TO BE OR NOT TO BE

TO BE OR NOT TO BE
 that is the question:
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
 the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
 or to take arms against a sea of troubles

Some fathom me as a troublemaker.  Some ask me why stirring the pot comes so easily.  Others cant their heads and endeavor to understand my predilection for the fight.  

The cause, my friends, is just!

When I take umbrage to the inane (sometimes insane) positions of the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation concerning deer management, it is a labor borne from my passion for the animal and the hunting tradition.  I have met and spoken personally with many of the men and women who are charged with this responsibility.  For the most part, they are wonderful souls who have dedicated their lives to science and education.  They seem to be as passionate about conservation issues as I am, and they obviously have the educational credentials (that I don’t) to back their positions.  So here I sit, wondering what is wrong with me?  Why have I become so skeptical of the machine that drives the conservation bus?

Because, I believe that these people are too ensconced in the rhetoric of a failed system.

On April 19^th, representatives of the DEC were present at the NYS Conservation Council Spring meeting of the Big Game Committee.  They took this opportunity to further announce that they have begun working on a new five-year plan for deer management.  They explained that, “deer management has not changed much in decades”.  My initial thought was “finally”.  Finally someone is realizing that deer management in New York State is just a myth.  Finally, hopefully, someone has realized the mere survival of the specie (odocoileus virginianus) is not, and should not be, the only goal of deer management.   That thought, was a fleeting one!   I raised my hand and asked, “Will this plan be broken down into regions?”  The response was, ‘No, that this plan was a broad perspective for the needs of the whole state’.   It is there, at that point that I began shaking my head.  My mind begins racing, I remember thinking to myself, “this is bullshit!”  Once again, the DEC does not have a clue as to what they are doing.  Is it me?  Am I the only one who realizes that the stench of bullshit was raising its ugly head again?  Let me explain!  Let me qualify my response.  I was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.  My father was a police officer in NYC for over 27 years.  I spent 20 years on the same mean streets as a police officer and sergeant doing “god’s work”.  I qualify as a bullshit specialist.  I heard it.  I saw it.  I see it!  I can smell it from a mile away!  So, when someone tells me that deer management can be done from “models” or by virtue of the state’s big picture, the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention!  Its bullshit!

Remember, only two things have remained constant about New York deer hunting in the past few decades. “It” has gotten worse and hunter numbers have declined dramatically over the last 30 years.  The state of the herd is that it is alive.  That is the best and only real assessment that can be derived.   Deer management in this state has become oxymoronic.   No real management plan calls for the inclusion of 30,000 mistakes (button bucks and fawns killed annually) as management.  No real  management plan would include an age specific gendercide! 

There is no age diversity throughout the majority of the state’s deer herd.  Depending on where you are in this state between 65% and 80% of yearling bucks are harvested annually.  Does that reflect deer management?  When the DEC wastes its time, energies and resources proffering multiple hunter satisfaction surveys on the same issue (antler restrictions), does that tell you something?   This is the group mandated to manage for healthy deer and the proliferation of deer hunting as the only real management tool.  When antler restrictions were postured as a viable solution to the age diversity problem.  They set a “super majority” goal as an unrealistic affectation, believing that they would never see it attained and in effect would never have to deal with it.  When, 67% percent of those in the target area responded that they were in favor of antler restrictions; as a means to yearling buck protection.  The DEC chose to side with the “negative” responders, even though 14 percent of the negative responses were from outside the targeted areas for implementation.  Is that deer management?  What other industry or management scheme gives more credibility to a tainted minority sampling than it does to a super majority?

The loss of hunters can be attributed to a lot of reasons.  Certainly, all the adages of the new technologies attracting our youth away from our once proud tradition are true.  Certainly, hunter access is a huge part of it, but lets be clear about one thing.  Deer hunting is lousy in a majority of this state.  It is lousy because there is no age diversity in the herd.  Antlers, the target of most hunters cannot be achieved without healthy habitat and older animals.  To go to the woods with no expectation of seeing (nevermind harvesting) an antlered buck has been a huge detriment to the hunting population.  That truth is as plain as the nose on your face.  To increase hunter participation one must have a salable commodity.  That salable commodity in this case, is a healthy large racked buck.  One must be able to at least dream that there is a big-racked buck around the next corner.  In this state that idea amounts to a pipedream.   It is a fact that with the advent of age diversity comes more “rubs” and “scrapes” in the woods.  These precursors to the rut  can rile the hunter’s imagination and satiate a “need” to believe that a monster buck is out there.  If nothing else, these signs are the equivalent of free advertisement.  

The DEC knows this and yet has failed to recognize the needs of the hunting tradition.  They have done nothing to advance or entice hunter participation.  They refuse to acknowledge antler restrictions as a deer health issue because as they say,  “there is no critical biological need”, well, I don’t think they would dare say the same about hunter retention and recruitment.  There is definitely critical need and common sense dictates that bigger antlers are good for hunting.  There is a very simple equation to be understood here: Healthy deer + age diversity = better hunting experiences.  Better hunting experiences equate to a manifestation and proliferation of the tradition.   Its that simple!

My skepticism is further exacerbated.  This 5-year plan is scheduled to be unveiled at the Fall meeting of the NYS Conservation Council meeting in September.  What does that mean?  I look at it as prelude to further disaster.  This plan will be in effect starting in 2011.   That is a huge “leap of faith” on the part of the DEC considering that November 2010 is an election month.  There is a real expectation of a change in this state’s government.    New governors mean new commissioners and new directors etc. etc.  There is a good chance that these people will not be in place to see the “plan” go into effect.  Their legacy will be one that reflects their inability to initiate change in a timely manner and/or one that will reflect their failure to further implement antler restrictions as their single biggest mistake and regret.

I will go out on a limb here and state the obvious.  To me, it is evident that further implementation of antler restrictions will NOT be a part of this year’s management scheme.  Too many things have not happened to expect their inclusion.  Another year wasted!  One step further, I don’t see them being an integral part of the “master” plan.  Unless the plan includes a micro-management of at least several sizable regions or present legislation comes to fruition.  We have bore witness to the further malaise we will refer to as the “Grannis/Riexinger years!

Believe me when I tell you that I hope the state proves me wrong, but until I see change – real change – its all two-faced bullshit mixed with tears for effect!

And so I say unto you, beware the light,

Its reverence is veiled beneath the shade.

Underneath the smarm;

Lays the roots of truth!

--- M.T. Mc Donnell

(PARTll) THAT GREAT GRAND CANYON RESCUE EPISODE!

Well, we survived Powell’s Falls.  At the time, I remember thinking that the adrenaline rush that I experienced could not be topped.  Today, 25 years later, I still believe it is at the apex of incredible experiences that now define my life, and that includes a few high-speed (over 100MPH) police car chases through the streets of New York City that make the famous “French Connection” chase scene seem like a leisurely ride through the country.

The end of day six finds us in the bottom of the canyon.  We enjoy a comfortable night’s lodging and are told that day seven starts early with breakfast.   Our gear would be leaving before us and would be at the hotel at the rim of the canyon.  We needed to fill our canteens and head over to the trailhead.  We were instructed to pace ourselves (as the weather was warm) and that water would be accessible at oases along the way.

(The guides amazingly continue the water journey with their equipment for four more days to a landing place where the rafts can be trucked back to Flagstaff.)

I remember that morning as clear as if it were yesterday!  It was 75 degrees as we finished breakfast and headed to the trailhead.  I remember we stopped, I looked up, I looked at Don and Bob and I remember saying ‘Holy Shit”!  In a flashpoint right out of the “Treasure of the Sierra Madres”, I suddenly realized why we needed burros.  I looked at Don and said, “Don are you ffffing kidding me?” 

The trail, a rocky footpath is a modest 2 feet wide at it’s beginning.  I remember thinking to myself, “my God it’s 1985 there has to be a better way.”  We began our ascent on the canyon with me shaking my head, every step or so, it seemed like I turned and looked at Don and cursed him.  When I wasn’t cursing him, I was planning his demise. 

It was hot getting hotter.  The trail zigzags back and forth across the mountain in annoying fashion.  I remember thinking “this is ridiculous why didn’t they just cut this trail straight up?”  Back and forth, forth and back!  Hour 2 it was at least 90 degrees.  I was sweating like a pig as I finished the water in my canteen.  I turned to Don and muttered something about “where the fffck is the watering hole?”  He answered, but I don’t remember it being intelligible.  It was at this point that I remember saying to Don “I HOPE YOU GET FFFFING HEMORRHOIDS!”***  I don’t remember what really predicated that thought and those words, but I remember them rolling off the cotton balls on my tongue as clearly as if it were yesterday.  On and upwards we climbed.  My mouth was dry as the sand beneath my feet.  Finally, at about hour 3 we hit a watering hole.  Nothing could possibly have tasted sweeter at that point (and yet I remember the taste of that ever-present southwest sulfur reverberating on my palate).  We splashed and rested in the water.  There were no shade trees so we found some solace on the darkside of one of the larger boulders.  It was about 95 by then!  After six days on the water and being exposed to all that sun I did not think it possible to burn anymore then I had already, but there, in the desert, is always that next degree of pinkish hue that extends the spectrum.  Upward we pushed, by hour 5 we were out of water again and Don was looking at me like I was a juicy pork-chop!  I am sure the temperature was hovering around 100.  Finally, a watering hole in the distance, I was so overheated I ran to the far end and jumped in!  As I raised my submerged head and cupped the water to my lips I heard the frantic high pitched scream of a woman (or so I thought, it was just Don)  “DON”T DRINK THE WATER!”  I looked at Don.  From his end of the pool he reached into the water and pulled out a signpost that had been pushed over into the water.  The sign had words to the effect of “DO NOT DRINK THE WATER” some kind of dangerous bacteria existed and ……. blah blah blah!

OMG!  What had just happened?  Did Don just save my life?  Is that what really happened?  Those four words (DON’T DRINK THE WATER) are words that I have had to hear (ad nauseum) every year, every hunting season, at every campfire, every family-get-together and every chance that my buddy Donald has had to tell that story.  For years I was in denial, for years I would rationalize that I probably would have had a case of really bad diarrhea and that everything would have turned out alright anyway!  It wasn’t till a few years ago that I was able to come to terms with the reality that under the circumstances, maybe, just maybe Donald had a positive influence on my life!  That’s it, ha ha!

Well, the trip did not end at that watering hole.  We made it to the next oasis.  It was about hour seven when we heard noise and voices approaching us from above.  There ahead, were several touristy looking people with straw hats on donkeys coming down the canyon trail.  Apparently, the hotel above has these donkey excursions to the bottom of the canyon to satiate the tourists who had no need for a white water adventure.  It was at this point that we realized that we would literally have to hug the canyon wall in order for the donkeys to squeeze bye.  I will never forget that feeling of being crushed against the jagged rocks as the sweaty sure-footed animals squeezed on bye!  Finally after 9 ½ hours we reached the rim.  I still remember those last few curse laden steps onto flat ground above the canyon.  It had made it up to 107 degrees that day in the canyon.  I had a mild case of sunstroke, a crack in my lip the size of the canyon and a head full of incredible memories.  I remember thinking ‘we didn’t need those stinkin badges’, but we sure needed those stinkin burros!

***Bye the way, on March 15^th, 2010 my dear friend Donald had a surgical procedure on the largest hemorrhoid in Long Island medical history!

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THAT GREAT GRAND CANYON RESCUE EPISODE!

It was the early Fall of ’84 the phone was ringing and my buddy Don was on the other end.  Don and I met in ‘82 and became fast friends the minute he invited me to go woodchuck hunting with him.  Well, this call wasn’t about hunting.  This call was about another serious adventure!  I remember he was excited and needed an answer right away.  He said, “a buddy and I are whitewater rafting the Grand Canyon, are you in or out?”  Back in those days I didn’t need much prompting for any outdoor adventures.  I remember saying, “I’m in.”  I started to ask, “when?” But Don interrupted and said, “I’ll call you right back!”  Click!

Two days later Don calls me back, he says, “I got two questions for you, the lady wants to know if we want to rent burros and how many tents do we want to rent?”  I said, “Don when is this trip?”  He says, “May, 1985.”  I said “Don that’s nine months from now!”  Do I really have to book a fffing donkey nine months in advance; and what do I need a donkey for anyway?  Don says, “well, the seven day rafting trip leaves you off in the bottom of the canyon and we have to either ride burros out, or walk out from there.”  I said,  “Don how far a walk are we talking about?”  I remember him saying, “it’s just a couple of miles, I really don’t think we need them!”  BAM – mistake number 1!!!  I said, “what’s the story with the tent?”  He said, “well, you are the odd man out, me and Bob are getting a 2-man tent just in case” I said, “well what is the weather like in Arizona in May?”  He said, “it’s hot during the day but the nights cool off nicely, so bring a sleeping bag!”  “If anything happens you can squeeze in with us!”  BAM – mistake number 2!!!

Nine months flew bye.  The next thing I knew I was on a 9-seater jet going from Vegas to Flagstaff, Arizona.  The lady across the 15-inch wide aisle from me filled her barf bag in the first 10 minutes of the flight.  Her bag was full and now she was elbowing me across the aisle to give her my bag, as she wasn’t finished yet.  That was the longest 40-minute flight on record. I think I held my breath the last 20 minutes of that flight.  Let it be known, when you fly around the Grand Canyon there is a lot of turbulence!

Our group consisted of 16 adventurers from all over the country, 5 guides, and 5 rafts.  These people formed a diverse group from all over the country.  There were two brothers from Cleveland, a couple from the Midwest, three elderly folks in their upper sixties from California and a few people from the Southeast.  One raft was filled with food and equipment and navigated by one of the guides.  Don, Bob, myself, and a rotating guide were in one raft, the others decided that they would enjoy being in different rafts with different people every day.  We were explained some simple rules of the river:

                        Hang on tight!

                        If we were dislodged from the raft keep your feet in front of you and keep your head up!

After that short speech we had no idea what to expect.  What we were told was that it was May, the water was high, fast and cold from the melting snow in the mountains above.  Bathing, was to be done in the heat of the day and no one could stay in the water for more than a few seconds at a time, as hypothermia could set in rather quickly from the bone-chilling water.  Open campfires were not permitted in the canyon, so warming up meant jumping jacks till your blood started to flow again.  As best I can remember the actual water temperature was 37 degrees.

We started off slow, the water was not that deep and the first ½ hour on the water was peaceful and serene.  The scenery is incredible!  For seven days all you do (besides holding on for dear life) is gawk at the splendor and majesty of nature.  I know I took over 400 pictures that week and only that few, because I never thought I would need more than 20 rolls of film.  If I had a digital camera back then, I probably would still be out there!

It wasn’t long until you hit the first set of rapids.  That is when you start to get a feel for what is about to happen.  By the third day you really have your sea legs.  Those rafts get bounced so high and so hard one can only try to equate it to being inside a very deadly pinball machine.  One second the back of the raft is 12 feet off the water and the next second you are plummeting towards jagged rocks at a speed so alarming you don’t have time to be scared.  A minute later you are casting a spinner bait into a placid pool.  That’s how it is all day!  You go from immeasurable adrenaline rushes to tranquil landscapes; all just around the next bend in the river!

At night, the guides would pull off the water and we would all help set up camp.  In many places along the canyon there are huge open caves carved from the base of the canyon that provide perfect shelter from the elements.  We had no idea what to expect as far as the food.  I know I expected nothing more than freeze-dried or hydrogenated meals.  It was to my great surprise when the guides pulled out a propane cook stove and whipped up hot gourmet meals.  I am talking filet mignon and fresh vegetables.  Every night was a different surprise!  The pi`ece de resistance were the boxes of wine!  Granted, these were not fine cabernets, but the novelty of enjoying a simple pleasure after an incredible day on the water made them taste oh-so-good! 

It wasn’t until the third night that we camped along the river under open sky.  It was a perfect night.  The stars were so luminous that you did not need a flashlight for that walk to that evening’s designated latrine area.  Don and Bob pitched their tent, I dug a shallow crevasse in the warm sand and layered the bottom with a small tarp.  I figured between the warmth of the sand and my sleeping bag I was going to sleep like a baby!  When my eyes closed there was not a cloud in the sky, 3 hours later the first drops of rain hit my face.  It started to come down pretty good.  So I went over to the tent and unzipped the flap.  That tent was so small I would not have fit in it even if I had a crowbar to wedge between Don and Bob.  I returned to my now half-filled with water gully and crawled into that wet sleeping bag and I cursed Don for a long time.

 I awoke as the sun rose, I was a frozen Popsicle of a man!  I cursed Don a few more times!  It seems that I have done that a lot over the course of our lifetime afield together!

Day six on the river means Powell’s Falls.  These are the biggest and baddest falls in America.  You don’t play around in these waters, you hold on and pray!  The guides pull off the river to scout the falls and then decide who is going first while the other rafters sit and watch from a higher vantage.  The purpose is twofold: 

1) to give the guides an idea where they want to be at certain points in the falls and 

2) to kick-start an adrenaline rush the likes of which you may never have again in your life!  

Just watching is incredible, never mind the reality that you will be in “it” in a few minutes.  Let me point out that there is no turning back.  There is no way out other than the water; unless you are willing to charter a very expensive helicopter ride.  I don’t remember that being offered as a viable option.  We were all there to make our mark; to chalk up a life experience that few others ever enjoy!

Next week the thrilling conclusion to THAT GREAT GRAND CANYON RESCUE EPISODE!

Until then, take a minute to view the website below.  It is a fine depiction of what you can expect in the canyon.  Keep in mind though, that this portrayal was done in August many years after ours and the water just by the nature of the time of year was much slower and warmer then when we undertook our journey!

http://philip.greenspun.com/travel/grand-canyon-rafting