Hunting and Fishing News Blog Articles

Canadian outfitters, who rely heavily on their American clientele to stay in business, were hard-pressed to drum up business this year. (Rachel Ahtila/)

Editor’s Note: This has been a tough year for everyone. And while we’ve collectively experienced many of the same events, the changes, challenges, and often outright hardships everyone has endured remain deeply personal. We asked six contributors to look back on 2020 and reflect on how the events of this year shaped their lives, in ways both big and small. We will be publishing one essay each day through the end of the year, on topics ranging from subtle differences at deer camp to the enormous task of parenting during a pandemic. You can find all the stories, as they’re published, right here.

The weeks leading up to hunting season are normally a joyous time for me. That’s when summer is in full swing, and we’re preparing to host the excited hunters who make our jobs possible. When the familiar faces of past clients and the fresh faces of new ones show up in our basecamps, we ready the horse string and head into the backcountry. Each new excursion is like Christmas morning.

But 2020 was a much different year. Instead of preparing for a camp full of clients, we didn’t know if we would even be allowed to hunt due both to COVID-19 restrictions and the closure of the U.S.-Canadian border.

RELATED: Can You Keep Covid-Vulnerable Hunters Safe and Still Have a Real Deer Camp?

In my home province of British Columbia, I have made a career of guiding clients on Stone’s sheep, moose, mountain goat, bison, black bear, and caribou. And as a guide, a very large percentage of my income stems from working for outfitters. The harsh reality of making ends meet weighed heavy on my mind, and I was also concerned for all my fellow guides and outfitters who were in the same position. How would they pay the lease notes and overhead costs with no clients? Would we all be financially ruined?

The author, hunting solo on his ranch in Montana. (Natalie Krebs/)

Editor’s Note: This has been a tough year for everyone. And while we’ve collectively experienced many of the same events, the changes, challenges, and often outright hardships everyone has endured remain deeply personal. We asked six contributors to look back on 2020 and reflect on how the events of this year shaped their lives, in ways both big and small. We will be publishing one essay each day through the end of the year, on topics ranging from subtle differences at deer camp to the enormous task of parenting during a pandemic. You can find all the stories, as they’re published, right here.

For each of the past dozen years, I’ve given a single gift that requires more of the recipient than of me. It’s the gift of a deer hunt on my own land in eastern Montana.

As a landowner, the state allows me to “sponsor” one non-resident a year to hunt deer on my property. There’s no break on the price; the hunter has to pay full non-resident license costs. But the tag is guaranteed; no applying through the uncertain draw. The recipient can hunt mule deer or whitetails, a buck or a doe, their choice. The catch is that the hunter must stay on my own property; no matter how big the buck—or doe—on the public land just on the other side of my fence.

My sponsored hunter has to get here on their own, and no payment is allowed for the access I provide. But because I consider the invitation as only an initial gesture of friendship, I open my home to these sponsored hunters, and over the years, the opportunity to hunt and live together temporarily has formed fast friendships that have lasted far longer than the hunt. It’s not only the most comfortable deer camp in the world, with running water and real beds, but the opportunity to drink and eat together, and relive the day in the place where it happened gives an extra dimension to the hunt.

Over the years, I’ve hosted ammunition manufacturers, fellow outdoor writers and editors, and childhood neighbors with whom I’ve rekindled friendships after 40 years. This year I invited Howie Steinbeck, the owner of a vineyard in Paso Robles, California, whose land I hunted a few years ago for blacktailed deer. Howie, his grandson Ryan Newkirk, and I got along famously in the course of a week in the vineyards, and when Ryan later asked me if I knew a spot where he could take his grandfather for mule deer, the answer was obvious: my place.

The .22 caliber Speedmaster was the ultimate Christmas present for a 13-year-old squirrel hunter. (Remington/)

The Christmas of 1984, I wanted a new .22 so bad. The one I had was a single-shot and the stock wasn’t long enough for my 13-year-old frame anymore. A new gun was really the only thing I was asking for. Mom and Dad had just started new jobs that year after moving our family to their hometown. Money didn’t grow on trees, and expensive gifts for children weren’t very common at all. Mom and Dad warned me from the start that it was an out-of-reach request—just too expensive. Still, like many kids, I let my hopes get the best of me.

Christmas Day came, and I opened several presents but none of them looked long enough to be a rifle. Finally, I opened a short tube. Inside was a rifle barrel with iron sights and a wooden fore-end. I was confused. It was only the barrel part.  Where was the rest of the rifle?

Dad said he bought it from a widow whose husband had taken the receiver-end in for a repair before his death only she didn’t know where. Mom and Dad said they thought it would be a good project for me to write letters to all the gun shops in our area and see if I could find the other half of the gun. He explained how much fun it would be, a treasure hunt of sorts. I remember thinking something else in my head.

The partial rifle I had unwrapped was a Remington 241 Speedmaster, which was manufactured by Remington starting in 1935. The rifle was based off a John Browning design. It was a takedown that split into two pieces, the barrel end like the one I had unwrapped, and a receiver end, like the one I was now expected to hunt down.

At the time, we lived in Hubbard, Texas. We were surrounded by other towns in all four directions, each with multiple gun shops. I was going to have to send hand-written letters to every one of them looking for the receiver end.

You’re not a fur trader, so many of the terms—hide, skin, fur, pelt, and buckskin—used to describe the outer coat of wild game animals may seem interchangeable. (And frankly, a lot of them are.) But there are some slight differences when you decide to get more technical. So if you have ever felt lost when your taxidermist starts going into the specifics of tanning, here is a guide that will help you out.

Learn the Language

Here’s a basic glossary of the words used to describe an animal’s fur coat.

Hide: We get the term “hide” from a Germanic word (haut), which essentially translates to “animal skin.” The word “hide” is usually reserved for the skins of a larger animal, like a moose, cow, or deer.

Skin: The term “skin” is usually applied to smaller animals (think sheep skin or snake skin). If the creature had hair, it may be preserved or removed in the tanning process, depending on a lot of variables. Skin can also be a catch-all term that includes furs and pelts.

A trio of whole-plucked wild specklebelly geese, nearly ready for cooking or the freezer. (Natalie Krebs/)

Christmas isn’t fancy in my family. We have our traditions, sure, but after decades of doing the same thing holiday after holiday, I’m usually up for something new. Lately, it’s been spicy-fried catfish on Christmas morning. This year, my boyfriend’s family let me bring a whole specklebelly goose for our early Christmas dinner in lieu of a supermarket duck. It was no fat, farm-raised bird, but it’s hard to beat specklebelly meat. Besides, it was definitely more memorable than most Christmas dinners past.

So if you want to mix things up this year while keeping dinner festive, skip the laborious whole-bird plucking usually required to clean up a Christmas goose. Instead, try this wax-plucking method I learned while hunting specklebellies with Jonathan Wilkins of Black Duck Revival this winter.

“Why put in all that work, only to take the breast meat?” Wilkins had said, shaking his head as he cleaned birds after a long morning of setting decoys and hauling gear.

As with any cleaning method, wax-plucking has its pros and cons. It’s a bit messy, and a lot of work for just a few birds. But if you have a pile of geese or ducks to process, it’s surprisingly efficient once you get the hang of things. Not counting the ice bath, Wilkins can turn a whole goose into something worthy of a butcher shop in just a few minutes. It’s also oddly satisfying to remove big chunks of feathers to reveal a beautifully-plucked goose, ready for all kinds of recipes. Here’s how to do it yourself.

Supplies You’ll Need:

Alyssa Chavez with her Colorado public-land mule deer. (Danny Chavez/)

Colorado is home to some massive mule deer, and resident Danny Chavez has always had a knack for finding them. A hunter in the purest sense, Danny has harvested multiple big mule deer with both bow and rifle. He does his research, puts in the time, and by season’s end, always seems to punch his tag. This hunt, however, was different. Danny would be acting as a guide, putting his decades of deer knowledge to the test to help his wife Lisa and 20-year-old daughter Alyssa, harvest a pair of big bucks.

“I felt the pressure,” Danny laughed. “Of course, I knew the area extremely well, but finding one, let alone two good bucks is always a challenge. I wanted to give them both a great hunt and a great experience.”

This hunt for the Chavez girls was a decade in the making. Danny had been strategically putting Lisa and Alyssa into Colorado’s annual big-game draw, and this year, they were selected.

“These tags don’t come along often,” Danny noted. “When you draw them, you want to make the most of them. I knew this area had great big-buck potential, and that if we put in the time we’d likely get a crack at a pair of shooters, but still, I felt the pressure.”

Danny knew this public tract like the back of his hand, and the rut was on, so he knew bucks would be moving.

A collection of survival gear and a tomahawk. (Tim MacWelch/)

With the variety of edged weapons on the market today, we might tend to think of the tomahawk as an outdated relic that only belongs on the American frontier. Well, think again. Lightweight throwing axes predate Colonial America and they’re still being used today by military and law enforcement professionals and everyday outdoorsmen and women. Discover the ancient origins of this simple tool, and learn how it can still be a useful part of your outdoor kit. But if you just want to learn how to throw one of these bad boys, here’s Outdoor Life contributor Aram von Benedikt with some tips on how to throw a tomahawk like a real pro.

Tomahawk History

The word “tomahawk” is based on a phrase from the Native American Algonquian language. This widely spoken tongue has been used by dozens of Native nations up and down the East Coast, and the language has given us many common English words we still use today (like moccasin and hickory). Some scholars credit Captain John Smith of the Jamestown settlement for first jotting down the Powhatan phrase “tamahaac,” though different versions and spellings of the word can be found throughout history. These names essentially translate to “a tool for cutting things off” and that’s just what a tomahawk does.

These one-handed axes have straight handles and small axe heads. Lightweight and versatile, they have been used (and still are used) as handheld tools and thrown weapons. Native people of the New World had been using stone axes for thousands of years prior to European contact, but when the sharper and more durable metal axes became available as trade goods in the 17th century, the popularity of these tools surged. Today’s tomahawks are sometimes made as replicas of these original iron trade items, though more modern construction techniques are also used. Some modern tomahawk heads are made from drop forged steel and heat treated for shock-resistance and durability, with synthetic handles replacing the traditional hardwood axe handles. Tomahawk enthusiasts today can choose the traditional styles and construction, or something more modern and updated.

When iron tools and implements first came to the New World, the Native people must have been amazed. Iron pots could be dropped on the ground without shattering like an earthenware pot, and iron axes were much sharper than stone axes (cutting down trees in a fraction of the time). Native Americans had been making small axes with straight wooden handles for centuries, but so had the Europeans (especially the French). The design of the tomahawk isn’t strictly Native American. The Frankish warriors of the early Middle Ages were known to carry lightweight throwing axes known as “franciscas,” which were used as close-range projectiles and also employed as hacking weapons during hand-to-hand fighting. A sixth century historian named Procopius once wrote of the francisca that: “…they are accustomed always to throw these axes at one signal in the first charge and shatter the shields of the enemy…” Axes like these continued to be popular into the late Middle Ages, being used by both lowly foot soldiers and knights.

The author shot this bruin on the first evening sit with a recurve bow. (Tyler Freel/)

I kept pressure on the throttle as my 16-foot riveted jet boat pounded through swells that were building up against the wind on a 2-mile straightaway. If I let off, each successive wave impact was significant enough to rattle it loose, and I’d lose power. I quartered the flat-bottom into the waves that had been like glass only an hour earlier to keep them from breaking over the bow. The waves built along with my anticipation as I hurried toward the small slough where I was heading to sit on a bear bait. I’d been waiting two years to return and hunt this spot, and had no idea what to expect.

If there is a single, universal challenge of hunting in Alaska, it is logistics. So much of Alaska is vast, remote wilderness that just getting there is an ordeal. What we consider “easy access” or “close to home” is usually hours away. Alaska has some of the most amazing hunting opportunities in the world, but they rarely come easily, and this particular spring bear expedition was no exception. We had only been able to pull this trip off on one out of three attempts over the years due to weather, water levels, and mechanical issues. Although there was still much to learn about the area, we had gotten a taste of its incredible potential two years earlier. There was an insane amount of bear activity, and we would do anything to experience it.

Are They on the Bait?

Our plan wasn’t complicated, but it was reliant on several things falling into place. We wanted to set bear baits in a very remote, swampy area, known to have out-of-control bear populations and a liberal bag limit. As soon as the spring river ice flushed out, we would take our boats, haul in bait, and set up the bait stations. A week or so later, we returned to hunt for a few days, then clean up the baits. Timing is everything, and after the ice broke and water levels dropped a little, we set off with as much as our boats could carry, hoping there was enough bait and fuel to make this work. We spent three days getting everything set and could only hope that our return trip went smoothly. There was plenty of bear activity, but timing was a gamble. It can sometimes take weeks for bears to find bait, and some baits will never attract a bear. We had to try and give the new baits enough time to become active, but not so much time that the bears would eat all the food and leave. With such a high density of bears in the area, hopefully they would get on baits quickly.

About a week later, our rag-tag flotilla hit the water again, this time with hunting gear and a few hundred gallons of fuel. There were five of us in three boats, and we were on the river at 8 a.m. By mid-afternoon, our group reached the campsite, a high gravel bar, littered with piles of driftwood. My dad and friend Terry had peeled off to check three of our six bait sites on the way to camp and were both excited but had a sense of uncertainty as they told us that one had not been touched, and two were empty. There were also holes dug into the ground where the bait had been. It had only been a week, so surely the bears hadn’t been gone for long. But would they come back? Had we waited too long, and would our months of planning be for nothing?

It’s hard to believe in late December we are still talking early ice, but in the Midwest unseasonable warmer temperatures have kept water open. Northern Minnesota and North Dakota, however, are experiencing some excellent early ice walleye fishing and the remainder of the Midwest shouldn’t be too far behind, so get those batteries charged and hooks sharpened because ice fishing season is coming. Here are 10 tips that will help you land more walleyes as lakes begin to freeze.

1. Be Cautious

Safety is an important consideration for any sort of fishing, especially early ice. Never venture out without letting someone know where you are going. A good spud bar is paramount for testing the ice but any heavy stick will work. Place your cell phone in a plastic bag, carry a rope along and invest in a reliable ice axe in case you should fall through.

2. Rely on Fall Scouting

In most cases, ice anglers like to be mobile, drilling holes in the ice until they find fish. That’s not necessarily a bad practice at the right times, such as mid-day or slow bite periods. However, use your fall fishing as a form of scouting. If you found good weed beds and break lines near shore in September and October, target those same areas the first few days and weeks of ice fishing.

A caribou on ANWR's coastal plain. (Bjorn Dihle/)

Earlier this month, the Bureau of Land Management announced a Notice of Sale for the Coastal Plain Oil and Gas Leasing Program in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. The lease sale is set for January 6, and would mark the first time drilling rights would be offered within the refuge, even though there’s been a decades-long debate over potential oil development along the costal plain.

The Trump Administration’s move to offer oil leases on a 1.5 million-acre area within ANWR just weeks before president-elect Biden takes office has, unsurprisingly, generated commentary and opinions from all sides of the issue. Seemingly lost in the rhetoric, however, are the voices of Alaskan outdoorsmen and women who rely on wild places like ANWR for their recreation, solace, food, and livelihoods. These outdoorsmen and women also live within a state economy that is largely dependent on the petroleum sector, which is the second-largest job provider in the state (behind only the federal government). So if we’re going to have a national discussion about oil development in ANWR, we should probably hear what Alaskans have to say first.

Do the research, and then form your own opinion on ANWR

By Tyler Freel

Drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge has been a hotly contested topic since 1980, when a 1.5-million acre section, known as the 1002 Area was set aside from the designated wilderness for oil exploration and potential production. The idea of drilling has been generally supported by Alaskan elected officials and strongly opposed by a myriad of environmental groups. Sitka Gear was one of the first hunting-focused brands to oppose the potential drilling. Recently MeatEater has also weighed in. Their piece examines the possibility that drilling will actually happen, and also opposes the development. The MeatEater piece assumes that any environmentally-conscious outdoorsman or woman would oppose drilling in ANWR.

A deadly disease is infecting wild rabbits and hares in the Southwest. (Paul Ramsay via Pixabay/)

State wildlife departments across Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado are working to manage a highly contagious disease that’s killing wild and domestic rabbits and hares. Rabbit Hemorrhagic Disease Virus Type 2 (RHDV2) is not transferrable to humans or other animals, but it poses a serious threat to wild rabbit populations. Hunters are being asked to identify diseased rabbits and notify game officials when they find them.

“It’s kind of like a brush fire,” says Shaun Oldenburger, Texas Parks & Wildlife Department’s small game program director. “It spreads really quick.”

The first noticeable outbreak of Rabbit Hemorrhagic Disease Virus occurred in China in 1984, but the disease is thought to have originated in Europe. It has spread in Australia and Europe for a decade. The original strain of the virus was not known to affect native North American rabbits, but the first positive RHDV case in the U.S. was a domestic rabbit in San Juan Island, Washington, in December 2019. The Washington State Department of Agriculture issued a bunny quarantine to prevent the spread of the disease.

The latest strain, RHDV2, does infect wild rabbits and was first identified in Arizona in March. It has since spread across state lines through the entire Southwest. Texas reported its first rabbit casualties in April in the panhandle region. Areas that have been hit by the virus have identified more than 50 dead rabbits.

Hunters Can Help Prevent RHDV2

The greenhead might be the king of ducks for waterfowlers, but he's not the only duck that's worth getting excited about. (Natalie Krebs/)

There was a lull in the action and our guide Mike Stahlman was searching to fill the silence that had crept into our duck blind. As any veteran duck hunter seems to do, he got to bitching about other duck hunters.

“One thing that I just can’t stand is when people call them ‘scrap’ ducks,” Stahlman said, with real frustration in his voice. “If they’re just scrap ducks to you, then don’t shoot them.”

That morning we had shot a few gadwall, wigeon, and ring-necked ducks. These species, along with teal and shovelers, often get categorized by uppity duck hunters as scrap ducks or bonus ducks. In other words, they are the ducks that aren’t mallards—and therefore less somehow, a side note to what real duck hunting is all about. Somehow pintails, black ducks, canvasbacks, and wood ducks (unless you’re hunting Arkansas green timber) get spared from the derogatory scrap duck category. And this whole “scrap duck” sentiment pissed Stalhman right off.

But if Stahlman was looking for an argument, he wasn’t going to get one from me. I love shooting ducks. All ducks. Now, I won’t lie. If I had to pick one hunt to be my last, it would be a late-season greenhead shoot (in a howling blizzard, just me and my dog). But some of my best duck hunting memories are of bufflehead swarming a mallard spread on a windy lake in Wisconsin, gadwall dropping from the stratosphere to get into a half-frozen pothole in North Dakota, and teal and shovelers screaming through a pass-shoot in Mexico. According to greenhead snobs, some of my best duck hunts were for nothing more than scraps? I beg to differ. —A.R.

Who Are These Greenhead Purists?

The author, carrying the last load to his packhorse. (Natalie Krebs /)

Fog hung in the air, obscuring the old-growth pines ahead and settling into the hollows of the mountainside. On the breeze, I sniffed for the barnyard odor I’d caught a moment before—the faint scent of elk. My footfalls were silent on the moss.

At that moment, there was nothing else in the world—I was focused only on the smell of elk in the drifting fog.

Well-meaning folks have told me that my singular focus on hunting becomes uncomfortably intense during certain points of the season. They tell me this as a sort of common courtesy, the way you might warn someone that their passenger-side tire looks a little flat. But those same folks know that I’m singularly good at putting meat in the freezer. I don’t say that to toot my own horn but just, I suppose, because it’s true. I like to hunt. And when it’s time to hunt, that’s what I am going to do.

We human hunters possess the same five senses as our fellow animal predators: sight, hearing, scent, touch, and taste. Most of us like to think we have a sixth one, called instinct, though in my opinion it’s really more like intuition. During the days when I guided backcountry hunters all fall, I could feel where the elk would be. I can’t describe how I did this, only that it worked. I’d stand in the dark, waiting for my clients as they readied for the day’s hunt. I would think about my territory, consider where the elk might be, and then lead my hunters through the dawn to a place that felt right. We would almost always find elk. I know other guides and hunters who spend a lot of time in the woods have experienced the same thing.

To build this sixth sense, a hunter must focus to the point of ignoring everything else. This almost always comes at a cost. Work, responsibilities at home, and relationships are left to languish. Like that crisp September day when I bombed out of the Oregon high country on my fifth wedding anniversary. My wife and I strolled along a small-town street for an hour, enjoyed an ice cream cone, and watched our baby daughter play. Then I drove an hour and a half back to the trailhead and hotfooted it 6 miles up the mountain in time for an evening hunt. No candlelit dinner. No romantic stargazing. I was hunting and, maybe wrongly, that took priority. After I tagged a bull, normal life could resume.

Tis the season for those last-minute gift buyers who don’t want to settle for gift cards or something cliché for their favorite angler. Let us help find you that unordinary item that will make any anglers’ Christmas a bit more merry.

Cal Coast Fishing Bait Sacks · $8.99-$14.99

Not only are these perfect stocking stuffers, but they are practical, often overlooked bait management systems every angler could use. These bait sacks come in a variety of different sizes, and clip directly onto your rod. They are ideal for crankbaits, jerkbaits, top waters, and other baits with treble hooks, because they keep the hooks from catching or tangling with surrounding objects. The large bait sacks are also ideal for storing Umbrella rigs.

AFTCO Reaper Technical Fleece Hoodie

When the weather outside is frightful, there are still plenty of anglers who want to brave the elements to chase the next bite. This gift is for them. AFTCO has the serious angler in mind with their reaper hoodie. This warm and weather-resistant layering piece has a built-in face mask and neck warmer for those frigid days on the water. They also have ventilated underarms to help things breathe. With a variety of colors available, it’s a good idea to pick up more than one.

When the box arrived, I opened it immediately.

Enclosed was a soft, vintage-style carrying case with leather handles. Even though I knew what I would find when I unzipped the case, it didn’t lessen the anticipation. Inside was a recurve bow, built of shiny black maple and disassembled into each of its parts. The dark riser, inlaid with a gold Bear coin, has a red stripe running vertically through the wood grain. The limbs are dark to match, with the “Fred Bear Custom Kodiak T/D” stamp on the lower limb. Beside it was a coiled string, a leather journal, and a Grayling quiver from Selway Archery—a remake of the original quivers made by Fred Bear himself, years ago.

It was a beautiful bow, and I couldn’t wait to hunt with it. The only catch was that it wasn’t mine to keep.

Living Legend

Like me, Fred Bear didn’t start bowhunting until later in life. His father taught him to hunt when he was young, but he didn’t fall down the bowhunting rabbit hole until he was 29. And it happened at the movies.

Michael LaLonde Jr. with his world record doe. (Michael LaLonde, Jr./)

When you talk about world-record whitetail deer you don’t normally think about does. However, Michael LaLonde Jr. of Oak Harbor, Ohio shot a velvet antlered doe this fall that is now the world’s biggest, according to Buckmasters Whitetail Trophy Records (BTR). LaLonde’s velvet-racked doe has 22 scorable points—15 points on the right side and seven on the left. The rack scores 191 0/8 inches making it the largest velvet antlered doe in Buckmasters’ records.

But LaLonde didn’t realize the the velvet deer he was hunting was a doe. In mid-September, he moved his ladder stand to a new location in the Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge in Ohio’s Ottawa County. He had hunted the 180-acre tract of land in 2019 when the area was first opened up to public hunting and shot a 2.5-year-old 9-pointer there. But he decided to move his stand near a thick bedding area when he saw a gnarly racked “buck” in velvet. He positioned his stand near the bedding area where two deer trails intersected.

On October 2, LaLonde made his second sit in the stand.

LaLonde likes to get into his stand about 30 minutes before first light, but he saw no deer that morning. He was standing up on the platform of the ladder looking back to the bedding area when he heard something behind him. He turned his head and saw the gnarly velvet antlered “buck” just 25 yards away. The deer was walking in his direction.

“I didn’t want to make a lot of movement and turn my body around to face the [deer],” said LaLonde. “So I carefully grabbed my crossbow and twisted my body to my left so I could shoot in that direction.”

Hunting plays a unique role in every relationship. (Photo illustration by Christine Peterson /)

I still remember the moment 12 years ago when I realized how many weekends of my life I was about to donate to hunting. Five months out of 12, give or take.

My soon-to-be-husband, Josh, was explaining that antelope season comes after archery elk season, followed by pheasant season, followed by ducks and geese and chukars, which somehow ends only narrowly before spring turkey.

We’d been together for years, though much of that was long distance. I hadn’t added it all up…until now.

“You mean I’m going to spend at least five months of every year hunting…for the rest of my life?”

I wouldn’t consider a future where he spent weekends hunting, and I stayed home. He looked at his feet and muttered something about how some seasons could be shorter if he notched his elk or antelope tags quickly.

Congresswoman Deb Haaland is a 35th-generation New Mexican and a member of the Pueblo of Laguna tribe. (Michael S. Anaya-Gorman/)

Regardless of who president-elect Joe Biden picks for his Secretary of the Interior, chances are strong that they will hail from the Land of Enchantment.

A trio of New Mexicans are front-runners for the post, according to Washington insiders who spoke on condition of anonymity. Most expect Biden to tap second-term Congresswoman Deb Haaland for the role as early as this week, making her the first indigenous person to lead the agency that oversees the federal government’s relationship with the nation’s 574 recognized tribes. Haaland is an enrolled member of the Pueblo of Laguna tribe. She has represented New Mexico’s 1st Congressional District, which includes most of Albuquerque, since her first election in 2018.

But both of New Mexico’s U.S. Senators are also being discussed as leading candidates to head the Department of Interior, which oversees some 500 million acres of federal land in the U.S., or about a fifth of the country’s real estate. Interior manages national parks, the Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, in addition to dozens of other agencies regulating everything from energy and mineral development to invasive plant species.

Retiring Senator Tom Udall, whose father served as Interior Secretary in both the Kennedy and Johnson administrations in the 1960s, has been widely discussed as being interested in the Interior post. Stuart Udall, the patriarch of the family, was a beloved figure in America’s ecology movement. A passionate advocate for wild lands, species conservation, and restrictions on polluting industries, Stuart Udall remains an icon of Western conservationists, a full generation after his service.

A former congressman and two-term senator from New Mexico, the younger Udall announced last year that he would not seek a third senate term, the only incumbent Democrat to retire in this year’s election cycle. New Mexico’s junior senator, Martin Heinrich, is also on most short lists for the Interior position.

Kevin Linderer’s bow-killed monster weighed more than 250 pounds. (Tony Kalna, Jr./)

In a year that will undoubtedly go down as one of the most peculiar in American history, Missouri deer hunters made 2020 even more unusual. Hunters across the state seem to have harvested an extraordinary number of big bucks in 2020. I had a conversation with Jason Sumners, the Science Branch Chief of the Missouri Department of Conservation (MDC), to find out why.

“There are a lot of pieces to the puzzle that might reflect why so many big bucks have been taken this year,” says Sumners. “Part of the reason is the recovery of Missouri’s deer population post 2012.”

The recovery Sumners is referring to is from the devastating effect Epizootic Hemorrhagic Disease (EHD) had on the State’s deer population in 2012. The MDC estimates that some counties in Missouri lost up to 20 percent of their deer herd and that conservatively, statewide mortality from EHD was in excess of 100,000 whitetails.

“Another part of the puzzle is hunter attitude,” continues Sumners. “Deer hunters in Missouri are becoming more selective, which allows our bucks to grow into older age classes.”

Antler Point Restrictions (APRs) in 52 counties in Missouri have helped bucks grow older and have changed hunter attitudes on shooting young deer. The APRs require a buck to have at least 4-points or better on one side to be legal. These restrictions first began in 2004 in 29 counties and are now paying big dividends in trophy bucks.

Maine’s Bob Humphrey with a giant big woods buck he tracked this fall. (Bob Humphrey/)

By rural Kansas standards, Charlie Braun’s 8-point probably would not have turned many heads. In Maine, it might have only risen to the level of “gawker” or “slammer.” To me, though, the implausible life—and death—of Braun’s tank of a Massachusetts whitetail was more fascinating than its antlers or body size. It was more than a trophy to be hung back at camp.

My buddy Billy was the first one to bring it up after giving the buck the once over: “This deer might have never seen a human before.” Though Braun had shotgunned his monster on an old-fashioned public-land deer drive, it’s doubtful, Billy guessed, that the 4.5-year-old deer had ever seen a hunter in its entire life. That thought, and the fact that he may well have been right, simply boggles the imagination. Was it really feasible, in this day of shrinking habitat and suburban sprawl, for a whitetail deer to live its life that reclusively? Oh, we know that highly pressured deer are masters of avoiding hunters, but can they actually get into wild country where they’d never interact with humans at all? Further, where could those places be? Could it change, somehow, how the deer behaved? Most importantly, how would you hunt such a deer?

Where Could They Live?

“These are some pretty big woods in here,” Billy continued. “That deer never had to leave this 4,000-acre piece to live. He had plenty of food, water, and cover. Hunting pressure is low on both deer and turkeys here and, outside of the occasional summertime hiker that sticks to the marked trails, it’s lightly used. When we came along this morning, that deer had no idea what the hell we were.”

Heck, we’ve all heard stories about hermit bucks—deer that have died of old age rather than a hunter’s bullet. More common, though, are those giant deer that are seen by all manner of hunters and chased for years. The squadrons of game cameras that are spread throughout the country have made it even more difficult for deer to keep their presence hidden for long. Many big, old bucks have nicknames.