years sprinkled with backyard shoots and massive, catered hunts.

Dove season marks the start of hunting season even though squirrel season opens earlier here in Tennessee. The great many of us only hunt a few days at the start of the season. The addicted wing shooters hunt all through the season. It opens here tomorrow and I suggest you consult your hunting guide for exact dates since I am no longer smart enough to figure it all out. What I know for sure is, it starts at noon tomorrow and the limit is 15.

On that first afternoon, if memory serves, I killed five birds out of my three boxes of number 7-1/2 lead shot. Those shells were paper. This was before plastic took over and stopped the problem of swelling from moisture. I had a brand new shell vest with a lined game bag and the pockets of the vest were loaded with shells. A carefully wrapped sandwich-baloney and cheese on white, loaf bread-and a bottle of water bumped shoulders with a couple candy bars

Naturally, the candy bars would melt and the sandwich never was eaten because as we opened the gate, the air was filled with doves.

Uncle Lloyd and the rest of the group, Lester, Jesse, Rip, Frank, Alphus and some I’m sure I can’t remember started the war. That is what it sounded like. Most got their limits. As I said, I got five. Pretty good for the first time, I thought.

I recall an opening day near Portales, NM when I killed almost as many rattlesnakes as I did doves. I was hunting with Winston Ford, the athletic director at Eastern New Mexico University. He was nailed as he reached down to pick up a dove. I rushed him to what pretended to be a hospital. Thankfully, it was not a bad bite, not much venom injected and they handled it.

There was a shoot down in Mississippi hosted by their fish and game department. Birds everywhere and I needed only 18 shots to get my limit. It is possible that field may have been baited but I wouldn’t swear to it. Some folks just plant wheat that way.

There were the great hunts at wade Bourne’s house near Clarksville, complete with fantastic food, some of which I cooked, and enough birds to suit everyone. I usually shot my Remington 870, 20-gauge on those hunts. Good shooting, good food, good companions.

Funny how the action always picks up just as the sun starts to go down and when you go to pick up a bird, another one flies over you.

There was the day it rained. We were in central Louisiana on the Cane River. The big field was behind the restored plantation house and there must have been 50 hunters. At five minutes until noon, the skies opened. It rained as only it can in Louisiana. We were all soaked but still the birds flew.

There was the hunt near Paris when I shared a shooting stake with Hank Williams Jr. He outshot me even with only one eye. However, not by much.  I still run into him from time to time, usually in airports as we go various places. Last time we were going hunting, he for elk, and me for deer. Pretty good wingshot, ole Junior.

In addition, there have been some good shoots here on the Old Hickory WMA. That was years ago. I do not go much anymore. Just lost interest, I guess. I don’t know if I’ll go tomorrow or not. Either way, dove season opens tomorrow at noon and the limit and possession limit for that day is 15.

Hunt safely, wear sunscreen and shoot well.

Contact John L. Sloan at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Bob was barking almost like a man hollering. Then I woke up. Uncle Lloyd was banging on my bedroom window. I had overslept for a squirrel hunt on Alligator Bayou. I may have been 13. I expect it was 1957, and we were going to enjoy one of the state sports of Louisiana- a hunt for tree rats. We were taking Bob, an Arkansas, natural bob-tailed fiest and a squirrel-treeing marvel.

Squirrel hunting is almost a state sport in Louisiana. It ranks right up there with alligator hunting, fishing, pig roasts and crawfish boils. In proper circles, football is not even mentioned. With Bob, on a good day, in the right place, with good scenting weather, you could tree 50-75 tree rats.

Hunting with a squirrel dog is a lot different from still-hunting where you slip quietly through the woods, moving slowly and stopping often to listen for the sound of falling acorn or hickory husks or a shaking tree branch. “With a dog you drag your feet. Still hunting you barely set them down,” opined Uncle Alphus, the senior member of our crew.

I grew up and learned woodcraft and how to hunt and a variety of things squirrel hunting the swamps of Louisiana. The season opened in mid-October and there was no school that day, should it happen to fall on a weekday. It wouldn’t matter if it had, nobody would have gone.

There were few if any deer and the ducks weren’t “down” yet, still hiding up North. Therefore, we hunted tree rats. Since squirrels are a part of the rodent family, the name is not improper.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Man, it is hot! Sweat is rolling down my cheeks and the heat from my face is blurring the scope. I sight the TenPoint carefully and get the green dot in the center of the crosshairs to rest on the white spot 30-yards away. I push the second safety and slowly begin to squeeze the trigger. Whop! The arrow quivers dead center in the circle.

I am ready.

Each year, no matter how well your crossbow shot last year, you need to sight it in and make sure it is on. Then, shoot a few practice shots. My TenPoint, Phantom is ready. The string has been inspected and well waxed. All the cables are perfect and there is a new battery in the scope.

y JOHN L. SLOAN
The sun was going down. It seemed to hover just above the trees. I was sweating bullets just from reeling. I felt the boat rock and knew the first fish of the night was battling my partner in the back of the boat. It turned out to be the largest fish of the night, close to five pounds. That was a year or so ago but I thought of it on this night.

Then it got dark.

Just because it was dark did not mean it was cool. There was not a tendril of moving air. I could hear the blue/black jig hit the water but I could not see it. It was past the scant light from the black light. At the third crank of the reel, I felt that flutter that signifies a fish has picked up the jig. Then the line tightened and I set the hook. It was a smallmouth of a pound. Even the little ones fight-smallmouth.

We worked our way through the dark, the rear boat light and the black light providing just enough light to work by. Now, a breeze hit our faces now and then and not only did it cool us, it kept the bugs away. The insects were not bad, just enough to make you aware of their presence. A jet went over low, preparing to land at the airport. A siren blared somewhere in Nashville.

Big Bird caught another bass of about the same size. I was afraid that was the pattern for the night-small fish and nothing of any size. About then I caught another one-pound smallmouth. The color of the evening was the blue/black combination that I have come to favor at night. I was using a crawfish imitator from Stanley Jigs. They make a good product and in the weight I like. Most jigs today come in weights of over ¼-ounce. That are too heavy for the type of fishing I do. I wish I could still find the black or dark brown ones in bear hair or fox hair. The smallmouth seem to prefer them.

I drag and hop a jig across the bottom. I do very little, make that, I do no flipping and vertical jigging. Therefore I want a jig light enough for me to handle easily on the 6# line. My choice is 1/8-ounce and if it is deep water or windy, I’ll go to ¼-ounce.  I do not want a heavy jig that stays on the bottom and usually hangs up on something. I want one that hops up and floats down.

You do not lose many fish on these jigs. Not only are the hooks good, most of the time, when a fish hits a jig and you set the hook properly, they get hooked in the top lip. It is a tough part of the lip and they don’t throw many lures when they jump as smallmouth do. Of course, bass aren’t all you catch at night. Stripers and Hybrids are not uncommon in lakes where they abound. Catfish are a regular night time catch. An experienced fisherman can just about tell what he has by the way he fights.

I enjoy night fishing. I always have. I like the dark, even on land. I don’t night fish at much as I once did. For a while, starting in late May, I used to fish four or five nights a week. Mostly I fished Center Hill. I like fishing the hill because the high ridges make for good landmarks you can see silhouetted against the sky. Makes for good running in the dark. You are required to have boat lights-a white light on the back and a red/green one on the bow. Now and then you might use a spotlight to check your location or spot a landmark on the bank. Now I mostly fish Percy Priest and there is usually enough ambient light from the area businesses to allow you to run. I try to go on nights when it is not loaded with boats. On this night it is almost deserted.

I make a long cast across the point of the island. I start bouncing and hopping the jig slowly across the point Halfway back, the tap comes. I set the hook hard, the rod bows and the drag clicks. All signs of a good fish. I can’t move him. He runs sideways toward the back of the boat, not acting like a bass. Then the line goes limp. Lost him. I think probably catfish. Then Mark and I both catch the same piece of discarded line. I save my lure, he does not.

It is now close to one a.m. Five hours is long enough. We have caught a respectable number of small fish. Even though night is when you are supposed to catch the big ones, on this night, Big Bird and I did not, just the drillers, the bank runners. However, it was an enjoyable night.

A hot night. A hot night for fishing.

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By JOHN L. SLOAN Sometimes there is healing power in just a drop or two of water. Add fish, good company, warm sunshine and expand that drop to a three-acre pond and you may have a healing pond.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
They did not turn the generators on until 11 a.m. As hot as it was, a mere 94 degrees, I have no idea why they waited that long. Finally, they did and the fun began.

We had been catching catfish in the shade of the big Chickamauga Dam since seven. We caught and released 25-30 cats in the 5-15 pound range and now it was time to try something else, drifting in the tailwaters for whatever hit.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
The shadgraph began to throb. The vibration in the rod tip showed a vibrato you could throw a bluegill through. Then it hit the dips-a left dip, a right dip, a double deep dip. I reeled the rod tip underwater about three inches and performed a perfect elbows up. The elbows up are a maneuver designed to sink the hook deep in the tough upper jaw of a Rockfish.

By JOHN L. SLOAN

Many years ago in Wyoming, I spent my birthday fishing on the Powder River in the land of Butch and Sundance. I remember it as being a great birthday. That memory spawned this story. JLS

It had been a pleasant night. He had actually slept well, something he did not often do anymore. Usually he would be up every 90 minutes for one reason or another. Last night he had only gotten up once. Maybe he should try sleeping in a tent and on a foam pad at home.

The woods had been noisy last night. A variety of animals, especially the peepers, had carried on a conversation the whole time. Maybe that white noise had allowed him to sleep so well. It was slowly coming daylight now. He could feel it seeping in. He stretched making both his back and his hip pop. He shook his left arm and got the feeling going in it. Eventually he would have to have something done about the pinched nerve.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
“Hard to find a better eating fish than a walter.” Said Harold Dotson. “They aren’t much to look at and they don’t put up much of a fight but they sure plate up right nice.” Made me look again at the five fish cooling on the bag of ice in the Coleman cooler. I was starting to get hungry.

A walter is a slang name for a walleye. They are a member of the pike family and have all the attendant teeth that go with that group. They also have weird eyes. They are often called “marble eyes”. In daylight, they appear to be blind.

Senor Dotson and I were putting along on the carp arc, a small pontoon boat with a 25-hp kicker and a pump that pumped water right out of the lake and allowed a hot fisherman to cool off. We had four rods in holders-two with night crawler rigs and two with weighted, long-lipped crankbaits. The crawler rigs were winning 4-1.

By JOHN L. SLOAN, June 15, 2011
The use of bait for hunting deer is controversial and involves a complex set of biological, social, and ethical issues. Biologically, population influences related to baiting can be important in the dissemination and maintenance of disease and can affect the natural movement, distribution, and behavior of deer. Baiting can also influence survival and reproduction of deer, particularly when it moves towards supplemental feeding.

Finally, concentrations of deer at bait sites may lead to effects on other species, habitats, and ecosystems.

Just fish in the DAM SHADE
By JOHN L. SLOAN, June 8, 2011
It is a cool, 97 degrees. Even the trees are sweating. Not Judge Dave Durham, fishing guide Richard Simms and I. We are cool and comfortable bobbing gently in the shade of Chickamauga Dam. The dam rears high above us, providing plenty of cool shade. We are fishing for bluegill.

However, that is just temporary. The ‘gills are just for bait. We are cat fishing on a day that will approach record heat. Probably we will use chicken breasts, cut in strips. The ‘gills are just for insurance.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
I got plum hot the other day and that made me think of this. We were on the Tres Sombreros Ranch in the southeast corner of New Mexico and it was around the first of September. I reckon it was about 110 for an average midday temperature. We were shooting a hunting video and it was hot enough to drive me and the one of the camera girls crazy. We got so crazy we jumped into a windmill fed water tank not realizing it was 12 feet deep.

Good thing we could swim. See, we were living in teepees. Not air-conditioned wikiups, teepees. They were comfortable but at night, when it cooled off to about 95, they did tend to still be hot. I think that may be the first time I ever saw a cholla just get up and leave. See, plants, they aint supposed to walk. But thisun just walked away looking for some shade, I reckon.

By JOHN L. SLOAN,
The Wilson Post
It was just about as perfect as you could ask for. The nights were cooling, on their way to frosty and the days warmed up to high sixties and maybe a seventy thrown in for good measure. My doe was skinned, quartered and on ice. Well mostly she was. The tenderloins and a piece of back strap had gone the way all good deer meat should go -- supper.

BY JOHN L. SLOAN
One of my favorite outdoor writers is Gene Hill. One of my favorite archers is Howard Hill. One of my favorite smallmouth lakes is Center Hill. What is it about Hills that attracts me? I guess some of it may be mystery. You never know what a particular Hill may hit you with. It may be a trick shot, a surprise phrase or a fish that you did not expect. Some too, may well be sheer beauty. An arrow etched just perfectly against a blue sky or a “set” of words that become a picture or fog, low on the water that suddenly becomes a rock bluff.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
It was cold this morning, 20 at the house at 6. I dressed accordingly. The gray light had just started to show on the fringes at the top of the trees as I eased the Arctic Cat into the briar patch and shut it off. It looked as though there might not be much of a sunrise, just a spreading of the gray. I made a last check of my pockets, cocked the crossbow and began to ease into the cedars and push my way, using elbows only, into the middle.