Considered pests by many, there are many ways to appreciate squirrels, including as “hen of the trees.”
January 21 is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, and it’s hard for many of us to find appreciation for the “tree rats” that steal and destroy bird feeders, chew on home and car wiring, and cause other havoc. But squirrel expert and naturalist Steve Sullivan, director of the University of Miami’s Hefner Museum of Natural History and former naturalist at the Peggy Notebaert Museum of Nature in Chicago, tells Steve Alexander there’s a lot to appreciate about the squirrel. And he says that one way to appreciate them is to hunt and eat them, because if left unchecked, the rapidly reproducing squirrels would overwhelm us.
Snow popped softly under my boot like wet popcorn as I lowered heel and then toe to the ground. I leaned forward, squinting forward, and hit the safety on my rifle. It was there, it was ready. I had to be ready.
“He could be right there,” Hal whispered to me in his thick lobster accent. “Stay close to my shoulder now. If it happens, it will happen fast.”
This was the dream that many hunters have about tracking deer. The snow and the forest and the mountain and a big deer, just ahead, at the end of the tracks.
He was here to see if he could find a cleft press in the snow, find out its age and size, and then follow it down ravines and ridges, across streams and hills, to its maker. She was here to track down a dollar. But I never imagined that it could happen on my first day.
lessons from the legend
My host and teacher on this hunt was the legendary Hal Blood, a Maine master guide and author of several widely read books on the art of tracking great woodland deer. With the Benoit family fading from mainstream media, Blood took over and has now taught thousands of eager trackers how to make money through his latest writing and exploits in movies and online podcasts.
As a kid hunting in northern Michigan, I long had a romantic vision of what it would be like to figure out a footprint in the snow and walk to the male, but I never had a mentor who could show me the ropes. Now I had one of the best in the world standing next to me on the edge of thousands of acres of Maine wilderness.
Hal stands over six feet tall and moves in a gangly yet confident manner. He wears a no-nonsense salt-and-pepper goatee, heavy on the salt, and a green plaid wool jacket pulled straight from the central foundry for early 20th-century Northeast deer camps. Finally, hinting at the fact that he knows something I don’t, he duct tapes the bottom of his fleece pants around the sole of his rubber boots.
I heard that Hal was good at what he does, but I also recognized that this style of hunting would be quite a challenge. With low densities of deer and vast tracts of ground to cover, we could hike all day and never cross a deer track. Blood reiterated this to me early on, explaining that we would cover a lot of ground and fast, not slowing down or worrying about being silent until we stumbled onto a track.
All of this made our first morning that much more amazing when, after only 30 minutes of walking up a steep snow-covered slope, we came across a track that caught Hal’s eye.
What makes a clue worth tracking down?
“Okay, you see this, this is what I call a crunchy track,” he said as he pointed to a line of footprints in the snow. The track had clearly defined edges and flurries and drifts of snow behind and in front of each track.
A crunchy footprint, he explained, was a sign that this deer had probably been through the night before, at least in the last 12 hours or so. “If it was done at some point in the night, whether it was four hours ago or 12 hours ago, it’s still a fresh track to me. And most of the time I can catch that dollar that day,” Blood said.
The straight cookie cutter edges of a new track are often paired with a not-yet-frozen pancake of snow on the bottom, something I saw Blood analyze by putting his fingers on the track and pressing down.
All of this led to my next question. How can you tell if this track was made by a male worth hunting? To this, Hal first explained that he recommends that new trackers follow just about any decent-sized deer track, especially one with spurs pressed behind the track.
Tracking any deer, even a young one, is a great achievement and even if the deer ends up being a doe, it is great practice. This, I would soon realise, is something any aspiring deer tracker badly needs. The track in front of us, while not spectacular, would be perfect for my first day of class.
But if big money is what you’re after, the criteria is stricter. “I’m looking for a track that’s ‘three by three,’ three inches long by three inches wide, although they’re never as square as that,” he said. She tossed her Chapstick onto the track for reference. “It should be longer than that.”
A large caterpillar, he would explain to me later, also has large gaps between the toe pads. “It won’t be a heart-shaped footprint, there will be a space between the two toes, it can be almost an inch of space in huge dollars,” he explained. Widespread, sometimes even perpendicular, spray claw marks are another good sign.
Finally, Blood likes a “toe draggah”. He discovered that large, heavy males often shuffle through the snow leaving long lines behind.
on the track
This seemed too good to be true. Just half an hour into my first day, amidst the postcard-perfect scene of snow drifting gently through a canopy of nearly black pine trees, and we were on a track.
Now would be the hard part, Hal told me. We had to catch up.
This is when the niceties of hoofprint detective work are replaced by the brazenness of the chase. There would be no “elmer fudding,” as Hal called it, no sneaking slowly through the woods in search of a sneaky whitetail. Rather, we would walk as fast and continuously as possible to catch up with this deer. We went out for what might charitably be called a brisk walk or, as one of my cameramen later described it, a brisk jog.
Even though Blood was almost the age of my retired father, he sprinted up and down the landscape like a man half his age. We jumped over streams, scrambled over muddy banks, and scrambled over and around fallen trees, rocks, and alder thickets.
I was told that this is where many first time trackers drop the ball. Too many hunters feel compelled to slowly make their way through the woods, their ambush hunting habits hard to break, and they never end up getting close to the deer that could be many miles ahead of them. Hal, and I now, would have no such problem. We walked and walked and walked and only slowed down when the evidence suggested that our quarry was doing the same thing.
We came across our first such evidence about four miles away, when the deer track turned on itself and then approached a steep cliff below a rocky outcrop. The trail receded uphill, a telltale sign, Hal said, of a deer headed for a higher-elevation bedding location. This, in addition to any other signs of snaking or visibly vegetation-fed travel, signals a new phase of the hunt.
It was time to go into “slow mode”.
creep
“If it happens, it will happen fast,” he whispered.
Here, at the top of the point, we slowed down to a crawl. Every bit of ground was surveyed before a boot was dropped, every branch in the path slowly parted as we passed, and every gap in the pines and oaks scrutinized for a snub-back, a black nose, or a white tail. .
I held my rifle high and tight, imagining how I would stop and scope if a deer materialized up ahead. I must be prepared for the shortest of opportunities, they told me. The dollars in this situation run away quickly, if you have even a moment of stillness, you should take advantage of it. Many trackers, Blood too, even advocate shooting deer on the move. “It might be the only chance you’ll ever get,” he said. Unfortunately, that would be one chance he wouldn’t take. The chances of success were even slimmer.
We took another step. I looked past the outline of Blood in front of me hoping and wishing and wishing there was a deer. But none appeared.
The sandwich break
“I think we hit it,” he said. And here would be my last Hal Blood-style lesson: “The Sandwich Break.”
Upon bumping into a dollar, either visibly or upon encountering a fresh bed, Blood will sit down, eat a sandwich, and wait 30 minutes. Our “chicken dinner sandwich” was to die for.
Many other hunters, he lamented between bites of leftover chicken and stuffing, will simply keep chasing a startled deer and destroy their chances of success in the process. But by giving that beaten deer enough time to look behind him and not see the danger, he will eventually calm down and resume his routine. It is at this point, after the first bump, that Blood enjoys his greatest success. He now knows that he is a relatively short distance from the deer and that the deer is standing. If the conditions are right, that is, with a little wind and not too crispy snow, now his confidence skyrockets.
From here, Blood’s recommendation was to move on, albeit a bit less haphazard than his previous cover mode. We started our trail run again and covered another four or five miles. But we never caught up with that dollar.
out on my own
The next day I set out on my own and began a three-day search through the white rolling hills of Maine. Along the way, I was able to experience each phase of the game and work through each individual challenge myself.
I found deer tracks, played Sherlock Holmes and chased after them. I hit dollars, enjoyed a meatloaf sandwich, and even at one point, actually thought I was about to see the dollar at the end of the road. And through all this and more I discovered that some things are true.
I learned that tracking whitetails is, no surprises here, difficult. Very difficult. It requires incredible physical stamina: I ended up hiking some 40 miles over four days, while demanding sharp mental focus along the way as well. My feet blistered and peeled. My knees snapped and exploded. My head ached after hours of staring at the ground, racking my brain to translate the stories indiscriminately written in the snow.
But I also learned that it’s fun. Quite fun. In no other form of hunting that you have experienced can you be sure that your prey is actually present and right in front of you. Once you get to that track, one way or another, hope abounds. Your dream is there in front of you, you just need to keep walking.
To my surprise, the excitement present after discovering a hunting trail or finding it again after losing it among the dry leaves was palpable. It was not unlike the thrill I felt so many other times when a deer appeared in the distance and turned towards my post.
The physical challenge, the detective work, and the slow-drip tension of the eventual creep made for a wildly diverse and engaging adventure. “You either hate it or you love it, there’s usually not much in between,” Hal often reminded me. And he was right.
Stay tuned for this hunt to be featured on MeatEater’s newest whitetail show, coming to MeatEater’s YouTube channel later this year.
Try to get some kind of hunting lead from Steve Rinella and he’ll often object, “You really should talk to [so-and-so] about it. [He/she] he knows much better than me.
Call it humility or pragmatism, but the man knows enough to define the limits of his knowledge.
“Talk to Abernethy, man,” Steve told me when I asked him for a turkey tip for this article. “He has very strong opinions and a very distinctive style. He is very good at locating gobblers with these incredibly strong cuts that he makes on a box. He is just a phenomenal fucking turkey hunter.”
So, I called up Robert Abernethy, a retired biologist, longtime director of agency programs at the National Wild Turkey Federation, and former president of the Longleaf Alliance, who takes Steve to some booming South Carolina gobblers in MeatEater Season 10. , Part 2. He’s at the level of a hunter who painstakingly glues peacock feathers onto his turkey decoys to give them a facsimile sheen and sparkle. He is also even more humble than Steve.
“I don’t think I’m that good at calling, as far as reproducing the exact calls of the wild turkey, but I do a good job of figuring out what call to use at the appropriate times,” Robert told me. “And that could be a cashier call. It could be a whiteboard call. It might be a diaphragm call, or it might be a barred owl call when you’re trying to locate them.”
Each call on his vest has a specific purpose, he said. When he tries to locate turkeys, Robert starts with the owl hoot, but changes to a safe call if the birds are not vocalizing. Once he gets inside a football field or two and gets ready, he looks for the more nuanced purrs the slate can produce. Once a hot gobbler is on the way, it’s diaphragms for the end game.
But the real key to his great success in turkey hunting over the past 43 seasons, Robert said, is exploration: finding and learning about the birds and the country before people start shooting.
“I don’t really practice,” he said. “But I go out and spend the 30 days before the season, as much as possible, as many mornings as possible. If you only have an hour before work, you can sneak out and go out and listen and find those gobblers. If you can find them before the hunt starts, you’re looking at the maximum number of birds and they’re not scared and they’ll probably be pretty close to where you hear them.”
That may be a little less practical with migratory Merriams in parts of the West, Robert said, but in most of the United States, the birds are in the same places in March as they are in April.
“The week before the season, I’ll narrow it down to the four or five gobblers I want to try to catch and keep everyone else in my back pocket,” he said. “I make sure I get to the area early, early, early, early to hunt, you can always sleep in the woods, but you want to be the first person parked on public land so you can get to where your bird is, get to where your point of listen”.
Whether it’s a hilltop, a ridge, or just the general vicinity of where you know or think a gobbler might be, just get there early and shut up.
“And then about 25 minutes before legal sunrise, you’re going to do an owl hoot. It should be a low volume owl hoot, just two notes and try to gobble up a bird that is close to you. If no one responds, then you might want to go for a little more volume and four notes.”
A full barred owl song sequence is eight notes, Robert explained, but you don’t want to do it all because you probably won’t hear a quick gulp response above your own noise. Keep it short and increase your volume gradually.
“When the bird gobbles, you want to find out where it is and head in that direction and get a little closer. You might hoot as you get closer and get to where you want to settle,” usually about 200 yards from the bird, Robert said, as he kept an eye out for fences and other features that could dangle a bird. “And you don’t use your turkey call until you’re ready.”
Robert makes a point of never calling the turkey unless he is standing next to a thick tree. Turkeys almost seem to know when we’re not prepared and all too often they’ll come charging in if we’re not sitting up and hiding. Once he has his tree to lean on, firing lines identified, gun ready, only then will he want to start making soft chicken noises.
“You can start with some very weak, quiet tree calls, just very quiet howls,” Robert said. “And if he responds, then he heard you and that’s a really good thing. So he just waits until, maybe 10 minutes before sunrise, and then he might send out a couple of real tentative howls. And if he responds, then that’s really good. If he doesn’t respond, well, maybe you want to yell a little louder.”
You’ll be able to tell when the bird has flown and hit the ground by the volume and intensity of the swallows, Robert said. He prefers a pot call for this mid-range conversation, while keeping himself ready to switch to the hands-free diaphragm call.
“If he gobbles you up, I usually shut up right there and wait for him to gobble you up again. Then maybe wait for him to leave again. It’s really hard, but if he’s been talking to you and he’s walking in, it’s time to put your gun on your knees and wait.”
Robert often talks about making a tom “distressed”. What he means is to call just enough to let the bird know where you are and hold its interest, but not to respond to every bite. Make him work to get your attention.
“If he’s responding to you, he knows exactly where you are. And he’s trying to get you to go with him. And you’re not going to do that,” Robert warned. “You are going to stay still and quiet. And if everything works out perfectly, he’ll come to investigate why you didn’t approach him like you were supposed to. That’s what happens with the biology of birds: the hen goes to the devourer. You’re trying to turn that around.”
The ability and knowledge to use long, medium and short range calls effectively is highly beneficial, says Robert. Every situation is slightly different and you have to be able to adapt.
“I have heard chickens that sound more like a box call. And I’ve heard chickens that sound more like a diaphragm song and others that sound more like a slate song,” she said. “There is great variability in chickens. You need to be good with timing and when to use which call. Cadence is probably more important than just sounding exactly like a turkey.”
He recommends listening to recordings of real birds to broaden your knowledge. But above all, Robert says that he should not get too obsessed with calling alone. That advice seems to have hit home with at least one of his apprentices.
“I kill a lot of turkeys, but not necessarily for the song. There’s like six things going on, calling to be one of them. It’s like the whole package,” Steve concluded. “Strategy and shit, right? I’m not good at calling, but over the years, I know when to hold them back and when to pull them back.”
Clearly, Steve takes some advice on turkey hunting from Kenny Rogers and Robert Abernethy. And that might be the best advice he could give: He shuts his mouth and listens to the older hunters when they’re willing to share their hard-earned wisdom. You will be better for it.
You can go learn from Robert and Steve now on Netflix.
It’s a debate as old as the hills: a shotgun versus the .22LR for hunting squirrels. Both weapons have their camps, their own followers, and both shine in different squirrel hunting situations, or so I’d like to believe.
We are not going to waste time here, but we will go directly into the discussion. First, though, I’d like to say that while I’m not a Ph.D. packing expert on bushtail behavior, I’ve been an active squirrel hunter since 1972 and have caught hundreds of small rodents, including what I call Trifecta: fox squirrel, gray and black squirrel, all in one morning, and all with a Pedersoli .32 muzzle-loading long rifle.
But enough of me. We’re here to talk about the ethics, challenges, and merits of shotguns and .22s for squirrel hunting, and ultimately find out which one is better, or at least better for you.
Many a squirrel has been bagged with nothing more than a single shot shotgun. M. D. Johnson
The argument why a shotgun is better than a .22 for hunting squirrels
I started hunting bushytails at the age of 8 with my father, Mick, a squirrel hunting fanatic. Squirrel hunting, my father always said, will teach you everything you need to know about hunting everything else, whether it’s whitetails, elk, or wild turkey.
When I was young, I tried many different shotguns in the squirrel woods: a Stevens .410 single shot, a Harrington and Richardson 20 gauge, a Winchester model 24 16 gauge side by side, and a Mossberg model 1966 500 caliber 12 with Poly-Choke. So he didn’t have the so-called squirrel rifle, and even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have used it. Dad shot a shotgun, and if it was good enough for him, well, it was good enough for me. Here’s why you might want to pick up a squirrel shotgun too.
1. Shotguns are better for leaves and moving targets
Dense foliage, which is common during the early part of squirrel season, can make a shotgun a good choice. During this time of year, you’ll be able to get a positive ID on a squirrel through the leaves, but you can’t see the creature’s head long enough to adjust a rifle’s reticle for a shot. So if the unimaginable happens and you miss, the bushytail will start scampering through the trees, giving you either a moving target or no target at all. Hundreds of #5 pellets in a 20- or 12-gauge shell come in handy if you’re serious about making Brunswick stew.
2. Do you want to ensure the success of young and new hunters? give them a shotgun
Let’s be honest here. If you are mentoring a new hunter, regardless of age, who is not a Marine Corps sniper, then a shotgun with its multiple pellets might be the best and most encouraging way to start. If you want to raise a fisherman, make sure he fishes. If what you want is a hunter, give him the best tools for success. For a younger hunter chasing squirrels, one of those tools is a shotgun.
3. Shotguns give older hunters a margin of error
My dad will be 82 in March and he’ll be the first to tell you that his hands aren’t as steady as they used to be. Combine the passage of time with a condition known as familial (essential) tremor, an often inherited neurological disorder that includes involuntary, rhythmic tremors of the arms and hands, and makes it difficult for him, and others in the same boat. , hold a steady .22LR rifle. Am I making excuses? I am not. I’m just hinting that if the mechanic’s skills change, his tools might change as well.
Shotguns give you a better chance when shooting squirrels on the move during the early season.
4. Close range shotgun can open up additional hunting opportunities
Across the country, suburbs are expanding, spilling over into the landscape and into areas that not too long ago were considered rural acres. They are outside the city limits, many of them, and open to hunting. But, with more and more houses being built all the time, there are plenty of places where you can no longer shoot a rifle safely. Even a .22 LR, with its drop distance of over a mile, cannot be used due to safety concerns.
However, a shotgun, say, a 20-gauge with 2-3/4-inch loads, might be fine in this suburban setting. The key phrase here is could be. It’s still important to make sure you’re within the law and far enough away from buildings to be hunting with a gun. If so, using a shotgun can open up squirrel hunting opportunities that might not otherwise be available.
What is the best shotgun load and choke for hunting squirrels?
There is the question of distance and performance on target. Shotguns are close-range firearms, and squirrels can be tough customers with thick heads, heavy bone structure, and thick fur and fur. So the shooter is restricted by distance, say 40 yards, and must fire the proper choke. In my opinion, that means modified or complete, and shot #4 or #6.
With that said, is the .410 a good pick for squirrels? Over the last half century, I’ve killed a lot of squirrels with the .410 11/16the #5s ounce; however, I will not recommend it because it is small. That’s the truth. It is better to opt for a 20 gauge and up.
The argument why a .22 is better than a shotgun for hunting squirrels
As is often the case with hunters as they mature, my squirrel hunting shotgun phase gave way to my .22 phase. That, if you’re curious, gave way to a .32 muzzleloader stage, but that’s another story for another time.
Like shotguns, I’ve had a lot of rimfire going back and forth from Squirrel #1. I’ve used a lever action Winchester Model 9422, the quintessential Ruger 10/22, a Stevens Model 66, a Remington Nylon 66, and a Savage Model 24 .22LR/.410 over/under, which was one of the most accurate. 22 rimfires I’ve ever had. All have been good and all have had some drawbacks. This is where and when the .22LR makes sense for the squirrels.
1. A .22 is silent
Without getting nerdy or technical here, the average 2-3/4″ 12 gauge cartridge fired from a 28″ barrel produces about 154 decibels (dB). By comparison, a standard .22LR (1200 fps/140 ft-lbs muzzle energy) will show 140 dB, while a subsonic .22LR (1050 fps/100 ft-lbs) will register around 70 dB, or about half as much. a traditional .22LR. 22 LR My point? A .22LR is a bit quieter than a shotgun and will theoretically scare away fewer nearby squirrels with each shot. It fires subsonic, and it’s even quieter.
Headshot squirrels with a .22 will keep the meat intact. green eve
2. Many .22 rifles are deadly accurate at range
For many rimfire shooters, the thrill of bringing a .22LR to the woodwork is the teamwork between an incredibly accurate rifle and a skilled shooter. There is also the comparison of distances, of which there is little comparison. Shotgun? Forty yards. An accurate .22LR? Most would quickly say 50 yards. About 75, if they can put a 40-grain bullet in a golf ball-sized circle at that distance. Still, others talk all day about a pack of ¼” at 100 yards, which in anyone’s book is good enough to headshot a fox squirrel. Regardless, there’s no denying the potential accuracy and advantage of the .22LR when it comes to distance.
3. Taking headshots with a .22 means you won’t lose any meat
Shoot a squirrel with a #5 shot at 25 yards and you’ll have several holes to deal with and bloodshot meat. Shoot the same squirrel in the head with a .22LR at 25 yards, and once he’s dressed, you’d swear he scared the crap out of him.
The Best Ways to Use a .22 for Squirrel Hunting
For one, there is little room for aiming error when using a .22LR. You’re going to have to be on your game when it comes to hitting that golf ball-sized target consistently with a 40-grain bullet at 57 yards. Or 35 yards. Or 70. Not much of a target, head off that squirrel, and you’ll have to be as good as possible.
It will also have to wait for a definite stop before firing. With a .22LR, I prefer to shoot a bushytail when it’s stuck to the side of a tree. If I miss, the bullet buries itself in the tree. One transfer, and it’s the same story, only I can put another fox squirrel in my bag. Such opportunities don’t always present themselves, but I try to maximize their “definite back stop” shooting situations. More than once I waited, or missed a shot, due to an incomplete cap. shotguns? The consequences of that pattern are 300 yards, give or take, not a mile.
Read Next: The 17 Best Squirrel Guns Ever
Finally, .22LRs can ricochet. My dad always told me not to shoot squirrels on the ground with a .22LR. “You never know who’s out in the woods messing around with mushrooms or whatever,” he’d tell me. At 1,100 to 1,200 fps, a standard 40-grain .22 LR is not the fastest cartridge on the shelf; in fact, it is quite slow and prone to ZINGGGGGGGing to who knows where after hitting rock, ice or hard ground. It’s better to let that squirrel climb a tree, or make it climb a tree, and then hit it than risk it ricocheting.
The author’s father, pictured here with a .22 and a shotgun, is a shotgun advocate. M. D. Johnson
So which is better for hunting squirrels, a .22 or a shotgun?
All of this, and it really boils down to two words: personal preference. Shotguns have their role and their followers. So does the .22LR. I’ve shot both. I shoot both, along with the aforementioned .32 Pedersoli muzzleloader. The end result is really what you prefer. What you feel comfortable with. What you shoot consistently well with, and can ethically and responsibly take game with at the distances you choose to work at.
Can’t make up your mind? Chiappa offers a nice little .22LR over 20 caliber combo that, scoped, would make a great squirrel gun for the undecided.
Pho, which I later found out is a Vietnamese noodle dish, had never been recommended to me before as a pre-hunt menu item. But, as I soon learned, spicy noodles in broth would be just one of many new experiences on my first urban deer hunt.
Culinary epiphanies aside, here’s what I learned while chasing deer amid barking dogs, roaring lawnmowers, and nervous suburbanites in the DC metro area.
Why hunt urban deer?
I was here because my friend and host on this trip, Taylor Chamberlin, told me that urban deer hunting is some of the most fun you can have with a bow in your hands. That was pretty convincing coming from someone who hunts in urban settings over 200 days a year, so I packed up my bow, bags, and tree mount and took a flight to Dulles International Airport.
The first time I heard Chamberlin rave about his specialty was in 2019 and his speech was this. Across the United States, right under our metropolitan noses, there are plenty of deer hunting opportunities. Whether in Detroit, Atlanta, or Washington DC, white-tailed deer thrive in urban settings. So much so that they are considered dangerous pests. Children are contracting Lyme disease, yards are being decimated, and cars are being wrecked in the middle of late-night commutes.
The solution to this problem involves another group of people looking to solve a problem of their own: Bowhunters looking for hunting access.
With long seasons, large numbers of deer, and a short trip to hunt, urban archery presents a great opportunity for hunters who live in the middle of the concrete jungle. According to Chamberlin, 200 to 400 deer per square mile reside in some areas like this. That includes females, fawns, yearlings, and yes, even the big ones. Right out the back door is all the deer you could want.
Yes, the experience is different, but Taylor assured me that if you’re willing to put in the effort, the rewards are worth it. As we drove through a series of neighborhoods our first night together, I quickly understood what he meant. There was a family group of deer here, another group there and there, and seven bucks under an oak tree in a front yard. I was speechless.
Image via Justin Michau.
The Rules of Urban Deer Hunting
My first hunt would be a collaboration with Taylor to collect as many best practices for urban hunting as possible. We drove ten minutes out of DC, turning left and right around tight curves that dropped in and out of ravines and finally onto a secluded road hidden amid looming upper-middle-class homes. We parked on the tarmac, dressed behind our vehicles, and immediately began my lessons. Chamberlin told me that the first rule of urban deer hunting was to keep a low profile. Out of sight, out of mind was the best approach for residents in these areas, mostly non-hunters and sometimes suspicious.
Rule two, fortunately centered on the deer, was to never break “the bubble.” Whitetails in these neighborhoods are used to a constant dose of human activity in certain areas. As long as the humans stay on their side of the line, all is well. But as soon as a person breaks through that bubble of safety and into the woods, these urban deer can become as fickle as any other whitetail in the country. To make sure you don’t burst the bubble, Taylor explained, it’s often best to leave the most “bucky” looking spots alone on the cover, and instead hunt along the edges where the deer aren’t spooked by human activity.
Following this principle, Taylor selected a tree situated right on the edge of the owner’s perfectly manicured lawn. Behind us, I could see across the yard to a beautiful porch with well-placed patio furniture and, in the other direction, another fenced-in yard with a beautiful in-ground pool. Once again, this was the first time.
As we leaned back in our chairs and waited impatiently for the neighboring lawn care service to finish their job, Taylor explained another key difference in this type of hunting. The supreme importance of shot selection.
Given the very tight spaces inherent in this type of venue, it’s even more important than normal to ensure very quick and clean kills. A two-lung deer running 100 yards in a field is great, but in a neighborhood that might mean a deer running across three or four different properties that you now need to find owners for and get permission to cross. For this reason, Taylor explained, he rarely shoots more than twenty or twenty-five yards, and the conditions and setting have to be absolutely ideal. A quiet deer, a perfect position, tight spaces and a shot to the heart. Fast forward a couple of hours and it showed how serious he is about this.
At last light, a group of three deer came out of the neighbor’s tree line, crossed the yard we were perched on, and turned in our direction. The lead hind passed 30 yards to the side as I held my breath, expecting Taylor’s arrow to fly at any moment. But he gaped wide, then lowered, as she dropped into the wooded hollow below us. He was impressed. He practiced what she preached.
Image via Justin Michau.
get access
From here, I took off for three days on my own. I spent the first eight hours trying to get my hunting permit in the midst of the most extravagant display of wealth I have ever experienced. Neighborhood after neighborhood of Hollywood-style mansions with private tennis courts, infinity pools and, in one case, what looked like a helipad. These weren’t the kind of doors he was used to knocking on. However, a proposition occurred to me, I combed my hair, wiped the wrinkles out of my pants, and walked the plank to the front porch.
In all, I knocked on 14 doors, and by the end of that eight-hour marathon, I was emotionally reduced to a corn husk. Out of all those punches, I got mostly polite nods, a handful of dirty looks, and once, miraculously, a yes. It was just a thin strip of a couple acres along a highway, but it was something. On top of that, after seeing me suffer, Taylor also generously offered some of his places.
first hunts
I shuffled out that first night, still in shock, and waded into the bottom of a small wooded creek hidden between two neighborhoods. High up in a tree, I felt like I was hunting in the Midwest for a moment. It still was. The leaves rustled slightly in the breeze and the birds sang.
Then a large black SUV pulled up behind my vehicle. It was delayed. Someone came out and started poking around. Ten minutes later, my cameraman mysteriously received a text from an unknown number.
“What are you doing here?”
Strange things seem to be happening in the CIA’s backyard. But baffling text messages aside, I soon had a mature male at 40 yards. I was shocked. Enthusiastic. Shake. Taylor was right, this was fun. Strange, but fun.
Heeding Taylor’s advice about long shots, I refrained from shooting an arrow. But my hopes were skyrocketed. Over the next two days I continued to explore the urban options available to me, hunting in the yard for which I had permission several times and having close encounters with a handful of females and even had the opportunity to hunt a one and a half year old male that I finally passed. On the one hand, this seemed pretty good. Saw plenty of deer and came awfully close to shooting an arrow or two, all within just a hop and skip of some great cafes. What’s not to like?
worst fears
But there was another side to this experience, lingering just below the surface, a low-level tension she couldn’t escape. As I prepared before each hunt, I would stand on the eggshells, worried that a neighboring landowner might see me. After dark, I half-ran to my vehicle, hoping to evade unwanted attention or worry. Almost every hunt was interrupted by lawn care services, and if they weren’t working at the time, he knew it was only a matter of time. And what if, God forbid, the lawnmowers never showed up and I shot a deer, but it ran into some unhappy neighbor’s yard or pool?
On the last night of my hunt, my worst fears came true.
I had a doe at 25 yards. I held wide open for what seemed like a full two minutes until, miraculously, she finally came out from behind the tree. The shot hit low.
Two hours later, the trail of blood led to a neighbor’s property. At his door I explained the situation and asked permission to continue walking but, from the other side of the glass, the owner of the house yelled at me to leave. “NO!” I was unable to enter the property. He insisted, despite my withdrawal and my apologies, that he would call the police.
Image via Justin Michau.
The truth
The truth is that urban hunting can be a great time to have a good time. I can see why Taylor enjoys it so much, and I have an immense level of respect for what he and other avid urban bowhunters can accomplish in these environments. This is not an easy hunt, but the most rewarding hunts never are. For those who live in these urban areas, the opportunity to hunt close to home seems like an absolute blessing.
At the same time, I recognize that this type of hunting is not for everyone, myself included. Despite lots of deer, good bucks and great coffee. A successful hunt, by definition, involves searching for something that one desires. But for me, I now realize that it also implies an escape from something else: All that is urban.
Stay tuned for this hunt to be featured on MeatEater’s newest whitetail show, coming to MeatEater’s YouTube channel later this year.
Our drive to anthropomorphize animals obscures the fact that we are all part of the same complex ecosystem.
This article is taken from the June 2022 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine, why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five numbers for just £10.
EITHEROn the wall of my study hangs a dusty print of Mr Fox’s Hunt Breakfast on Christmas Day by illustrator Harry Neilson. Mr. Fox is a jolly old man, dressed in a hunting fig, with more than a hint of Terry Thomas in him. His astute guests sit next to him, similarly dressed, dining on roast pheasant and hard-boiled eggs. On the oak-paneled wall behind them, you can see artwork showing hunters running to the ground or taking falls from their steeds. The hound masks are mounted on shields, their severed sterns hanging like brushes below.
Obviously we know this is fantasy. Hounds kill foxes, foxes don’t kill hounds, nor do they dress in hunting pink and pass through the port, even the most outgoing citizen knows that it is so.
However, despite all that, in the houses of country people, the people most connected to the cruel realities of nature, anthropomorphic art with the animals that we rednecks hunt, shoot or chase are a basic element in the wall decoration. Mr. Fox twisted into a swallow’s tail, hoofed pheasants or a deer laughing at his partner’s unfortunate bull’s-eye birthmark. It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?
The cave paintings open a window to the Neolithic vision of nature. Most represent depictions of the hunting and gathering lifestyle of our early ancestors. A tantalizing few of these ocher finger smudges and charcoal streaks are more than just reportage, revealing images of deeper thought and awareness. These go far beyond spear throwing and tarred mammoth pits, instead representing what are believed to be animal spirits: hunters who transform and hunt together.
In 1998, Steven Mithen, professor of archeology at the University of Reading, wrote The prehistory of the mind. It caused no little concern among psychologists. Mithen argued that anthropomorphic art, such as the hybrid figure of man and deer found in the Trois-Frères caves, popularly known as “The Sorcerer” (Correct), marks the very awakening of the human mind. He hypothesizes that these paintings represent an embryonic understanding of man’s relationship to the natural world.
This 15,000-year-old representation of man’s connection to nature, he says, remains ingrained in humans today. It is the point, he argues, where we humans understand that we are part of a natural hierarchy, a social order where we sit at the head.
One could argue that the anthropomorphic caricatures of Harry Neilson, Bryn Parry, or Simon Trinder et al simply follow this pattern, reinforcing the enduring notion of the largely benevolent dictatorship that humans have over animals. This idea is not limited to the art we hang in our downstairs toilet.
Subconsciously, we endow animals with human emotions and traits, much of it colored by the relationships we have with that animal. The brown rat, for example, is really just a rat, but most humans have it marked as a loathsome food thief, a four-legged, scaly-tailed purveyor of pestilence.
The gray squirrel is a tree destroying Yank, the carrion crow a gothic creature of the damned, and the magpie his superstition-ridden accomplice and songbird killer. Red deer, meanwhile, are monarchs, roe deer are ethereal, carp are big ladies, and grouse are as rugged as the moors they live on.
Our anthropomorphism of species helps us rationalize our conservation practices. To me this applies to lethal predator control. When I catch a carrion crow with Larsen, I am well aware that this bird is a highly intelligent native, brighter than my dog, some scientists say.
My brain denies any qualms I may have, effectively arguing that the beady eye staring back at me, seconds before I batter its brains out with my cane, belongs to a ruthless grouse killer. The Gray Partridge, meanwhile, bestowed an adoration close to adoration. Does my mentality support Professor Mithen’s theory? Am I programmed, whether I like it or not, to fulfill my destiny and kill ravens so that the partridges live?
Anthropomorphism is not exclusive to those of us who shoot, fish and hunt. It is equally adored by the ranks at the opposite end of the spectrum, often used as a stealth weapon by those seeking to further an animal rights agenda and remove traces of the way the countryside is owned and managed. To that fox, which the avid hunter Neilson portrayed as a mischievous vermin, the anti-hunters accord him a nice sanctity.
The Game Spoilers Association delights in photographing its balaclava-clad activists cradling foxes. The scabby Virgin clutching the vulpine Christ child, protecting this innocent from the scarlet-robed Herod is an image that receives donations.
The beleaguered East Anglia gray partridge is shunned, simply because it’s loved by the fancy guys.
It is a sincere belief of animal rights advocates that the hierarchy shown in cave paintings is incorrect. In his opinion, there is no hierarchical order at all; animals for them are people in furry or feathery clothes. Raptors are similarly used by the anti-shooting lobby. Each of the 37 “missing” hen harriers listed on the “Raptor Persecution UK” blog written by Dr. Ruth Tingay, co-director of the lobby group Wild Justice, is dubbed with an anthropoid identifier: “Marc”, “Lia” . , “Finn”, “Octavia” and so on. The hen harrier is no longer a mere bird, it rises in emotional thermals alongside the man.
By bestowing a wild raptor with a human name, Dr. Tingay simultaneously dehumanizes the rangers as the killers of those 37 “missing” birds. That a bird of prey’s satellite tag has gone offline is less of a story than “Athena” has disappeared, presumably the victim of some belted earl’s tweed-clad footman.
The wildlife associated with field sports is similarly weaponized by the animal rights fraternity, this time through a reverse form of anthropomorphism. Pheasants, for example, are mentioned in so many tons of “non-native biomass”, thus downgrading the creature’s status as a bird to the equivalent of a potato. Bloodhounds are equally set apart from the rest of the dogs. More is pity for a bird that is flagged down by shooting conservationists, because as sure as jays steal eggs, it will be vilified by anti-shooters.
Out on the wastelands, the hen harrier is idealized by Wild Justice in “Skydancer”. The scruffy, weird curlew that lives next to them is a ranger favorite, so it gets no nickname or adoration and is casually discarded, collateral damage in the war by whoever controls the highlands. The perennially beleaguered gray partridge of East Anglia is similarly shunned, simply because it’s a game bird of the kind loved by posh types. Meanwhile, the sparrowhawks and vultures that have now returned in abundance to kill red-listed partridges are hailed as success stories: good raptors; bad game birds.
Anthropomorphism is multifaceted. On the one hand it is cartoonish, on the other corrosive. Giving a hen harrier a human name has never helped a hen harrier. He has simply turned them into a hammer with which to hit a caricatured communion of country people.
Animals and birds are neither saints nor sinners. Making one species bad and another good doesn’t do you any favors. Nor the ones we fired without fail. Rats are not FSB agents. The raven is just being a raven when it kidnaps the gray partridge pup I’ve worked all year to protect. I have to remember to rationalize my predator control: it’s as integral a part of being a conservationist as it is to put up hedges. I am trying to maintain a balance in nature because human beings are part of nature.
Humans today have much to learn from those who painted in caves in 13,000 BC. They did not hate or beatify animals, they simply saw them as part of their world. “The Sorcerer” in Trois-Frères, much like Mr. Fox’s Hunting Breakfast, it could be said that it pays a great honor to these animals. Both show the animal in the man and the man in the animal. Mr Fox tells us somewhat whimsically that we are both hunters. The Sorcerer reminds us that the humans who hunted deer were part of an ecosystem.
These truths are too often forgotten by those who pretend to love animals so much that they grant them human rights, feelings and emotions.
Most New Yorkers might think of them as rats with fluffy tails, but, elsewhere, the squirrel has become a fancy new menu item.
As part of a growing ethical dining trend, chefs have begun serving dishes made with the North American gray squirrel, an invasive species.
“My original starting point with the gray squirrel was taste. But it’s also great for the environment,” renowned Scottish chef Paul Wedgwood told The Guardian of being inspired to add the gray squirrel to the menu of his Edinburgh Royal Mile restaurant in 2008. “It’s mild, nutty and a bit spicy. . It has a very nice flavor and is easy to combine,” added Wedgwood, who has even made squirrel haggis. “Anyone doing rabbit could easily change it to squirrel.”
As well as being a tasty alternative to some more commonly used meats, eating squirrels in the UK also offers a moral flavor: the rodent is significantly to blame for causing the local extinction of the red squirrel native to England and Wales in large swaths of the world. nation.
The response to the squirrel not as vermin but as a restaurant-quality delicacy has been excellent, Wedgwood said.
“The demand is there from customers,” he said. “A guy flew in from Switzerland and ordered a squirrel tasting menu. A six-course menu. . . Only with squirrel!
The Post was unable to locate any restaurants or butcher shops in New York City that admit to selling squirrels. But that doesn’t mean New Yorkers can’t enjoy this up-and-coming dish of the day; they may just have to catch, kill, and cook the creature themselves.
A gray squirrel in Dublin.PA Images via Getty Images
The New York State Department of Environmental Conservation considers squirrels to be “nuisance animals” and can be killed by owners or occupants at any time and in any manner if they are damaging property. And from November 1 through February 28, it’s open gray, black and fox squirrel season in New York City, though hunters are limited to six squirrel carcasses per day and legally limited in the methods they can use. to kill. the creatures. If killed outside of hunting season, the squirrel is technically required to be “immediately buried or cremated.”
Wedgwood recommends brushing two squirrel ribs with wild garlic oil and accompanying them with mashed carrots.
Some squirrel connoisseurs say the flavor can be addictive.
“We associate some animals with our own filth,” Steven Rinella told The Post in 2012 about his practice of hunting and eating the squirrels that stepped on his Fort Greene yard.
Rinella wrote in her hunting memoirs that she sometimes craves squirrel meat so much that she “will go to extreme lengths to get it.”
Many traditional hunters grew up with a .22 LR rimfire rifle in their hands. Their mothers and fathers released them into the squirrel woods to chase foxtails and grays through stands of hickory, oak, and pecan. Many of the ancient weapons we carried as children are still formidable tools for hunting squirrels. He continues to take several of them into the woods each fall and spring (after a good cur or feist). These old rimfire hammers are available used and new, generally affordable and accurate enough to land a well-placed headshot on a squirrel at 50 yards, so you can save the coins and the mount for the pan.
Remington Model 34
The Model 34 was only in production for three years. larry case
Remington’s Model 34 tube-fed bolt-action pistol was first introduced in 1932, but was only produced until 1935, when it was replaced by the 341. My father bought a 34 in the early 1950s. squirrel for more than half a century. An old ¾-inch Weaver scope still sits atop this rimfire firing pin. It has held its zero for 25 years without adjustment.
I’m not sure how much my dad paid for this gun, but when Remington introduced it, the price was $13.50. This was one of Remington’s first .22 bolt action rifles and it maintained a reputation as a reliable and accurate rimfire rifle. Much of the rifle’s reliability came from a single action: the carrier lifted a fresh round from the magazine and chambered it. This ingenious gun design was the work of Crawford C. Lewis, a veteran Remington engineer whose number of patents rivals that of John Moses Browning.
The Model 34 was made in three variants, the 34-A, with standard open sights, the 34-P, fitted with a Lyman sight, and an NRA target model, which featured the sight and a commemorative brass bolt handle. The Model 34 is 44½ inches long (24-inch barrel) and weighs 5 pounds, 8 ounces. The stock is walnut with finger grooves carved into the front (some early models did not have finger grooves) for better grip. from todayprice: $200-$500
Model 39A Marlin
Marlin’s 39A was the first lever-action pistol chambered in .22 LR icolector.com
Bolt pistol loyalists won’t love this lever-action pick, but I’ve shot the Marlin 39A for years and found it to be a remarkably accurate rifle. Before Remington went bankrupt and Ruger bought the Marlin, the 39A was one of the oldest and longest-made shoulder-mounted firearms in the world. late 19the century became the first lever-action pistol chambered in .22LR, and the Golden 39A is one of the best-selling rimfire pistols in US history.
The 1891 was sniper Annie Oakley’s rifle. The Model 1892 followed, then gave way to the 1897, before the 39 and 39A were introduced in 1921 and 1939 respectively. The Golden Mountie 39A appeared in 1954 and was replaced by the Golden Model 39A in 1983 (this sometimes leads to the two models being confused). All 39 rimshots are takedowns and very accurate, which is not always the case with a platform of this type. To disassemble the rifle, simply insert a coin or flat-head screwdriver into the screw that holds the rifle in place and turn it.
The 39A is a 6½-pounder with an overall length of 40 inches (24-inch barrel). Ammunition can be loaded through the top of the magazine tube and ejected through the side hatch located on the receiver. You can also mount an optic on this rifle. The 39A was discontinued in 2007. Today’s price: $800-$1,000
Winchester Model 69A
If you find a 69A, buy some extra 10-round mags for it. larry case
In the 1930s, Marlin, Iver Johnson, and Mossberg debuted several moderately priced .22 rifles. At the time, Winchester had the 56 and 57 .22 models, but they could not compete with the prices of their less expensive competitors. The guns also had a 22-inch barrel, which many shooters considered too short. The Model 69 was conceived as a double hunting and plinking weapon. The 69A was introduced in 1939 with a few improvements, namely an external cocking mechanism that worked simply by opening and closing the bolt. A toggle safety switch was also added to the right side of the bolt, and slots for mounting scope rings were machined into the top of the receiver.
Like many older .22 rifles, the 69A’s trigger pull is not very good. I never measured the trigger pull on the 69A I shot, but it was stiff. There is an internal adjustment screw that allows you to lighten the trigger slightly, but there will always be plenty of travel. The five round magazine is not ideal. You can sometimes run into multiple grays and foxtails on a squirrel hunt, and you’ll run out of ammo quickly with the 69A. There is an optional 10-round magazine, which I suggest buying multiples if you can find them. The 69A was discontinued in 1963 with over 355,000 rifles sold. Today’s price: $500-$700
Most rimfire shooters eventually end up with a Model 60 on their hands. icolector.com
Over 11 million Model 60s were made after the semi-automatic was introduced in 1960. It had a reputation as an introductory .22. Most people who shoot rimfires probably start with or have shot this rifle. Model 60s were inexpensive, amazingly accurate, and tough enough to withstand the abuse inflicted by the youths, farmers, trappers, and squirrel hunters who carried them.
Marlin adapted the Model 60 from his Model 99. A few things made the 60 a hit from the start. The ’99’s hickory stock was downgraded to birch, making the ’60 less expensive. Marlin also opted for a brass magazine tube, not the all-steel tubes of some of his other rifles. This kept rust away and increased the durability of the rifle. Marlin also added its own Micro-Groove rifling to the inside of the barrel for less bullet damage and a crowned muzzle, both of which increased accuracy.
The Model 60 was also known as the Glenfield Model 60 and thousands of variants were built and stamped for Montgomery Ward, Western Auto and JC Penny. Some of those rifles had slight modifications, but were built on the original Model 60 design. The Glenfield name was dropped in 1982, and any 60 made after that is considered a “new style.” The magazine length was reduced from 18 to 15 rounds in the late 1980s to comply with a New Jersey gun law, and in 2000 the barrel was shortened to match the magazine length. Ruger now owns the Marlin, but the Model 60 is not in production, although it is expected to be reintroduced in the future. Today’s price: $300
Read next: How to start hunting squirrels with a dog
winchester model 61
The 61 was built to keep up with the low cost of competing rifles. larry case
A pump-action .22 rifle may not be for everyone, but I’ve always loved the Winchester 61. When I was a kid, a friend of mine often hunted with one, and the sleek little gun had a smooth action like the butter and killed many squirrels and rabbits.
Winchester introduced John Browning’s .22 pump-action rifle, the Model 1890 (in the same year). It was an immediate success and soon became standard wear (as were later models) in popular shooting galleries at carnivals across the country. They became known as “gallery guns” and were also used by many small game hunters.
The 1890 was the first successful repeating rimfire rifle and was followed by the 1906. Both were top ejection, exposed hammer rifles. In the 1930s, Winchester had a long run of success with pump-action rimfire firing pins. The United States was now in the Great Depression and the competition for market share was fierce. Remington had the Model 12, a slide-action .22, and Marlin had the Model 32. Both pistols were strikerless (the striker was hidden inside the receiver cover). Winchester had to keep up, and in 1932 the 61st was born.
The new streamlined 61 fired short, long and long .22 rifle cartridges. It can be ordered with a round or octagon barrel. The side ejection 61 kept the magazine under the barrel, and the sights were a brass bead front post fitted into the barrel with an open, stepped rear sight..
Seventy-five 61s were designed with trap shooter Fred Routledge’s smoothbore cannon, which could fire .22 shot cartridges. The Routledge hole had 10 ½ inches of smooth surface starting at the chamber with a diameter of 0.217 inches. The hole transitioned to 13½ inches of smooth surface with a diameter of 0.375 inches. This was done to prevent the tiny pellets from colliding and spinning. It also increases the range and pattern of the shot.
Winchester 61s are popular with gun collectors and can cost upwards of $1,000. The rifle was discontinued in 1963 with over 342,000 sold. Today’s price: $500-$1,100
