The Hunters Chronicles - Friday 23rd November 2012

Much time has passed since I last ventured out to the fields with the air rifle, though I have not been left wanting for meat and game. Most fortuitously, my quarry has come to me!
I have not executed all trespassers. Only when the 'hunger' has stricken, have at least three wayward Pheasants who survived the beaters and the lines of guns, fallen to the TX200.

The wonderful Pheasant with its superb camouflaged plumage.

Each feather is collected and stored. Can a pattern be created mimicking that which concealed its former owner so effectively?

Just one pellet is required.

On one rare clear and sunny Saturday, I observed numerous vehicles turn into the driveway of a neighbouring farm. When the gamekeepers 4x4 arrived, up pricked my Predator Radar. With my 16 month old in my arms, I wandered up to the lay-by that overlooks the game crop and farmland where the beaters were flushing out the birds. Baba and I watched as each squadron took off to be greeted by a salute and salvo from the waiting guns. I chastised myself for willing each pilot the best of luck in dodging the gauntlet of lead and death that awaited them. I felt almost as though I were sabotaging the efforts of another hunter.

The naive me stood awestruck at the spectacle that lay before me. The synchronicity and co-operation of the humans working together to effectively and efficiently slay large numbers of food. On this level it was a wonderful sight. A beautiful setting, a fitting last scene for those who were about to die this day. I envisioned the glut of birds, the tables laid with the cooked and prepared meat. The larders to be stocked with hanging poultry. The game dealers soon to be re-supplied. The sights and sounds I was seeing and hearing that have come to epitomise country life and living.

The realist however couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness, as each of the guns boomed. Now the guns were not a salute as each soul passed from this world. It was the bark of mans collective greed and insanity. The reputed waste generated by these shoots. The numbers of feathered bodies that allegedly are cast into a pit. The profit. The money paid and spent. I cannot, without indulging in a level of hypocrisy, judge the participants for engaging in their chosen 'sport', for I too on a similar level, find release and enjoyment in a similar practice. Though to my morals my choice of sport is rather more....sporting.

When I had seen enough and the beaters moved on, I retired to my little patch of woodland. I found solace in knowing that all who had caught, and would catch, lead from my barrel would not risk dishonour, would not suffer such disrespect as reportedly is wrought upon their brethen by those with reportedly more money than honour. Is this an insight I muse? Is there perhaps a correlation between the increase of wealth and the decrease of decency and honour?
No. The animal known as the Human and Homo Sapien is very sick. The relatively recent though seemingly endless, all consuming pursuit of currency, the lasting, profound fulfilment such wealth falsely promises appears to be just one of the many causes and symptoms of his malady.

I have to stress I did not see any evidence to support the notion of waste etc as mentioned previously. Even if I had I am a firm believer in "each to their own". I also recognise that what others do and how they go about it is of little concern to me. Either way the result is;

Delicious!

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 25th June 2012

My buddy Mawders and I, when not hunting, can often be found messaging each other discussing it and arranging the next opportunity. Such is the degree of our shared infatuation.
This evening had been scheduled in the diary, so come rain or shine, it had to happen. Upon his arrival just after 17:00, there was time for a chat over a coffee, then it was straight off to the fields.
Being in PCP rehab, he was to have the TX200 MK3 .177, I the Scorpion T10.
The customary zeroing session demonstrated the stunning accuracy of both rifles at 35 yards, then off we mooched following our usual pattern.

So early in the evening it was quite normal not to see much about, but as we emerged from behind a hedgerow, the number of targets soared. Just behind a gate a pigeon grazed. As I exclaimed "Pigeon", out of surprise more than to alert my hunting partner, I startled it as it had done me. It was as I apologised to Mawders and blamed my forceful pronunciation of 'P', a decent sized rabbit zipped across the gate by our left. Mawders squeaked in desperation. It was no use. The rabbit was long gone.

Ducks quacked. Pheasants ambled by.

Along a track, I spied another bunny. It was unaware of our presence. Not only a standing shot, but one complicated by the squares of the wire fence. I took the shot. The resounding crack betrayed a pellet strike, but as I arrived on scene all I found was a tuft of fur stuck to a nettle. I poked the barrel of the T10 into the undergrowth to find a sheer drop a good few feet within. Darn it!

Ever the optimist, Mawders staked out the bunnies and went prone by some young birch trees. I wandered into the trees that overlooked the pond hidden by the bushes.

My gamble paid off. Numerous pigeons flew in to roost. All landed deep in the foliage fouling my line of sight. Eventually, one landed in my kill zone and paid dearly with a heart and lung shot. He flapped once, then fell in a semi controlled dive crashing 5 feet away with a heavy thud. I pounced with such enthusiasm and elation that I failed to take into account the nettles I was thrusting my bare hand into.
His eyes were blinking and having fired the last shot in the mag I had to think quickly.
Wring its neck.
This I attempted, but being used to the sturdiness of a rabbits anatomy, I ripped his head straight off. That was a bit far and a regrettable mistake despite making good my intention.

Keen to capitalise on the pigeons, Mawders and I shifted positions to sit and watch the leaves rustle in the wind for 20 minutes...nothing. Poor Mawders.

The light was waning fast now and with it the hopes of the TX200 to even the scores.

We returned to a spot favoured by the bunnies.
I hung back. Mawders got excited and had to lie down. I watched from my vantage point and soon not just one, but two, then three bunnies loped into view. I buzzed them with my ranger gizmo - 56 yards. Hmm Mawders, you need to get crawling buddy...
For what seemed like an age, we waited. The two young kits reckless bounding in the short grass. The older rabbit watchful, but occasionally shifting closer to our position.
The TX200 cracked. All three unharmed bunnies raced to the hedgerow for cover.

Completely forgivable. I sincerely doubt I would have successfully made that shot, certainly not if .177 was alien to me and I were used to the drop of .22 pellets.

We called it a day shortly after.

But the night held a very special gift. As we chit chatted by the cars at my place. In my periphery I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a reflection of the car lights. When the car lights extinguished, the light remained... intriguing!

My curiosity demanded a closer inspection.

Ok, so the weirdo in the caravan is now reporting 'strange lights'. You'd be forgiven for zoning out and wandering off elsewhere. Yes, it was eery. Unearthly. But 100% natural.

Can you tell what it is yet?

I believe I encountered my very first glow worm! Never in my life, let alone the past 3 years of living in 'the wilds' have I been gifted such a fascinating experience as this. I wonder how many others can say they have witnessed such a phenomena.

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!

Make Your Quarry Pay! One Way To Derive An Income From Hunting.

Dear Fellow Hunters,

Following some of the posts in my thread The Hunters Chronicles, a fair number of folks have got in touch and asked for some pointers regarding how I process my kills. Here's a little pictorial guide to how I go about it. Some have also professed to being unaware that there is a market for these skins. A quick search of rabbit or squirrel skins on eBay will show you that Dog trainers and Fly Fishermen are willing to pay good money for a well treated pelt. Nearly £10 a pop for squirrels it seems and around £6-£8 for a rabbit.

That'll get you some pellets!



Now for the juicy bit.



1) Crack open the skull. I use my Mora knife and a 'Bam Bam' on my log stump.

2) Extract the pellet! (can be seen at base of skull in the middle of the brain)

3) I find it best to use my finger and really get in there, but one way or the other, scoop out the good stuff and put onto your hide. This hide will have been dryed either through salting, or as I choose, by pinning to a board and placing behind the woodburner for a few days. When nice and 'crackly' it's ready for the meat and membrane to be gently scraped off with my old axe head which exposes a soft layer of the 'endermis'? (Inside part of epidermis). Doing this also aids absorption by the skin of your chosen tanning agent, in this case the lecithins and other chemicals of the brains.
Here's one pre-dried and scraped.

4) I rub the brains in fully until there is only a sticky sheen that remains.

5) As I'm not interested in the painfully thin outer edges of the rabbit skin, I trim these off. This step is optional.

6) The next skin is then stretched and pinned by working from the extremes and round. So I'll start at the top right for instance, the bottom left, then bottom right to top left and the same for the sides until the result looks like the following.

7) And so the cycle continues with the next two ready to be dried.

That method is called 'Brain Tanning'. I do not wish to expose myself or my family to the alum found in proprietary compounds so I chose to use natural methods only. Egg whites can be substituted for brains, which is good as I have chickens and as the weather warms up the flies soon inhabit the heads making for a most unpleasant experience.

I leave the brain tanned pelt hanging for a day or so to allow for absorption then proceed to work the skin over the back of a chair. This also helps work in the brains and also to stretch the hide and break the collagen bonds. If it doesn't or you are happy with the result, the next step is to 'lock in' the tanning agent and preserve your work. I do this by smoking the skins.

The properties of the smoke preserve and slightly waterproof the skin as well react with the brains. If you choose to work it more after this stage you should end up with a 'buckskin' feeling pelt.

I have had the best result with the thicker squirrel skins, but the rabbits have been very good too. To really water proof I then apply a light coating of Dubbin.

Pelts worked to this standard should fetch alot more than £10. Those pelts I've seen on eBay have only been dried. and possibly scraped. I'm upto twenty skins now with the intention of making winter clothing from them but I will soon start selling my surplus to fund my hungry Air Arms 'twins'.

All the best guys!