The Fungal Insights - Thursday 18/10/12

There was once a young boy who, in his quest to leave childhood and become a man, embarked on a journey to foreign lands. During his travels he came upon a wise man. Seeking his wisdom the boy asked him many questions, the answers to which he thought would aid him in his endeavour. Instead, the wise man handed him a teaspoon filled to the lip with water.
The wise man passed the spoon to the boy and tasked him with walking the walls of the castle and returning the spoon to him with not a drop of water spilled.
With great care the boy did as he was charged and, after a great length of time, returned to the wise man. He dutifully returned the spoon to him and with pride announced that it was still full, not a drop had he spilled.
The wise man asked of him: "And what did you see on your travels?"
The boy was most confused and struggled to find an answer.
"Did you not witness, atop the walls, the vast horizon stretching beyond the sea? What of the Royal Breast Plate held in the Gatehouse inlaid with precious stones?
The inscription carved above the door to the armoury, what did it say?"
The boy admitted he had not seen any of these things. So the wise man sent him off again.
The boy returned, though this time it was with humility he returned the spoon, empty of water.
The wise man, seeing the boys dejection, imparted the lesson the boy desired.
"Though life may, at times, demand of you your highest level of attention, do not forget to pause, to reflect, to take in your surroundings and experience the wonders that lie all around you".

Today I was reminded of this story. Of late, life has not only demanded my attention, it has provided numerous distractions. Meanwhile, the season is rapidly changing. This little patch of woodland in which I dwell, has a fresh carpet of leaves as the canopy above melts away, and sunlight dapples through the branches.

This morning I ventured off the frequented path and crouched to take in the sights and sounds. As I glanced down, I was happily surprised to see a fresh pile of rabbit dung.

 Absent since early spring, it would appear the falling fruits have tempted my woodland companions back to my 'garden'. And closer to the pot!

My focus turned to tracking and I followed the trail, but my focus was soon diverted. For all about me, springing up from the detritus strewn upon the woodland floor, was a myriad and multitude of fungi. Another resounding truth was here, echoing through the trees. From death, comes life.

I am no authority on mushrooms, and until my other sources of nutrition expire, they will remain unharmed by my hand. But I will enjoy them and admire their forms, brief as they are.

So disturbed are we by our mortality, so far in denial of our temporary existence, we shy from this truth as much as we are able. Of course, the degree of affliction is not universal. Though I believe it fair to say that we 'westerners' are some of the worlds most sensitive. 'Anti-wrinkle' creams, the numerous pharmaceutical and medical projects, the vast industry built upon this common, deeply entrenched, and perpetuated fear. To even look old, to show signs of decay, is an embarrassment when once it was a badge of pride and honour, of wisdom and experience. So severe it has gotten, that we in the 'civilised' world lock away our elderly, hide our dead and do our best to avert our eyes from, to even acknowledge that, we too will pass.
In some individuals, just a picture, a passage of writing depicting or containing death, evokes a powerful and dark response.

It takes a sharp eye, but they are certainly there.

And so it is to my reasoning, that be a human a carnivore, omnivore or vegetarian, to shy from death, to denounce and condemn killing of prey is one of the greatest hypocrisies. It matters not what quarry upon which you prey, animal or vegetable, for it is an undeniable truth that if our existence is to continue, we rely upon the ending, the death, of another form of life. For it is from that 'form', that bundle of minerals and elements, that we derive our nutrition.
To mourn its passing is natural. On some level I believe all hunters do. Life is to be experienced, savoured and honoured. It is wanton destruction, what some would term 'needless' death that violates our morals and codes, that appalls our being.

Whilst I cannot vouch for every footfall, great care was taken where I placed them and to my knowledge, no mushroom was harmed in the making of this piece.

"I am the light that shines over all things. I am everything. From me all came forth, and to me all return. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift a stone, and you will find me." - The Gospel Of Thomas

The Hunter's Chronicles - Monday 9th July 2012

It is said 'seeing is believing'. The cloudless sky was such a sight today. I took many photographs, if only to remind myself in the coming days that whilst to us Earth bound mortals it may be raining, one need only to rise high enough to know that no matter how grey the day, behind and above it is always radiant warmth and endless blue sky. This glimpse would be most valued, so I wished it preserved lest the memory fade.

I had no intention of making hay, but I certainly wished to make the most of the Sun shining clear and unobstructed.
Into the ancient woodland I strode, ingesting the sights, sounds and spirits that danced before and around me. (Whilst the rains have brought a bumper crop of Psilocybin mushrooms this year, those I do not, and did not, ingest I can assure you).

The omens were good as I left the path, I had just knelt, when a flash of a rabbit bolting for cover was caught  in my peripheral vision. A most fruitful part of the woodland to be sure. Indeed one only needed to keep his attention and eyes open before fruits were literally uncovered.

Wild Strawberries though rather tart, are in my opinion still very pleasant, and encouragingly prevalent here. It would appear if my potatoes and peas finally succumb to the onslaught from the sky, my family may yet dine on meat, mushrooms and strawberries!

I emerged from the bracken and leaned my head through the hedgerow and just over the fence in order to view what may be dining in the shortest patches of grass. Nothing within range, but at least four currys and stews were nibbling over 100 yards away. I elected to remain in my cover rather than stalk. My late evening energy levels being one factor, the prevailing wind another. My approach would also be risky. To do so back through the woods would require enormous concentration so as not to emit an audible warning, to hop the fence and approach would require equal skill in not providing a visual warning.

Put simply, I couldn't be arsed.

My right eye watered. My vision blurred. Nothing moved. The Sun dipped below the horizon and the yonder currys and stews evaporated with it.

Poo.

I began to calculate when I should break both my cover and the endeavour. Then something moved quickly to my front. In a flash, a Vindaloo zipped from the hedgerow at top speed out into the field. He passed within yards of my position but my goodness he was not going to stop. An errant canine and his jingly collar loped around and soon faded back into the trees.

I just about had enough. Rather than creep back through the obstacles and pointy things in the woods I clambered gingerly over the barbed wire fence and plonked my backside down. A welcome change from the hour spent standing.
My eyes and attention drifted to my phone as I communicated my bad luck. When I glanced up, I was being watched. Perhaps I had been observed for longer than I knew because the Madras had seen enough and promptly disappeared. This produced another flurry of verbalised angst, but it was too hasty. Again, I raised my eyes. The Madras was back. I swiftly and silently raised my weapon and calmly gathered myself.
I knew this would be my only and best shot. I adhered to the marksmanship principles to the letter, and got my reward.

Death was delivered speedily and precisely. In the back of the head between the ears and out to the front behind the eye.

Massaged and bagged. Patak's friend and I sauntered home along the old drovers road that runs through the trees. It is an exceptionally old track. My mind was transported to times past when a traveller along this same road at this very hour would have quite possibly been seen as nothing short of a suicidal fool. My memory conjured the many legends that surround this place.
The hangman who once plied his trade at this junction (the custom and rationale being that the spirit of the victim would forever wander the earth lost and confused between this and the afterlife).
One dark night he was summoned to execute two whimpering, pathetic beings. The first was dispatched swiftly, the night being unpleasant and the hangman keen to return to the warmth of his bed, his skilled and practised hands made short work of the deed in the darkness. The second struggled and fought, scratching at him, begging, imploring him to stay his hand, but it was to no avail.
Curious as to why this one was so keen to live, the hangman, despite the inclement weather and driving rain, paused to lift the hood. The light of his lantern revealed his deepest, darkest, fear to be brutal and plain reality. The second victim who's life he had so swiftly ended... was his only son.
The hangman, mad with grief, returned to his cottage, drove a spike in the wall and turned the noose upon himself. It is said the cottage still remains, one wall still standing and from it, high towards the top, protrudes the nail.

The other legends I will tell, another time.

Thankfully I arrived home safely and in one peice, though it was touch and go as the mud nearly claimed my welly!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Thursday 4th July 2012

Aesop's fable of The Wind and The Sun was a fitting way of describing the weather and I this day.

The Sun smiled just long enough to tempt me out to prowl with visions of hungry quarry eagerly filling their bellies and, like I, making the most of the warmth.

Having changed both my gun and ammunition, a re-zeroing session was in order.

As a rest, I use my rucksack gamebag stuffed with the gunslip and angled on its side (it has a stiff back pad). This allows for some absorption of recoil as well as accuracy ordinarily derived from the use of a bipod. The dark green colour of the bag also breaks up my profile and aids camouflage when I stake out a potentially fruitful spot.

The breeze was gentle but at times grew strong enough for me to need to time my shots with the lulls. I got the scope near where I wanted it, then glanced down the valley to my left.

You could see the rain rolling in. Whilst not the best news, I still enjoy the build up and the visual progress as it hunts me down. A fun game as a kid was to attempt to outrun the cloud and try to dodge its bombs until you collapsed in a sodden giggling heap alongside your chum, or dived under a tree shaking your fist at the sky with a triumphant "Better luck next time!"

I elected the latter course, minus the taunt.

Without fancy scope covers, I improvised.

The shower passed, but now I had a cold patch of mud upon which to lie, dirt invariably smeared the beautiful woodwork of the TX200 despite my best efforts to keep my mitts clean.
The wind had strengthened and was now without the pauses. Rather than achieve my desired groupings, I settled for hitting a milk bottle top consistently at 35 yards.

It was now between 15:30 and 16:00, too early for rabbits I knew, but rabbits weren't what I wished to add to tonights menu. I was after my elusive feathered friend Mr Pujin.

The trees I had in mind were two fields over. In no rush and enjoying my freedom, I took my time to take it all in and savour the experience. With the temperament of the Gods recently, who knows when another opportunity might present itself?

In retrospect; I should've legged it.

The first cloudburst was another shower I weathered under a dense hedge and tree. I couldn't be sure if another was heading my way due to a mist that hung above the village and decided to chance it.
I paid dearly for my mistake.
I got caught without cover. I huddled into a hedge only to have drips down my neck, then arms and as my hat became saturated, the peak. I had to move. I then completed my unwanted bath by wading through knee high grass as I hurried to the shelter of a large beech. This soaked my trousers and the water travelled down my wellingtons and made itself at home in my socks. I stayed put weighing up my options. I could jack it in and go home, I was wet but not quite sodden, which I would be if I walked back in this rain. The rain could pass, or remain.
My answer came as the rain slackened visibly and audibly ten minutes or so later. I pressed on and arrived at my usual hiding place. This bush would not provide the required waterproof shelter should another strong downpour surprise me and it was coming back now with no sign of abating.
I again pressed myself against the broad trunk of a large tree. This time an Ash clothed in Ivy. Aside from the odd drip I was safe and dry.
After what seemed like a damn long time, the rain finally passed. I tentatively emerged and clambered up a hill that brought me almost level to the tree favoured by the pigeons. Range, a perfect 35 yards. The one beyond, 45 yards.

Three buzzards now circled, one landed to bask in the sun as the clouds parted. I used him to test the digital zoom on my new camera.

Pigeons, crows, magpies, ducks and the trio of very vocal buzzards took to the skies.

Three pigeons landed in the target trees. All behind cover. None looked likely to ever move into an exposed position.
It was a good enough chance to tempt me out stalking. I attempted a head shot, but having advanced down the hill, the angle was approx 72 degrees which made it hard to keep the rifle steady on the shoulder as well as contending with the change to the POI. I hit a branch and scared them all off.

I did what I could. Changed positions. No Joy.
Returned to my previous vantage point and after a very long time and one fleeting opportunity, a pigeon presented itself. Back facing me, I put the duplex reticle between his shoulder blades, took my time, and fired. He fluttered, hit a few branches then glided/dived to the floor and hit the deck hard. Hooray!
No. Wait. He picked himself up and flew off.
I was gobsmacked.
Still wet as a fish, here I was 4 hours after I began, with nothing but a skidmark for my efforts.

 I did march towards the tree the pigeon escaped to, but he comfortably flew away, seemingly unharmed.

I waited under that pigeon forsaken tree until 21:00. Sadly and slowly I wandered home.

All appeared to be having far better fortune than I. Ever hopeful, I kept my wits about me. A good thing too as approximately 20 yards to my front, by the woods that border 'zeroing' field, a pair of ears and a rump were feeding!
I levelled my rifle and aimed right at the head without lasering it. DUNCK! Too high. Now here's where I should have suspected something. I did, but incorrectly thinking him to be an inexperienced Kit. The rabbit hunkered down rather than bolt. I reloaded purposefully and aimed again giving it a half inch hold under. He didn't respond to my squeaks, but eventually rose his head just enough and the next shot forced him to leap into the air.

Any elation fled as I inspected my prey.
The Eye did not look right. It appeared then a hollow victory. I flipped him over and my fear was confirmed.

Myxomatosis. Sores on the eyes, below the openings of the ears and the anus. Possibly the one that got away before. Probably that one is now dead and this, another victim of that unsightly and cruel affliction. He was laid to rest in the woodland from whence he came. Something inside me rebels against eating diseased meat, regardless of what scientists may say or the popular opinion of the day. I believe the Fox won't care to make such distinctions. A well fed Fox will also not stray from his territory and happen upon my chickens!

This particular hunt was, if nothing else, an experience. I returned home. Wet and for the first time, Hungry.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Monday 18th June 2012

As I type, the iron stench of rabbit blood rises to my nostrils from the keyboard. I hold my breath as I raise a biscuit to my mouth after its hot chocolate bath.
I can not complain. Nor do I wish to seem to.
It was something like a lust for blood that set my weary legs to purpose at 20:00 this evening. After drawing a blank Friday, you can add some shaken self belief into the pot of motivation.
If I am critical and honest, I was rusty. Too hurried, too rushed. I wasn't 'present', rather, I was already at the next likely spot of opportunity.
I did have one eye on the clock and the fading sun, but I was completely missing out on the experience of the hunt. Until I took steps to remedy that fault, I paid dearly. Rabbits hopped into cover unhurriedly, my presence comfortably noted. Crows flapped away almost begrudgingly. Pigeons sung their soothing song from the deep safety of their ivy covered nests. I was an alien. A disconnected being to be avoided and observed without ever presenting a threat.

It could almost be seen as though the Gods were both laughing at me and trying to send me a meaningful message when I almost literally stumbled upon this chap nonchalantly munching his greens.

Ravaged by myxomatosis he was blissfully unaware that anything untoward could be harbouring any ill intent in his vicinity. My 'LRF' read 7 yards. I'm sure he was closer. I aimed as though it were and missed, then realised 7 yards is the minimum read out. In spite of his diseased condition this one was not to die this day. I reloaded, and upon the click of the safety catch, he bounded off into the woods on my left. Ahh well.
My lesson had been learned with gratitude.

In the next field I was as focused as a Cat. My attention paid dividends as I utilised the double edged sword of the long grass to my advantage. As my hunting buddies know, there is a right hand curve in the hedge line and beyond it are normally one to two very nervous bunnies. The curve means that a right handed shooter such as myself inevitably presents his body before the business end of his rifle. But not today. The two ears were spotted, the eyes obscured by the abundant growth of his fodder.
A sharp crack of pellet on bone and the head disappeared. I reloaded and approached softly. He flipped once as I drew near with enough co-ordination to warrant another dose of lead in the back of the head between the ears.

I had designs for this little fellows insides.

I journeyed on quickly to my little natural hide and slit him 31 yards from it in the hopes of baiting the crows. Crows, that at this time of the day, were no where to be seen. My plan was further thwarted by the arrival of these fine beasts.

Thankfully they didn't hang around long, nor did they pay heed to my rabbit.

I waited. And waited. I used my phone to go on youtube and play crow calls from videos at the highest volume my phone would allow. But no corvid appeared to have heard.

Then my backside and right leg lost all feeling and sensation.

I exited my hidey hole, analysing the tree branches for any sign at all of an avian presence. When my gaze lowered, I found it was being returned. Correctly I guessed, from 25 yards away. The second standing shot of the evening, this one far more straight forward with satisfyingly conclusive results. A very loud smack, a quick hop and mid air curl and it was very evident that this little blighter was half way across the River Styx long before I got to his body.

To date, I have been most pleased with the performance of the RWS Superdomes .177 pellets gifted to me by a forum member. Thank you kindly Rob, they are devastating!
Other MK3 TX200 owners may like to note that RWS Superdomes do not appear to sit as tightly in the barrel as RWS Superfields and this seems to aid the excellent delivery of energy and velocity. I would honestly put them on a par with JSB exacts.

My 35 yard grouping compared very favourably against a BSA Superten .22. Granted the Superten owner was unaware of how seriously I was zeroing....

Haha!

Until next time friends...

The Hunter's Chronicles - Wednesday 23rd May 2012

Air Rifles are playing a seemingly pivotal and synchronistic role in this lifestyle of mine. Not long after purchasing the S200 from a local chap, my eager ego was busy shopping for things I neither needed nor had the money to purchase; Bipods, Quick release studs, etc etc. It even went as far as to belittle the acquisition that it had for so long desired and generated so much suffering over it's deprivation and lack. Now it said "Not as good as a HW100!" What the heck?! I have nothing to sell!
Oh but you do....
No. No. I couldn't. Selling my time was exactly what had started this whole breakaway and shift off.
Could I go back? Not to something that I didn't enjoy, no way.
It had to be local.
It had to be temporary, yet worthwhile.
Pah, the nearest settlement is a sleepy hamlet with a pub. I was not about to pull pints again.

I mulled over my new desire and the predicament of the overdraft my past desires had created.
I had just about managed to convince myself that I was actually happy and complete.
Then I received a text.

"Just picked up a traditional building job down the road from you. You available Monday?" It was the guy I bought the S200 from!

'Absolutely' featured in my reply. Right up my alley having spent a year learning traditional building methods, here was someone requiring me to put them into practice and teach me some more whilst paying me!

The cottage was idyllic.

The job was not.

Nearly all the walls, bar one, need re-pointing. That means 3-5 months work using a miniature pick to tap out the old lime mortar, then replacing it. The chimney needs rebuilding. A window in the roof to be ripped out and replaced by a dormer.... and two days in, my back is sunburnt, wrist is strained and I'm knackered.

I had little recourse therefore to bemoan not being able to hunt. The very time I would normally spend doing it, I was selling. Tough cookies.

But today, tired though I was, I made time.

As I rode shotgun in my employers van (he kindly ran me up the hill to my abode) I spied an invasion of crows marauding one of the fields of my permission. Game on!

A very quick slurp of coffee, shirt off, camo jacket on. Far too hot for layers today.

I grabbed the TX200 as I believed I'd be requiring the lighter, faster calibre.

I approached the target area.

I crept through the trees. Just the other side of this thicket, there was a crow party in full swing.

I emerged to find....

...I wasn't invited.

They buggered off. The lot of them.

Ahh well, rabbits it is. I was philosophical in my disappointment at being denied the opportunity of trying out crow burgers, but philosophy gave way to conniving.

Out along the row of fences pictured above I spotted an unsuspecting prize. Range - guesstimated at 43 yards or thereabouts, appropriate hold over, fire.

Most bizarrely, it was after the pellet impacted, this kit decided he'd audition for the Olympic Gymnastics Team, the media hype evidently infectious to rabbits too. To give him his due, he put in a sterling effort to execute a 360 degree backflip with twist, but failed miserably to land it. I held up my judges card. I gave him 3 for effort but his timing was way off in my opinion, next time I would advise he do so without a lump of lead in his brain.
His buddy was harsher than I, and failed to even acknowledge the incredible talent displayed by his now deceased playmate. As I approached, he scratched his ear in his attempt to appear nonchalant. I was not so accurate with my 'gut' rangefinding and missed not once but twice before I applied slight hold under and got an audition out of him too. Not nearly as impressive however. So he got a '1' for merely showing up.

I slit the kits and hid in the bushes, hoping to lure the crows back with treats.

I waited. And I waited some more.

Then I went for a mooch.

In a favourite spot of mine, a large Doe loped around happily, and lazily disappeared back into the hedgerow. A good time for a well earned lie down to give my backside a chance to regain some blood supply.
She re-emerged at a lazed 32 yards. Rested on my gamebag stuffed with the gunslip it was a straight forward shot. It struck home where expected.
What happened was unexpected. The strike was audible and yet she barely reacted shifting forward as though completely unaffected.
She was mortally affected.
Blood poured from her mouth dribbling in the grass. In an attempted to hasten her demise I fired another shot, another strike. A flinch. Then she keeled over stone dead.

I paunched her immediately, to find her digestive system in full swing. Food was still being pumped along the intestines. From a nick in the lower tract oozed processed food matter. This continued for a short while even after all had been disconnected. Quite fascinating to say the least.

The pellet seemingly struck the correct area, yet I can only surmise the small .177 round failed to cause the required level of trauma and thus passed just under the brain. She may have drowned on her own blood though unlikely. May have suffered a heart attack?
In my experience, this occurrence is extremely rare. But lessons have been learned. For starters, the S200 will be my primary rabbiting gun. If I use the TX200 for rabbits, it appears the pellet must strike fractionally higher than the mark shown.

I added her to the collection of Kits to which the crows had now flocked, and subsequently scarpered as I drew nearer.

Another wait for the crows.

Another saunter.

At the bottom of the tree on the right there is almost always a rabbit.

This time was no different.

This one decided to perform a very quick cartwheel stunt audition. Similar to the last kill, with more blood from the mouth than I'd like and expect but not quite as disquieting and a much quicker exit. Successful, but with room for refinement.

And so, with my temporary employment, which shall usher in a top pedigree stallion to the airgun stable, I must accept my forays may be less frequent than I am used to. But I am willing to endure the hardships. My boss has promised to show me how to prepare rabbits Cretan style if I tutor him in their skinning and butchery (If it means time off from picking at mortar so be it!).

Til next time friends!