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 - Sunday 24th June 2012

I stared through the window in a state of abject indecision.
The image presented, for once, was one of paradise. Glorious rays of sunshine tumbled through the leaves of the blossoming trees to shimmer and dance on the woodland floor.
The outdoors begged me to venture forth. My legs equally implored me to remain seated.
If we had not suffered a run of abysmal weather, my legs would have firmly won and I may have spent the rest of the evening soaking in the tranquillity.
My stomach, growled for flesh. It reminded me of my as yet uninitiated acquisition. The BSA Scorpion T10 Tactical .177

Aside from a very quick chronograph session snuck between showers two days after her arrival, she has been thus far neglected. It was time to test her and the 11.1ft/lbs she was punching into those RWS Superdomes.

Off into the heart of pigeon land I strode. A long while spent eyeing up the giant swaying perches towering above. By pausing, listening and visually scanning for signs of life every few steps, I caught sight of a squirrel scurrying along a fallen trunk. I awaited its appearance the other end but when it was evident none would arrive I crept forward.

It's impossible to be completely silent in woodland. Nonetheless I managed to take this tree rat completely off guard. Within seconds the crosshairs were trained on her noggin and a 'phut' from the T10 bowled her over the side of the log. As I approached to inspect my prize, I could have ejected faeces from my rectum when she popped back up, a grotesque picture of mortal injury. Blood flowing from a seemingly fatal shot.  Serious 'Terminator' squirrels. Thankfully, the next round was chambered and already impacting the skull ensuring a swift demise and passage to the afterlife. Her mate, mortified, barked his disapproval at me from the branch of a neighbouring fir. His horror lasted but an instant as he too joined her on the banks of the Styx.

The BSA Scorpion T10 was evidently in fine fettle. Two close to medium range shots delivered with superb accuracy. Light and extremely 'pointable', target acquisition is fast and easily held steady. Despite having the older style magazines, reputedly troublesome, it cycles faultlessly and smoothly.

But more was to be asked.

Deeper into the temperate forest I went, eventually finding myself in a 'dead' zone of forgotten land as the woodland borders a cattle field. Here I discovered many treasures. The first, a tree favoured by crows. I scared them away upon approach, but so fond of it were they, that within minutes they had returned. By this time I was concealed behind a cotswold stone wall, perfectly positioned to scare the Bejesus out of one of them by hitting a branch that swang just in front of the pellet with impeccable timing. Just as well. Crow burgers will have to wait for another day.
The ground was so riddled with warrens and tunnels, traversing it was akin to navigating across a swiss cheese.
My next discovery was of a small patch of bracken that allowed a quiet concealed approach to the fence and a view of the hedgeline. Rabbits lined the way. Three at least were very happily digesting their 'five-a-day'. As I believed myself lacking in my rabbit RDA, I thought "I'll av one of them"...
So I did.

Someone appears to have neglected to have attached a colourful label for me to consult whether this product is organic/suitable for vegetarians/free from anthrax. Which is doubly frustrating as how will I know who to sue?!!
Still I'll live on the edge and cook it up anyway...

The wild, truly the worlds most fantastic 'supermarket'.

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 - Saturday 2nd June 2012

"The best laid plans of Mice and Men often go awry"

Steinbeck wrote a book on that theme. I think we all could. If I did, today would certainly feature as one of the illustrations.

With the intention of bagging some rabbits, I opted for the S200 with it's beefier .22 calibre. A text to the landowner, and I was off to the fields where life has surged forth in the sunny days I have been absent. I was death. A balance was to be exacted.

I entered the area in which I was to harvest. My first soul to be ushered to that place we are all journeying was waiting. He munched on the dewy wet fodder that surrounded him 56 yards down the slope. I approached with the trees and hedges behind me to compliment my camouflage. As I closed to a distance of what I guessed was 45 yards, he sensed my presence. It was time. I carefully raised the 'despatcher'. It was further than I had hoped and a standing shot, but I was confident. I lifted the crosshairs the required 1.5 mildots and sent the lead of destiny on its path. My aim was true and over the rabbit rolled.

It was after this that the plan went awry.

I traversed the landscape slowly, taking my time to drink in the environment that had so quickly galloped on without me. Grass much taller than I remembered. New faces in the undergrowth. Full grown poppies bobbed and waved lazily from their sea of green.
But no more rabbits wished to pay the ferryman.

Down from my position, in the field at the bottom of the valley, a fractious gathering of crows were strutting about, taking off, landing, all to a chorus of squawking and calling. I scanned them through the scope. Hmmm not just crows. Intermingled with the yobs of the sky were pigeons and ducks! A veritable target gallery.
There was no obvious approach that would conceal my presence. Whilst I perhaps couldn't prey on them feeding, I could pick off newcomers from a tree that was an obvious vantage and rest point for them. Conveniently, a hedgerow, elevated by the slope and gradient of the terrain lay 45 yards away. It was here I sat, shielded in front by grass now waist high and above by the hedge itself.  In minutes a jackdaw alighted on a branch. My despatcher was ready. 1.5 mildots hold over. The AA Diabolo was sent on its way. The slower flight time gifting the jackdaw a moment to twitch before an audible smack returned to my ears. He plummeted through the leaves and branches. His brothers and cousins soon lamented his passing with a renewed clamour of calls. As none were willing to venture to the tree from which he was downed, I crept closer.

Before I came to the foot of the tree, a deer startled me as much as I her. A magnificent beast that pranced effortlessly through the grass that I waded. She stopped to assess me, her fear abated, she melted away into the flora and fauna of a young patch of woodland.

I could find no trace of the jackdaw. I paced up and down the area he should have fallen, but vast swaths had now been swallowed in a mass of man high nettles and thorns. He could rest safely there...

I stopped to reflect on my next course of action. I waited just long enough for it to come to me.
A pigeon landed in the tree directly above and kindly presented a plump breast. It was a risk and challenge to thread the pellet, but I took my chance. He made to take off, but only his spirit flew skywards as his body failed him. A puff of soft downy feathers floated on the wind from the fortress of brambles into which he disappeared.

Honour bound, I resolved to rescue the downed airman.

I found him and successfully retrieved his remains.

The redeeming aspect of those thorns was that he had partly plucked himself.

The gain of that painful endeavour was an excellent hide.

I inspected the killer blow, expecting it to be a heart and lung shot. I was most surprised to only be able to find trauma to the cranium. His face, a mask, not unlike 'The Phantom of The Opera'. One side untouched, the other a mess replete with a red blood filled eye.

I was very pleased that despite the difficulties presented by the dancing limbs and tendrils of his perch as well as the angle, I had again managed to send him off with a clean, instant kill.

I laid him as a decoy 30 yards from my new found cubby hole. And awaited the next soul I knew to be expecting me.

A crow, then a jackdaw swooped low, around then away as they inspected the pigeon. The two too nervous to land.

I had almost given up hope when three figures waddled over the brow of the hillock to my left.

Water Chicken. A breed similar to the fabled Wild Chicken, but its pond loving cousin. Around here it is common knowledge that this quarry makes fine eating all year round if you can find them. Though abundant, they are most careful, retiring creatures. Reputedly they are best cooked 'crispy' and are complimented well by a variety of fruit sauces. As the one that wished to pass held its head up above the grass at a lazed 30 yards, I took my opportunity to put the reputation to the test. A head shot behind the eye, though my knife through the throat ensured it's demise as I wasn't satisfied by the pellets work.

I hung around for a time afterwards, but knew my work here was done. A most productive hunt. Almost a relief and a release. I wonder if I was not a bit trigger happy in light of my absence and this, my return. That may be, but what a pie I can make! Food for a week I'm sure.

I thank you souls, for your 'welcome back' parade, it was most unexpected.

In The Footsteps Of Thoreau - 4th January to 27th May 2012

As some will know, I have created a life lost to many, dreamed of by others, lived by a few.

My recent activities have been documented on the thread The Hunter's Chronicles. How I managed to forge this path is recorded in the archives of this blog www.1nomad.blogspot.co.uk and in my books 'The Warless Warrior' series.

What I wish to relate to you is another side of my life. A most important part. One explored and written about beautifully by the late, great American literary icon, Henry David Thoreau. I speak specifically of his work "Walden; Or Life In The Woods" and recommend it highly. I also suggest you sample his other essays "Civil Disobedience" and his mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Self Reliance". I believe you will find two astute writers who identified and warned a fledgling society of the hazards ahead that we are encountering and perpetuating over 200 years later.

Relative to Walden, my account will hardly be as eloquent nor as memorable. Try as I might, I simply have not the level of mastery as Thoreau at weaving the words of our language into such a divine tapestry of story, poetry and prose.

What I speak of is the provision of shelter for oneself and/or a family. I do not take this subject lightly. I also do not bow to any false authority no matter how powerful they believe themselves to be.
The seedling seeks not permission before it sprouts into a mighty oak. The rain does not require a license to fall. The wind will not seek our blessing to blow. The birds give no notice of where they wish to site their nest. Whilst these truths remain, and until such evidence is provided that demonstrates that I am not also a creation and being of nature, then I too shall follow her example. As our fore fathers and ancestors did. As I hope, one day, our children shall once again do.

I refute the idea that I must sign up on the banksters contract to a lifetime of servitude, in order that I may outsource the creation of my shelter to another. The result, most often being a box that is most unsatisfactory. One that does not reflect my heart, much less the soul of its creator.
I am able. I am willing. And, more importantly. I have begun.

In early January, I commenced clearing the site of overgrown vegetation with a machete. A stake was driven in at the centre and a 16ft length of ash used as a compass to mark the perimeter.
A trench was dug to define the boundary.

Ash was felled using axe and bowsaw and dragged by hand out of the woodland. The bark, stripped with a machete used in the manner of a drawknife. One end was wedged in a Vee of a hazel tree.

In total, I felled and stripped 24 lengths. Twelve of the thickest to be primary rafters, twelve of the thinner to be secondary rafters in the reciprocal roof.

This pile was left to season.

The perimeter trench completed, the topsoil was next to be removed.

Moving on the digging out to create a level pad.

All this has been undertaken as and when conditions have been favourable, by hand, when the mood has taken me. It has been thus far, a meditative and thoroughly enjoyable endeavour. Each swing of the pick, each shovel load, a lesson in the earth upon which my temple to being shall sit. I have gained an intimate knowledge of its composition and structure, its history, its ingredients and make up of varying amounts of clay, sand, and stone.

The logs are now seasoning well and will continue to do so as I quarry more and more stone ready to build the walls.

As much of the materials that will make this shelter, this home, will be that which is local, natural, and abundant.

I initially thought of using earth bags, but the amount of wonderful stone begs me to adapt.

Ultimately the aim is to create something low impact and functional. Its beauty, incidental and possibly inevitable. There are no drawings, the earth speaks and what will manifest will be through the consciousness of its creator. I imagine that to be something along the lines of what my dear friend Simon Dale built.
Periodically, I will post updates of my progress.

I thank you humbly for reading.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Sunday 27th May 2012

A Hunter must possess versatility and adaptability if he is to survive. This sometimes means providing more than just meat. Water. Fuel. Foraged greens.

For those finer things that his skill set cannot extend to, he may choose to trade or sell his time for units of currency.

The recent heat has meant that, without proper refrigeration, any meat left hanging is soon spoiled by hordes of flies eager to fill every orifice with their eggs. So, I feel it disrespectful to slay any creature only for his body to be cast aside as nature devours it in her numerous peculiar ways. In such weather, it is also more refreshing I feel to enjoy the option to subsist on cool vegetation and foraged leaves

And so it was that this past week, it was not the fields in which the hunter could be found.

Still outdoors in glorious and blessed rays of sunshine, but in contact with stone not soil. Lots of stone.

For the most part, the lime mortar has been raked out. Now, with new sacks of traditional (and thankfully, ready mixed) lime mortar. The re-pointing has commenced.

Alas, the working week must end. It is then one can retire to the shade of the woodlands, resplendent with trees in full bloom. To where sanctuary can be found and tranquility enjoyed with those held most dear.

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!