Harlequin's Lust

or...
Our Own Backyard Wild Kingdom

Becoming a huntress has changed how I see everything - right down to the scenes that play out just outside our kitchen window.

Boyfriend and I were hanging out in the house after work today when he noticed there was a cat tucked neatly under the wheelbarrow in our back yard. Before we converted our newest kittie, Giblet, to an indoor cat, it used to be one of her favorite places to hide too.

I ran to the window to see who our visitor was and quickly realized it was Giblet's sister, a great huntress we dubbed Harlequin because of the cool pattern on her face - she's a jet black cat with a white diamond nose, a white mustache and chin and white tuxedo front. We hadn't seen Harlequin much over the winter, so I was happy to see her there.

And she was happy to be there. For her, the wheelbarrow is strategically placed in the center of a triangle formed by a sugar pea trellis, the barrel composter and the corner of our shed. And that triangle happens to be the key hunting ground of a pair of phoebes nesting in the eaves of the shed.

The phoebes are an important part of our little backyard ecosystem - they eat the insects that might otherwise harm Boyfriend's fabulous garden. And they crap a lot, so we get free natural fertilizer from them.

Watching them is fun too, because they do crazy aerobatics to snatch insects out of midair.

They're normally very alert birds, particularly when they have young nearby. I've sat and watched one squawk like she was laying an ostrich egg at the mere presence of a scrub jay. But today, one of the phoebe parents was blithely flying around from trellis to composter to eaves, snapping up insects, feeding her chick and flying back to her post without ever noticing the dark danger that lurked beneath the wheelbarrow. In fact, several times, that bird landed right on the wheelbarrow handle, so close to that cat that it took my breath away.


By this time I was sitting on the kitchen counter, snapping what photos I could through the kitchen window (which, I noticed, could probably use cleaning more often). Boyfriend stood behind me apprehensively. We love the neighborhood cats, but we love the phoebes too.

Our bond with them began last summer, when we watched the phoebes tend to chicks in these very same eaves. One day, before the babes had left the nest, the mercury climbed to 108 degrees, and after that we didn't hear anymore chick noises. We were heartbroken.
A day later, I visited Boyfriend while he was tending the garden, and there on the ground not 6 feet in front of me was a ruffled little baby phoebe, all beak and no wings. "He's alive!" I shouted. We named him Louie and did what we could to get him up high where the cats might not notice him so quickly. We checked on him frequently - as did his parents - and in a few days he took his first flight. We beamed.

So, yeah, we love the phoebes, and we didn't really want to see Harlequin get this little guy today, even though we'd been equally proud to watch her grow up last summer and take out big squawky scrub jays all by herself.

As the phoebe flitted around this evening, we watched Harlequin's eyes follow the bird. I know how you feel, I know how you feel! I thought. How many times over the past two winters had I watched and waited patiently as ducks had circled, and circled and circled, never coming close enough to my blind for me to take a shot?

The phoebe landed again on a wheelbarrow handle. Up and away ... and then back to the handle again. This bird was begging to be catfood.
Fortunately for the phoebe, though, a sparrow dropped in right about then, right on the grass just feet in front of Harlequin. Would this be the huntress' chance? The bird was so close, easily in Harlequin's reach.



And now I could root for the cat. The phoebes are our friends, part of the permanent cast of our backyard, characters whose antics never bore us. But the sparrow? No bond whatsoever. Godspeed, Harlequin!

Harlequin was ready, her body pressed low into the grass, her eyes fixed intensely on the sparrow.
But it was not to be. The bird took off before Harlequin could launch.

Click to enlarge.

The drama over, Boyfriend headed out the back door to move a water hose. Harlequin, who's not nearly as friendly as she was last summer, bolted from her hiding place, slinking off through the garden toward the nearest hole in the fence.

The phoebe was safe. The sparrow was safe. The huntress had failed.

It was an interesting little microdrama, partly because I'm acutely aware of how hunting has changed my perceptions of the natural world around me. What once was invisible to me now commands my attention.

But even more interesting to me is how it's caused me to bond with animals in ways that seem contradictory. How can you be a killer of animals and a fond admirer of them - their defender, even - at the same time? How can I love my cats so much, and still be willing to slaughter their mammal and fowl kindred?

I was at a loss to explain this. Until a few days ago, that is. A book had arrived in the mail, "Woman the Hunter" by Mary Zeiss Stange, and just a couple chapters in, there it was: a lightning bolt.
But that will have to be the subject of another post. It's getting late, and my kitten is waiting expectantly for me to hit the sack so she can curl up against my chest, her paws stretched across my arms, purring ever so slightly whenever I shift.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Sweet! Girls' hunting numbers are way up

There was a little flurry of excitement last week when USA Today, followed by the U.S. Sportsmen's Alliance, touted an increase in the number of women hunters in the U.S.

Having been down that road before only to find some bizarre flaw in the data, I was skeptical. The best data available - U.S. Fish & Wildlife's survey - show that the number of women hunters is indeed greater now than it was in 1991. But it's been dropping slowly and steadily since 1996, both in numbers and as a percentage of the total U.S. female population.

But USA Today's Marty Roney uncovered a nugget from the Fish & Wildlife data that is truly cause for celebration: The number of young female hunters - ages 6 to 15 - is increasing, nearly doubling since 1991. I checked it out with Fish & Wildlife; it's for real.

First of all, cheers to all the moms and dads who have taken their girls out hunting. And based on what I've seen out in the field - and the trend of dads getting more involved with their children in general - I have to say hats off to dads, especially.

If you look closely at the data, these girls have real potential to bolster the numbers of women hunters, and hunters in general. Check this out - and click on it if you want to see all the little numbers clearly:

That group of girls in the 1991 survey? Theoretically, they grew up to become part of the women's numbers for the 2001 survey. Imagine what will happen to our numbers 10 years from now if the group of girls in 2006 stick with it.

Why does any of this matter? For starters, the more of a minority hunters become, the easier it is for us to lose our clout in the state legislatures that directly or indirectly affect our hunting rights.

But I believe there's another important component to this trend.

It's easy for the non-hunting public to write off hunters if they think we're all a bunch of drunken shoot-em-up poachers, a ragtag army of Larry the Cable Guys. Don't get me wrong - I love Larry the Cable Guy. I just don't think he's the best ambassador for hunters.

But women hunters are different. Rightly or wrongly, the non-hunting public isn't as quick to stereotype us because we are supposed to be the gentler sex. And because we defy stereotypes, I believe the non-hunting public is more inclined to listen to what we have to say about hunting. Well, if she does it, there must be something interesting going on here that I just don't understand...

So, good news all around. It's confirmation that steps we've taken to include women and girls may be making a huge difference after all. Time to redouble our efforts and solidify our gains.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Pheasant hunting with a pack of black labs

I don't know what it is about my friend Dana, but whenever I go hunting with her, something special always seems to happen.

It didn't seem like Wednesday's hunt would be extraordinary. We were meeting for a dog-training hunt. Dana would buy pen-raised pheasants and release them into a field, we'd let them wander around a bit and then we'd let her black labs work. She'd handle the dogs; I'd be the gunner.

I'll say right off that hunting pen-raised birds is not my favorite thing - it feels like you're just killing chickens with a shotgun instead of an ax. But it's the only kind of pheasant hunting I usually get to do here, because California doesn't have a great deal of good pheasant habitat anymore. And like all the hunting I do, it involves the outdoors, exercise and, if you play your cards right, food for your freezer.

So you take whatever opportunities you can get - and with pheasant season over, dog training hunts are your only opportunities.

Besides, this would be my first chance to use my new upland vest I'd just bought from SHE Safari. I love test driving clothes!

Dana and I met under a big oak tree near a river and she released two of the four dogs she brought: Tule and Kidd. As we set out, she warned me: The oats in the field were high - higher than she expected - so getting the birds to flush would be difficult.

The dogs quickly found a spot that reeked of pheasant, but search as they might, they couldn't find him. Perhaps he had moved, or perhaps he had hunkered down so effectively that he couldn't be found. We moved on, and not 50 yards later, her dogs flushed a bird.

A red plastic ribbon trailed from his foot - the sign that he was one of the birds Dana had just released, not a wild pheasant that was out of season. I was clear to shoot.

He zoomed toward some trees.

Bang!

Missed. Had I completely forgotten how to mount my gun? Apparently so. He was nearly in the trees now.

Bang!

He dropped. Dana sent Tule and Kidd to pick up the fruits of their good sniffing.

"Good thing you got him on that second shot," she said. "He'd've been gone."

"I know!"

Pheasant hunting is so different from duck hunting. Ducks don't surprise you - you see them coming in, you wait for the moment and then you stand, mount your gun and shoot. With pheasants, even though I can see the dogs are onto something, I still jump when that colorful rooster explodes into the air. This is where my inexperience really shows: I mount my gun poorly and try to make the best of my bad positioning.

Dana took the pheasant from her dog and handed him to me. I stuffed him into the game-bag pocket of my new vest, splattering blood on my hands, vest and pants in the process. First blood - my vest had been initiated.

We continued plowing through the oat fields for some time, beelining from one field to the next, then milling around wherever the dogs smelled something yummy. This tangle to the right here? That's an actual map of our hunt - 3 miles, all told. (And yes, I know I'm a geek for carrying a GPS running watch on a hunt.)

The dogs did find two more birds. But as we feared, they didn't flush from the tall green oats; the dogs simply grabbed them and handed them to Dana. One for Dana, one for me - good practice for the dogs, no practice for the gunner, but dinner nonetheless.

We headed back to our cars for a break. For Round 2, we would hunt with a full pack: Her husband was on the way with his dog, Diesel, and Dana would let loose her other two dogs, Marzee and Teddy.

And here's where the hunt got special: This was Teddy's first hunt.

Teddy is a pup - he was a little tiny thing when Dana and I first started emailing each other in December - one of Marzee's last litter. He'd never sniffed out a pheasant, never heard a gunshot, never had a bird in his mouth.

When we set out into the field again, it was almost surreal watching the dogs work. In most places, the oats were over their shoulders, so they didn't so much run across the field as leap across it.

When they ran as a pack, it was like watching giant strands of black silk thread weaving themselves in and out of a green tapestry, a picture of grace and energy that will forever be imprinted on my memory.

As often as not, though, Teddy wasn't part of that picture because he was staying close to Dana - too close, clinging to her heels like a nervous child.

"Get off me, Teddy!" she'd holler at him, gently.

As we approached a field we hadn't hunted yet, I looked at my watch and saw it was almost time to go. I had a dinner to go to back in Sacramento, and I needed to head out by 2 p.m.

"Fifteen more minutes," I said.

Moments later, the dogs started to get pretty excited.

"Get ready," Dana said, and a bird exploded from the grass. This time, Teddy was one of the dogs leaping into the air after it.

I shot and missed, shot again and missed, shot again and found that I'd not loaded a third shell into my gun. Dana and I watched as the bird sailed to another field, took note of where he dropped in and marched that way with the dogs.

"That was Teddy's first shot!" she said. She was proud of him - he hadn't even flinched.

I, of course, was ashamed of myself for missing the first bird Teddy flushed.

"I think you clipped him on the second shot, though," said Dana - ever gracious. "I saw feathers flying."

We walked on a dirt road between the river and the field until we came to the spot where the rooster had landed, and Dana sent the dogs into the field. They found him within seconds, and I lifted my gun again.

Bang! Bang!

Oh geez, Holly, get it right.

Bang! The bird dropped. The dogs raced toward him and seized him.

Dana ordered them to drop the bird - and then she saw it was Teddy who had him. Her tenor changed immediately, becoming more tender. No longer barking orders, she praised her pup for a job well done. He gave the bird to Dana, she gave him to me and I stuffed him into my vest.

"It's 1:56," I said, looking at my watch. "Perfect!"

And this time I hadn't let Teddy down.



© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Coming up: NorCal women's shoot days

Learning how to use a gun can be intimidating for some women: If you've never handled firearms, it can be pretty scary. And if you're surrounded by husbands, boyfriends or offspring who are already expert shots, you don't want to go out there and look or feel like a fool in front of them.

Well, that's how I felt about the subject, anyway.

But Northern California women have at least three opportunities this spring and summer to learn shooting skills in the comforting presence of lots of other women. If you know a woman who'd like to try shooting, please send her a link to this post. And if you already know how to shoot, consider volunteering. I know for sure that the third one on the list - California Waterfowl's event - needs volunteers, because I'm involved with organizing that one.

Here are the details:

Saturday, May 17, in Lincoln: NRA's Women on Target clinic will be led by veteran clinic director Patricia McLelland at the Coon Creek Trap & Skeet Club. The cost is $60 for the day and includes two rounds of shooting, targets, shells, eye and ear protection, and lunch. Sign-in starts at 8:30 a.m.. Click on the image to the left for a printable registration form, or if that doesn't work for you, email me here and I'll send you a copy of my PDF. The registration deadline is April 25.

Sunday, May 18, in Jackson: The True Sportsman Club will hold its 10th annual Women's Shooting Clinic at its shooting range in Jackson. Women will get the opportunity to learn about and shoot shotguns, rifles and handguns. The event runs from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. and costs $25 per person, which includes breakfast snacks, gourmet lunch, targets and ammo. Pre-registration is required. Click on the image above for a printable registration form, or contact Kathleen Lynch by emailing her here.

Saturday, Aug. 16, in Morgan Hill: California Waterfowl's new Women's Outdoor Connections initiative brings you its first event at Coyote Valley Sporting Clays: a shooting clinic for women and kids. The day runs from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. and includes shooting at the rifle, trap, skeet and archery ranges, as well as lessons on conservation, wild game cooking and "Hunting 101." The cost is $30 per person, and you get half off for friends and family members. For $10, men can join the women and kids for lunch and do a little shooting on their own while we're all off having our own fun. Click on the image above for a printable version of the registration form, and if that doesn't work for you, email me here and I'll send you a PDF version. Pre-register by Aug. 14.

To all the women out there who have thought about trying the shooting sports or hunting, I have to say all of these are great opportunities to dip your toes in the water without having to make a major investment or a substantial mental commitment. For anywhere between $15 and $60, you can just check it out for a day. If you like it, swell - there are a ton of people who will support you in your effort to learn. We are all around you, eager to share what we know.

And if you don't enjoy it? Well, you got to spend the day outdoors trying something new. And even if you never pick up a gun again, you'll know a little more about firearms, and that knowledge alone is worth the price of admission.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Women's hunting pants review

At last, the women's hunting pants review I did for Jesse's Hunting & Outdoors has gone live! For a visual preview of the pants I reviewed from Filson, Foxy Huntress, Prois Hunting Apparel and SHE Safari, check out the slideshow below. For the full details - what I loved, what I didn't love and the very interesting things that come out of my mother's mouth from time to time when she's talking about my clothes - click here.

And sorry Mom, but it was funny!



If you like a little music with your slide show, click here to go to another version.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Click here for gear review policy and disclosures.