Archers battling each other in Breaks

While bow hunters in the southern mountains of Montana were fighting grizzly bears this fall, archers in the Missouri Breaks were battling each other.
Apparently an increase of 66 permits was just too much for the twangers to bear.
According to a recent news release from the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks, both hunters and law enforcement officers reported more conflicts this year than ever before.
“Several hunters reported verbal threats made against them and assault charges are pending against one individual,” the FWP said.
Wildlife managers blame an increase in hunters and a greater concentration of elk in the river bottom this year.
As the elk population ballooned on the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge, the waters of Fort Peck Reservoir receded, creating more habitat along the Missouri River bottom.
“Elk sought out those places,” said Matt DeRosier of the CMR.
So did hunters.
But while there’s habitat now where there used to be none, it simply concentrated elk and hunters on the river instead of dispersing them in the Breaks.
A total of 1,715 archery permits were issued for Hunting District 620 in southern Phillips County this year compared to 1,649 in 2006.
Most of those hunters were concentrated along a narrow strip of river bottom running east from the Fred Robinson Bridge to Fourchette Bay.
It’s little wonder there’s no harmony among bowhunters, more than 1,500 nimrods all hoping to stick an arrow in an elk. And until they start walking and talking the camo-clad crowd is invisible to each other.
While rifle hunters are required to wear blaze orange, it’s perfectly legal to dress like a special forces sniper while bow hunting. Unfortunately they’re also starting to act like Rambo.
Hunters tend to shy away from other hunters who wear orange because they spot them at a distance. Archers on the other hand have no such way to avoid confrontation with other archers. They can’t see each other until it’s too late. Somebody is in somebody else’s space. Or face.
Conflict is inevitable.
And we’re going to see it. In this day of camera phones and Youtube someone is sure to capture a couple of bow hunters going at it in an outdoors version of World Extreme Cagefighting.
In the southern mountain ranges bordering Yellowstone National Park this fall four bow hunters tangled with grizzlies.
Along the Missouri river in north-central Montana, a handful of bow hunters exchanged threats and punches.
Too bad they didn’t have grizzly bears to worry about instead of each other.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Age of two-sport athlete is over

The age of the two-sport athlete is over.
What didn’t work for Michael Jordan shouldn’t work for Montana sportsmen either.
So says Victor Workman, a member of the Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks Commission who wants big game hunters in the state to choose their weapons –- rifle or bow – and no longer be allowed to hunt with both as they can now.
“It’s an effort to curb the amount of wounding that happens by archery hunters who one might describe as part-time hunters,” Workman recently told the Billings Gazette.
The commissioner from District 1 in the northwest part of the state reasons that archers who commit to using only a bow and not switching to a rifle when the general big game season opens will become better shots with a bow. Full-time archers, if you will.
It could be the start of a trend.
In an effort to improve efficiency among outdoor folk of all stripes, perhaps limiting them to one discipline is the ticket.
Fly fishermen, tired of never catching any fish, would no longer be allowed to make the switch to bait.
And vice versa.
Catfish anglers, unable to wash the smell of rancid chicken livers off their hands, couldn’t change into color-coordinated outfits and flail the waters with 9-foot split bamboo rods.
Whitetail hunters who use shotguns and slugs in areas where rifles aren’t allowed would no longer be allowed to hunt elk with their 7–mags. Making the mental switch from short range to long is simply too difficult. Just ask Workman, who claims to have a lot of support for his proposal.
And if weapons-specific laws work, why not species-specific regulations, too?
Turkey hunters would be just that. The law would prevent them from ever taking off their camouflage head nets or face paint – a perfectly acceptable situation for most of them.
Upland bird hunters would have to choose a single species – snipe, for example, or sage grouse. Never firing a shot at anything in the air other than your chosen bird would undoubtedly make you a more efficient hunter.
On the other hand, there’s also the chance Workman’s idea would ruin hunting for a lot of guys who shoot both a rifle and a bow. Fewer opportunities and more rules in a sport some folks say is already dying may not be the direction the FWP Commission wants to go. Especially when even Workman admitted he had no figures on game wounded by either archers or riflemen.
But he’d like you to consider his proposal anyway.
It turned out Michael Jordan couldn’t hit a minor league curve ball. Think what a basketball player he could have been had he never picked up a baseball bat.

Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

A story about a guy from Butte, America

It probably matters more where you’re from this time of year than any other.
Permission to hunt private property is usually granted more readily if the plates on your pickup sport the number of one of Montana’s lesser populated counties.
It may take a bit more time to convince the landowner you’ll shut the gates and not shoot his cows if you’re from out of state or happen to reside in Yellowstone, Gallatin or Flathead counties.
Worse yet, is getting permission to hunt when your rig bears plates with the number 1. Folks who live in Montana’s hinterland remain a bit leery of residents of Butte.
A rough and tumble mining town in its long past prime, Butte isn’t so different from most other Montana cities anymore, unless of course you happen to be from there and think referring to it as “Butte, America,” makes perfect sense.
Luckily, for residents of the Big Sky state’s larger cities, a plethora of new license plates celebrating everything from pets to unborn babies are available to disguise the fact they hail from Billings or Kalispell.
My friend Dallas has special license plates on his pickup. But like any good Butte native, although he has lived in the Gallatin Valley for years, the plates trumpet his heritage. “Butte, the Mining City,” they read.
Folks from Butte, America tend to be proud of it no matter what anyone else thinks.
So here’s a story about a guy from Butte.
Dallas and his 15-year-old son came up to stay with me last weekend for the opener of antelope season.
Fans of the Colorado Rockies, they stayed up until nearly midnight Saturday to watch the Rox beat the Phillies and win the National League Division Series, then woke at 4:30 a.m. to get ready for their hunt.
Dallas had to be back at work the next morning and his kid couldn’t miss school so this was their only day to chase speed goats.
They walked deep into a block management hunting area before first light only to discover every other yahoo with an antelope tag for the area was also hunting there.
But like Buttians do, they persevered. Dallas’s son shot a nice buck and by early afternoon they were back at the house. An hour later they had showered and packed their gear. We said our goodbyes and they climbed into the truck for the five-hour trip back to Manhattan.
A short while later there was a knock on the door. It was Dallas.
Twenty miles south of town, near the area they had been hunting, Dallas and his son spotted two rifles lying by the side of the road.
He said he had been tempted to keep on driving. Let someone else stop. It was already going to be a long trip home.
But the guy from Butte did stop, pick up the rifles and turn the truck around. He’d sure hate to lose his rifle that way, he told me. And the next guy that stopped might just keep them.
Dallas was still at the Phillips County Sheriff’s Office when a young couple walked through the door and announced they’d lost their rifles.
They tried to give Dallas a reward, but he wouldn’t take one, so they stuffed 50 bucks in his kid’s shirt pocket.
His son is going to use the money to take his dad out for a steak dinner.
He’s proud of his old man.
And he should be.
After all, he’s from Butte.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Hitchock started it with The Birds

Don’t blame Alfred Hitchcock.
I was 11 years old when I first saw “The Birds.”
It remains one of my favorite movies.
But it’s not simply the idea of crows, seagulls and sparrows attacking humans that intrigues me, it’s the shots they offer -- left to right and right to left passing shots, straight-aways and incomings, lot of incomings.
I fantasize about rescuing Tippi Hedren with my Model 12, racking a shell into the chamber and dusting the gull that attacks her early in the film.
And Suzanne Pleshette never would have died had I been there to fend off the crows.
But most of all I dream about birds flying closer instead of farther away. Therein lies the advantage of hunting birds on the fight.
The birds I hunt are seldom closer on the second shot. Rarely does the Hungarian partridge that flushes in front of my dogs come toward me.
Oh, sure, every once in a while a bird does fly in my direction, but rarely does that bird live to pass on his flawed genes.
Unfortunately, the birds that flush out of range and fly over the horizon seem to do most of the breeding.
What fun it would be to hunt ducks that didn’t flare when they spotted my poorly camoflauged carcass, but flew at me instead.
I’m sure I’d become a better shot. Give those sharptail grouse flushing out of range a few seconds to spot me and here they’d come, closer and closer until even I couldn’t miss.
And if I did.
No big deal.
It’s not like missing a shot at a charging Cape buffalo.
Even though the birds in Hitchcock’s film killed a number of folks, I think I could easily handle the average grouse in hand-to-wing combat.
At least I hope so.
I hate to think I’d turn and run, screaming like a little girl while that sage grouse I missed cleanly pecks me on the back of the head.
But who knows? The humiliation of losing a fight to a three-pound bird might send me into a comatose state like the one that befell Hedren after she was pecked and wing-slapped into unconsciousness by a swarm of gulls.
Had she been packing a Winchester pump, I like to think she’d have been able to control her emotions and pile up those birds like a dove hunter in Mexico.
But that’s just fantasy.
My reality is quite different.
It involves a lot of misses at the south end of too many fast-flying northbound birds.
I can’t blame Hitchcock for that.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Hunting season has returned at last

Only in Montana could I have such an opening day.
First light on Sept. 1, found my son-in-law Aaron and I hunting ruffed grouse in the Beartooth Mountains south of Livingston.
The dogs put up a few singles, but I missed the only shot I took. By 10 a.m. it had gotten hot and we called it quits.
On the way back to town we slowed to watch mule deer and whitetails still in their summer coats, and surprised a young black bear feeding on chokecherries at the edge of the road.
In the distance we could see three mountain ranges, the Crazies, the Bridgers and the Gallatins. The longest undammed river in the lower 48 -- the Yellowstone -- wound through the valley below us.
Back in Livingston I hitched my drift boat to the truck, said my goodbyes and headed home to Malta. Once hunting season arrives, I pretty much give up fishing, but with a little camouflage, the boat will make a great duck blind.
The skies were clear of smoke across the middle of Montana and I watched the state’s lesser-known mountain ranges rise on the horizon likes ships at sea. First the Snowies and the Little Belts, then north of Lewistown, the Judiths and the Moccasins.
Every stock tank I passed, it seemed, held ducks and geese and a stiff wind blowing out of the west hinted at more to come.
I ate chile rellenos in Lewistown and let the dogs swim there in Big Spring Creek where it passes through town before getting back on the road.
Smoke from wildfires still burning in the Bob Marshall Wilderness drifted across the Missouri Breaks and hid the last mountain range of the trip, the Little Rockies, until I topped the hill on Highway 191 above the Fred Robinson Bridge and they appeared out of the haze.
Sage grouse and sharptails fed along the edge of the pavement, nearly invisible against the dry grass, and a pheasant flushed as the truck blew past, filling the mirror with a blur of wings.
Scattered bunches of antelope grazed across the prairie in the fading light and I slowed to watch a badger scramble off the road at my approach.
Finally I topped the last hill and the green line of the Milk River bottom bisected the arid landscape below me. I was nearly home.
I’d been skunked on opening day, but it was a day to remember nonetheless.
And it was only the beginning.
Hunting season has returned at last.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Transforming Montana for the rich

It’s beginning to sound like a broken record -- another developer claiming his transformation of a working ranch into an exclusive second-home enclave for the very rich is a good thing.
Now a developer in Park County is asking the state to sell him two square-mile sections of public land. The acquisition will allow him to finish the “environmentally friendly” subdivision he plans there.
Wade Dokken touts his proposed Ameya Preserve in “the vast wilderness of Montana’s Paradise Valley” as “a bold new vision where nature meets culture.”
State wildlife officials disagree.
Tom Lemke, a biologist with the Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks wrote that the project “would result in loss of important wildlife habitat, reduced wildlife use of the area, and new and complicated wildlife-human conflicts associated with subdivision.”
Lemke says selling the public land to Dokken will only make the problems worse.
But Dokken, who quit his day job on Wall Street as CEO of American Skandia, is offering $3.8 million for the two state-owned sections.
Guess who’s going to win? The wildlife biologist whose priority is the land and the animals or the developer who hopes to sell home sites there for up to $1.7 million.
I’ll put my money on Dokken.
If you believe everything on his Web page, Dokken is simply doing this for the good of us all.
Like an executive for the logging industry, he writes: “Our human presence can measurably add to the health of the wilderness and the majestic fauna that depend on the land.”
Make that “wealthy human presence.”
This will be another gated community.
Kind of like it used to be.
But the gate was always open when the place was the Bullis Creek Ranch. The three generations of ranchers who lived there gave anyone permission to hunt the place as long as they walked or rode horseback.
Then the land became more valuable than the cows and the ranch sold.
First to a wealthy Texan who built a mansion high on a windswept ridge where everyone could see it and then to Dokken.
His plans include a general store, spa, art center, 39 custom-designed homes along with their accompanying roads, driveways and parking lots. All for the good of the environment, of course.
And it will be built entirely up the remote drainage instead of on the valley floor on the already-established county road where the ranch families lived.
There’s certainly no better way to preserve the land than to build smack-dab in the middle of it.
Just ask Dokken.
After all, his is a bold, new vision.
Even if it does sound like we’ve heard it before.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

An ode to Uncle Bob

My Uncle Bob spent the last three weeks of his life fishing.

In failing health he had been admitted to a nursing home by his daughters, who despite their love for their father, could no longer care for him.

He didn’t know a soul in the place, my cousin Mary Ann told me over the phone, so he would lie on his back with his eyes closed and go through the motions of casting his line.

“Did you see that one,” he would ask.

“Dad was still fishing,” Mary Ann told me.

Eventually he just stopped breathing and slipped quietly away during the night. That was Uncle Bob, never wanting a fuss made over him.

I can see him sitting in the bow of his 14-foot boat, a sculling paddle in one hand and a long bamboo pole in the other, dropping minnows into submerged brush piles in the shallow bays, hoisting out crappie and bass.

Uncle Bob had been a grocer in Indiana and Kentucky until a heart attack prompted his retirement from the A&P Tea Co. He and Aunt Betty bought a house in the woods near a TVA reservoir where they kept a bird dog, raised tomatoes, and fished the big lake just down the hill.

They had invited me for a visit shortly before I first got married and I was taken with the country. Western Kentucky was rolling and tree covered and we caught lots of fish.

My wife and I eventually moved to an apartment less than a mile from Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty’s place and I got a job at a marina on the lake.

For two years I lived in Kentucky and my mother’s brother became my best friend. We hunted and fished together, I helped him get in his firewood and we explored the wilder country in the area on foot.

We even picked mistletoe one winter intending to sell it, but instead traded our harvest for a case of beer at the A&P in Paducah where Uncle Bob knew the manager.

I moved to Montana for good the next summer and over the years my uncle and I lost touch. I knew he’d moved in with my cousin in Louisville a few years after Aunt Betty died and I saw him one last time in South Carolina at Mary Ann’s two years ago.

She had warned me Uncle Bob suffered from occasional bouts of dementia, but I wouldn’t have known. Although his hearing was about gone and his eyesight failing, he was the same old Uncle Bob to me.

“We sure had some good times together, didn’t we?” he asked. “I don’t hunt or fish any more, you know. I hope you still do.”

I told him yes, I hunt and fish more than I should and he said that was OK, nothing wrong with huntin’ and fishin.’

So I’m taking my uncle’s advice.

It served him well to the end of his days.

And he knew from where his blessing came. Uncle Bob paid an organist to play Sundays at the tiny country church he attended a few miles from the lake because otherwise the church would have no music.

No wonder he got to fish until the very end.