Dominoes

You never played dominoes like this!

A certain day, several years ago, my father decided to go fishing for peacock bass in the "Represa de Tupaciguara", a very large man-made lake formed by the Paranaíba River to supply the 2,082 MW Itumbiara Hydroelectric power-plant.

In the best expeditionary spirit my father invited a friend and frequent side-kick nicknamed Mr. Leitão to join him in the adventure and started preparing all the gear for the trip, from an eighteen feet aluminum boat called Midu, named after my daughter, powered by a fifteen horse-power Evinrude outboard, fishing gear wich included my father's famous (or infamous) wooden fishing box, and finishing with two rather large swim-pool white plastic chairs. Whatever did not fit on the boat was loaded on the bed of the GM truck. 

At that time my sister and her husband, not counting their children and eight or ten dogs, lived on a farm not far away from the lake, and my brother-in-law Ângelo was to come along with another friend on a different boat.

Upon arriving at the lake the brave fishermen met their respective guides (in Brazil they are called "pirangueiros") and started gearing up the boats for a long day of fishing, and my dad had specific plans about the set-up of his boat.

After fixing the outboard and its fuel tank, fishing gear, a very large beer cooler (the idea was that as they drank the beer, they would make room for all the fishes in the lake), the famous wooden fishing box with all its mysterious contents, and some life-jackets as Mr. Leitão did not know how to swim, my father insisted that the two large chairs be placed on board so that he and Mr. Leitão could fish from a more confortable position than what was offered by the boat's simple aluminum benches.

As my father, Mr. Leitão and the pirangueiro boarded the boat, Ângelo expressed his concern that Midu might be overloaded as it sailed away with no more than an inch of free board. Of course my father dismissed the warning just like Titanic's Captain Edward Smith ignored icebergs.

By now you can imagine that soon after leaving shore Midu went down like a rock, but luckily not with all hands. I never could get a good description of the actual sinking, I just know that my father was able to keep Mr. Leitão afloat with the help of two life-jackets and then drag him to shore which was not that far away. And soon afterwards a couple things started to happen: apparently my father was mad at his son-in-law for letting him sail in such overloaded conditions and the plastic chairs and beer started floating.

The second boat was commandeered to rescue the beer, and if possible the chairs, and then Ângelo was told to volunteer as a diver to salvage the boat, motor, and whatever else  he could find.

The depth of the wreck was deeply disputed between the parts involved in the incident. Some say no more than ten feet, Ângelo swears that it was over twenty. I don't think that we will ever know for sure.

But anyhow, Ângelo had to strip and start diving and what he could not carry up was tied to a strong line and dragged to shore. There is also disagreement on how long the salvage operation took, but less so than the depth mentioned above.

After several "diving sessions" my father told Ângelo that his fishing box was missing, and that it contained some very important items, and that he would have to go down again until it was retrieved.

Eventually the fishing box came up, full of water but with all its contents, and Ângelo questioned my father about what so important in that box. The answer was: "The dominoes that my cousin Maria Helena gave me on my ninth birthday in 1954!" 

How it all began

Shot and feathers come together

Nowadays we have an apparently ever increasing variety of shotgun sports, also called "Clay Pigeon Shooting", but many of us either forget or try to ignore how the sport began.

Shotgunning as we know it today began in the later part of the XVIII century when the first practical shotguns came to light. By practical shotgun I mean a smooth bore long gun that was light enough that it could be handled relatively easily, ergonomic enough that a person could swing it while pointing at a moving target (really, a bird), and with a fast enough lock time (that is the time elapsed between pressing the trigger and the main powder charge being ignited) that would make it possible to hit a moving or flying target (again, a bird).

As widely discussed and publicized, shotguns first achieved perfection in England, and Joseph Manton is regarded as the creator of the first "Best Gun" and the forefather of the London Gun trade. 

The point is that once practical shotguns were available and hunting seasons were over, people still wanted to use them, so friends began shooting at each others hats thrown in the air (but there is no historic evidence of that), but I imagine that they soon got tired of shooting at their hats, probably because it was boring and could become sort of expensive, since the beaver pelts to make those hats had to be imported from America.

So they put their hats to other use. After digging a shallow hole on the ground, and place a live pigeon in it, they covered the hole and the pigeon with their hats. A long string attached to the hat and the shooter (not a hunter anymore, but a shooter) would order "PULL" for whoever was manning the string to free the pigeon, and then shoot at it.

Apparently those shooter had plenty of old hats (at least that is my assumption as they may have shot them before the pigeons, again, no historic evidence), and they probably used those old hats, since one of the first famous Trap Clubs in England was called the OLD HATS.

After the game reached the United States of America and the passenger pigeon became scarce (that was before it became extinct), the typical American ingenuity put itself to work to find suitable replacements for live pigeons. First Captain Adam Henry Bogardus invented the "Bogardus" glass ball in 1866, and then Cincinnati trap shooter George Ligowsky created the discoid clay pigeon in 1880, and we continue to shoot it today.

From these humble beginnings (maybe not so humble, as the first live pigeon shooter apparently were either of noble blood or had enough money to spend time with them), a multitude of "Clay Pigeon" spots was created, but every single time I pull the trigger I envision my shot charge connecting with the feathers of a fast flying live pigeon against the blue sky.

Of Pigeons and Doves

Patagionas picazuro & Zenaida auriculata

By now any "regular reader" of this blog should know that I am passionate about bird hunting, and that in order to manage this passion, since it is impossible to quench it, I try to travel at least once every year since 2008 to Uruguay, a bird hunter's Mecca.

The primary goal of every expedition (it just sounds more enticing than trip, as I do too much of the later on business) is the fantastically sporting perdiz (Nothura maculosa) which is properly hunted following some outstanding dog work, either by aristocratic English Pointers (the aging Alteza is my all time favorite) or feisty Epagneul Bretons.

But when your legs tire or if you want to pretend that you are attending some high dollar high flying driven bird either in the United Kingdom or the "Old Continent" for basically the cost of your shotguns shells, Uruguay offers high volume dove shooting that is second to none, even if Argentina gets a lot more publicity.

The most prevalent of the nine Columbidae that are endemic to Uruguay is the small and acrobatic Eared Dove (Zenaida auriculata) that fly almost all day long from their metropole-like roosts to their feeding grounds where they do their best to deplete the Uruguayan agriculture output. Many sportsmen travel every year to Uruguay to match themselves and punish their shoulders while they face drove after drove of eared doves that change direction with the sound of every shot and the sight of each hunter.

But among the apparent endless eared doves fly a rarer and to me precious target, the Picazuro Pigeon (Patagioenas picazuro). The picazuro pigeon is several times the size of the eared dove (as is clearly shown in the photo above, taken last year in Uruguay), and although highly maneuverable, it has an additional tool that ensures that its greater size does not make the hunter's life easier, speed. While the doves keep zig-zagging, the picazuros just turn on their after-burners to get out of dodge. Blink and they are gone.

I've been shooting picazuro pigeons for thirty five years, and while I admit to love bird hunting I must confess that I have a real infatuation with pigeon shooting. So, the next time that I will be on an expedition to Uruguay after perdiz, it would be safe to bet that my eyes will be scanning the sky for stealthy pigeons.

Alligators in the Sky

An alligator afloat...where?

Besides being very tasty, alligators (and for the matter, crocodiles) are fascinating animals. They are successful predators, extremely adaptable, can survive for months without food, but can feed on almost any form of animal protein or tissue, and have an envious characteristic: the older the males get, the more fertile and sexual active they are.

All my alligators experience runs around one or another of the smaller species of the Brazilian jacaré or Cayman as it is known elsewhere. The largest Brazilian alligator, the jacaré-açu (the Tupi Indian name means “big lizard”), is only found in the Amazon River system, and can reach up to six meters (around 18 feet) in length, comparable to the Nile and Salt-water crocodiles.

I remember when I was around five years old and an alligator was caught on a “wait-hook” on a lake in our farm. A “wait-hook” is a sort of a trap, quite illegal nowadays (at least in Brasil), made of a large hook or spoon cast to a good two feet steel leader, a swivel, and then a length of strong line tied to a flexible tree limb or branch. The flexible branch is a necessary measure to avoid snapping the line. “Wait-hooks” are generally used for large nocturnal fish but the odd alligator may eventually find them.

I must tell you that I only saw that alligator by mid morning, after it had been gutted and the excellent tail meat taken away, but the large open mouth and the fresh in my mind Tarzan comic books were enough to inspire a great degree of respect for the animal.

Mr. Candinho, the same gentleman that several years later would shoot a rather large anaconda that had my father by his hand, wanted to show us the alligator teeth or perhaps he just wanted to retrieve the spoon still hooked to the powerful mouth. As he fingered around the large head the alligator, as if alive, snapped its jaws shut and took a bite out of one of Mr. Candinho’s fingers. It may not have been as traumatic a loss as Captain Hook’s but, pardon the pun, a hook cost a portion of his finger.

That experience was enough to make me understand that alligators may be easy to kill but are quite hard to die.

Several years later, along with my cousin Marco Aurélio, I went on my first alligator hunt, in the swamps of my family farm – Fazenda Taboa – and as we did not have a boat we had to improvise. We got a tractor rear wheel inner tube, filled it with air and put a wooden plank over it for a seat, and used a long pole for propulsion and steering along with our feet.

Unhappily or not, except for an unsuccessful shot at a passing duck, we never had the opportunity to fight and defeat any monstrous lizard. The two might hunters probably scared then away or most likely the alligators were too busy laughing of the two quixotes.

In June of 1987, after I returned from six months in the United States as an exchange student I went on a two week fishing trip to Mato Grosso, in the fringes of the Brazilian Legal Amazon. We stayed at the São Jorge Preto farm that belonged to my uncles Amaury and Marcelinho. We drove in two Chevrolet pick-ups, my father, my brother Rodolfo, Mr. Jaime in one and Uncle Amaury, “Zé da Brucelose” and me on the other. From our home town we drove to Barra do Garça, on the banks of the Araguaia River, and from there to the farm, in the São José do Xingu municipality, better known as “Bang” or “São José do Bang Bang”. You can figure why.

The trip itself took around 34 hours driving, the last 400 kilometers (250 miles) accounting for over ten hours, and to get to the farm we totaled five burst tires between the two trucks.

North Mato Gross is frontier country as wild as or even more wild than remote parts of Alaska, Canada or Africa. During summer or the rain season, from October to March, the roads are impassable and even the bush planes may face problem as the dirt runways started to soften. During winter, or the dry season, roads are drivable but an unpredictable dry fog may ground anything that does not have a GPS, satellite navigation or common sense.

When you go there, prepare yourself, for the closest gas stations may be anything from a three hours drive to a day or so. Of course, you could call a plane as long as your radio worked, you could afford it and the plane could find where you are.

This trip was a totally new experience for me, demanding sometimes (having to manage my father away from mother), but mostly exciting.

We fished the Comandante Fontoura, a slow flowing, dark water river, with the luxuriant tropical jungle suffocating its margins. As it was too hot during the day, we generally started fishing around 4PM and kept going to midnight or latter. Those nights floating on this river provided some of the most fascinating moments I had in the outdoors.

The tropical sky is incomparable in the amount of stars and the clear and cool winter nights, so far away from any city or pollution let those starts shine with such power against the dark night that they looked like diamonds under a powerful spotlight. The milk way or Via Láctea, as we say in Brasil, floated in the night sky just like the river we floated in cut the heartlands of Brasil and several times I wondered where we were floating, on the river or on the sky.

But suddenly I would be brought back to the earth, or better saying to the river, as the long shadows of the alligators would silent swim among the stars under our boat with slow strokes from their powerful tails.

Only in Africa, on safari, I saw a sky that could perhaps compare to Brasil, deep darkness and brilliant starts with the Southern Cross to guide me around.

I shot one alligator during that trip and my father cooked it while we were still there. I absolutely love the taste and consistency of alligator meat, it reminds me of lobster.

Also, during this trip I had one of the biggest scares of my life. One day my father decided to go out only with my brother and me. We packed the bare essentials and would have lunch on whatever we fished. That was a very poor day and the only fish we caught was a rather large black piranha. We made a fire on a clearing and cooked it the indian way, on a grill made of green branches above hot coals. We were either very hungry or the piranha was delicious, probably both, but my father didn’t eat even a small piece.

After the meal we continued fishing and were as unlucky as before and finally late night we, actually my father, decided it was time to go back to camp, and as he pulled the starting cord on the outboard motor he did not notice that it was in gear. When the engine started it sent the boat swirling around and my father lost his balance, and went overboard, hitting his kidney on the board on his way to the water.

I am still not sure how my, at the time, little and skinny brother and I hauled our father back into the boat but all the jungle creatures, alligators, anacondas, piranhas, mermaids, were very polite and did not disturb us on the process.

The following year I went to college and many years would go by before I could play with alligators again. But as it happened, that was so far the last time I was in the outdoors with my father and brothers.

We went to fish the Crixá-Mirim River in northern Goiás state, and due to work I was there only for the weekend but wanted to have at least one alligator (many times my stomach rules me).

On the first night in camp we went out for alligator, three in a six meters (18 feet) aluminum boat, waiting for the search light to reflect on their eyes just above water. Jesus, our farm manager, got excited and took a shot at the first gator he saw, which swam away He probably missed completely as 12 gauge buckshot is more than enough gun for even quite large lizards but as I could not be sure about it we followed it and I killed the only three foot long animal with a head shot from my .38 revolver.

As that alligator was too small to feed all the eight or ten people in camp then we went after another one and I was to shoot first this time.

The .38 Special hard cast wad cutter bullet is the most efficient alligator medicine I ever used. When the flat point hits the animal’s skull it shatters the bone plates to pieces and the shock kills the animal immediately. I never saw an alligator move after being hit by it in the head, except for starting to think slowly.

Now, you must remember that it is not because you killed an alligator that it is dead. Even with the brains blown out you must be careful in handling the animal and danger can come from either end, mouth or tail.

I have never been comfortable with a loaded long gun, be it a shotgun or rifle, on a small boat. There are no racks or any place to hold it properly and its always banging around, getting wet and its muzzle pointing at something or worse, someone. The nice thing about a pistol is that I can keep it holstered and safe until the boat gets within a few feet of the alligator and I always know exactly where the muzzle is pointing when I am handling it.

Shortly after, we found a larger alligator and it was almost too easy. I steered the boat towards it, cut the engine, and shot at its head no more that a couple yards away. The dinner-to-be never moved a scale, and I hooked it as it started to sink.

I had several more encounters with alligators, most quite uneventful to tell you about; a boat in the night, three people in it, one shot, one alligator. But the closest I ever came to any harm was with 12 inches long alligator. That was one of three babe alligators that someone captured and left for some days in a tank in our farm to show to children.

When I brought my children to visit the small animals they were quite shy and tried to hide under some vegetation in the tank. As I did not want my children to be disappointed I grabbed one of the little alligators and he slipped through my grip and bit my opposite hand. My pride was hurt more than my hand but I carried the elongated semicircular marks in the skin for a couple weeks.

Note: This story is one of the chapters of my book "A Wild Beast at Heart" (ISBN-13: 978-1424147212), still available at Amazon.com.

The Need of Wildness

Zealous parents raising the children

I spent last week working in China, and although one can see plenty of trees in modern Chinese metropolis like Shanghai it is very hard to accept them as natural, and even harder to associate them with being wild. Those trees form man-made parks, and the wildest creatures that I saw during last week were a sparrow and a magpie, defiant symbols against absolute compliance.

Upon arriving back in Michigan my wife and I drove from Detroit to Traverse City, and yesterday night down to Novi, and in these few days I was able to, at least partially, satiate my need of wildness.

On the road between Kalkaska and Traverse City my wife had to vigorously brake my truck in order to avoid taking "on the wing" a big tom turkey that flew across the road. He glided to the nearby woods like a pterodactyl, and after landing calmly strolled away. We were so close that i could see in detail his coppery breast feathers.

While at our home we could see and hear birds galore, cardinals, cow birds, woodpeckers, crows, seagulls, sand plovers, mallards, and my personal favorites for the wild music they bring to our ears, Canada geese and loons. Of course there were also the neighborhood rabbits and squirrels, for my desperation of those trying to keep tame flowers.

We stayed Sunday afternoon until the sun was about to set over the West Arm of Grand Traverse Bay and behing the Leelanau Peninsula. And the drive home was really exciting. All the way on M-72 and on I-75 down to West Branch we saw countless whitetail deer. It was almost as if the whole Northern Lower Peninsula deer herd decided to have a great spring celebration under cloudless skies. We estimate that yesterday night we saw between two and three hundred deer.

And the final celebration of spring came this noon when I went out for lunch at Alexandria, a great Middle-Eastern restaurant in Novi. We have been observing a goose nest for some time. Of all "wild" places around the suburbs, this couple chose a barrel just besides the restaurant. Mother goose sitting on and in the barrel, and father goose guarding the perimeter  Today we were able to finally see their rewards, as their goslings (I could count six of them) were enjoying the warm spring sun by their mother, while the always vigilant father came to investigate my business.

I understand that wildness is not wilderness, but at least around here our expanding wildlife (please, read "Nature Wars" by Jim Sterba) help maintain an ideal of having nature nearby. As Aldo Leopold said "A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability, and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise."

So, at least for now, I believe that Michigan is righter than the parts that I know of China.

My Hubertus Knife

Hubertus & Roe Buck

Several years ago while attending the IAA Truck Show in Hannover, Germany, I was able to take a couple hours out on a beautiful fall morning to walk around the old downtown area and visit local cutleries and a particularly refined "sportsman" shop that housed one of the best assortments of fine rifles that I ever saw, Waffen Will-Apel.

I generally stayed at the Maritim Hotel, in Friedrischwall Strasse, right in front of the fantastic Neues Rathaus or New Town Hall, and from there every evening I would visit the  ruins of  the Aegidienkirche (Aegidien Church) which was destroyed during one of the eighty eight bombing raids that hit Hannover during WWII. Its charred walls stand as a memorial so we can remember the horrors of war and hope for peace among men.

From there I would visit Marktkirche which impressed me particularly for its description of Nazi-era horrors carved in its huge bronze main doors. An eternal remembrance for an evil that cannot be forgotten for the too great risk of repeating it.

Another two hundred meters or so, at Schmiedestrasse 11 is located Waffen Will-Apel!

Being a foreigner I could not buy any of the fantastic high grade rifles and shotguns, but nothing prevented me to engage in great conversation with the gentleman that either managed or owned the store, which soon evolved to cutlery, and I asked him to show me, within the realms of "affordability" his best knives.

Almost without blinking he brought up the Hubertus Jagdmesser (Hunter Knife) that you see in the photo above. Hubertus has been making knifes in Solingen, the heart and soul of Germany's cutlery industry, since the 1930's, and the name is clearly linked with Saint Hubertus, the saint patron of hunters, and their quality is second to none.

My particular knife has three blades. An eleven centimeter (just over four inches) drop point lock back blade, a very robust bone saw of the same length, which also have a bottle opener at the base, and carefully designed gutting blade which has a heavy blunt end to prevent perforating the intestines. At the back there is a very functional corkscrew. The handles are made of top grade stag antler, the bolsters are German silver and the liners are brass. Polishing, fit and finish are nothing but perfection.

This is a heavy knife, but its balance is so exquisite that once in the hand you would not fill it.

After all these years, I haven't had the heart to take my Hubertus Jagdmesser out yet. It will handle almost any shore, but for some reason I don't yet want to risk to damage the mirror polishing of the blades.

But one day it will see use. Of course it will be a very special hunt with my son or maybe my soon to be born grandson. And that, I hope, will be a great story.

A Healthy Sunday Lunch

Lunch is almost ready!

Yesterday I arrived in Detroit at 8:30 AM from a week long trip to Brazil, and by early afternoon my wife and I arrived at our home at Old Mission Peninsula. Our goal was to open all the boxes that were crowding the first and second floors, "organize" as possible, and then get all the cardboard to the nearby recycling center.

Well, WE DID IT, and to recover from the brutal work we decided that we needed to have a good lunch.

A couple weeks ago I got a Big Green Egg and it is just natural that I should use it every opportunity I have, and today was a perfect one, even if I have to push snow out of our deck.

Healthy eating is very important, so we decided to do it in style. We had some venison ribs from a dear that I shot with bow in October 2011 (I know it because I could see the triangular shaped broad head mark between two ribs), a small venison tenderloin from a doe that I shot just before Christmas 2010 (so far the only deer I had processed, so I also could identify it), very lean (and terribly well done) beef for my wife, bratwursts and Portobello mushrooms.

To complete this feast my wife cooked some fresh white rice, the Brazilian way. You start by sautéing onion and garlic, and then you add the rice, pour the water and add the salt.

The lunch was washed down by part of the content of a bottle of Grignolino red wine, a 2009 Duchessa Lia, from Asti. Although a much lighter wine than my favorite Piemontese wines, Nebbiolo and Barolo, it went vey well with the venison loin and portobellos.

Dessert was good Belgian dark chocolate and off course a couple hours of sleep. Nobody can say that I don't have a hard life!