Guns/Hunting
Bend Bulletin: Duck Hunting is About More Than The Kill
Published: Jan. 11, 2018
Duck hunter Chris Dittman, camouflaged in leaf patterns and wearing waders, was lobbing pieces of duck sausage to his dog when a common goldeneye duck touched down in the nearby Crooked River. Despite the easy shot, Dittman, 43, who’d streaked his face with black and green paint, left his camo Remington Versa Max shotgun where it lay at his side.
“Duck hunting isn’t just about the killing,” Dittman said quietly between bites of “duckeroni” — the spoil of previous hunts. “The goldeneye is a diving duck, which means they dive down and feed deep in the muck,” he said. “Divers aren’t good eating.”
As Dittman spoke, the goldeneye ruffled its neck feathers and pruned itself with its beak before floating out of sight.
“I wouldn’t just shoot this duck and go home and throw it in the garbage can,” he said. “Dabblers (ducks that feed on insects by dipping forward on the surface) taste better.”
More ducks, fewer hunters
While the success of a duck hunt is largely dependent on the weather — and luck — duck populations are on the rise, according to a recent report by The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Total duck populations in the U.S. and Canada — which include nearly 30 species were estimated at 47.3 million ducks in 2017.
That’s slightly less than 2016’s estimate of 48.4 million ducks. Less rainfall is thought to explain the decrease, according to the agency’s Migratory Bird Hunting Activity and Harvest Report. The 2017 population estimate is 34 percent above the long-term average since 1955.
Also on the rise is duck hunting. In 2016, 11.6 million ducks were hunted in the U.S., which is up from nearly 11 million in 2015. Goose hunting is up, too, with more than 3.2 million geese nabbed in 2016, which is an increase from 2.5 million in 2015, according to the report. Duck hunting participation numbers, however, are down. During the 2016-2017 season, slightly more than 1 million U.S. hunters sprang for duck stamps. That’s less than half of the duck hunters in 1970, according to Delta Waterfowl, a Canadian conservation nonprofit.
In 2016, Bend resident Dittman was one of 335,405 licensed overall hunters in Oregon — the ODFW’s latest numbers. The agency sold 27,295 Federal Waterfowl Stamps, which are needed to hunt duck, during the period from July 2016 to June 2017. A “duck stamp” costs $25. For the past 85 years, they have paid for the conservation of more than 5.7 million acres of strategic wetland habitat, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The 2017-18 season in Central Oregon’s Zone 2 (Hood River, Wasco, Sherman, Gilliam, Jefferson, Wheeler, Deschutes and Crook counties) stretched from Oct. 7 to Nov. 26 and from Nov. 29 to Jan. 21. In Central Oregon, there are 15 different native species. Hunters can bag no more than seven each day; only two can be female. Dittman likes duck hunting — the only kind he currently does — because the relatively long season means he doesn’t feel pressured to pack back-to-back hunts into every weekend. Dittman is also the chairman of the Bend chapter of Ducks Unlimited, a national conservation nonprofit. Since it was founded in 1937, Ducks Unlimited has aided duck populations by restoring 14 million acres of grass and woodlands or duck breeding grounds, according to the organization. The Bend chapter, which counts 15 members, has raised around $90,000 during the past two years, Dittman said. The money funds the national Ducks Unlimited account, which prioritizes conservation efforts across the country. In Oregon, Ducks Unlimited is involved in 50 such projects.
“For me personally, I want to create a legacy so my kids can go out and hunt and do all these things that I enjoy so much. It it is an oxymoron a little bit where people think, ‘Oh, you’re just going out and killing these animals,’” Dittman said. “Yes, our recreation is hunting, but we understand that the bigger picture is that if we’re not going to conserve, we won’t have hunting in the future.”
Dawn patrol
Duck hunting is limited in Central Oregon because it’s not a huge flyway. Popular areas in Central Oregon include the upper Cascade Lakes. Yet even large bodies of water, such as the Wickiup and Crane Prairie reservoirs, will freeze each winter, sealing off food sources for ducks, Dittman said. But there are other secret spots to hunt ducks. Dittman patrols private land he leases on the Crooked River along the Oneil Highway.
“That’s a big enough stretch of land that people won’t guess where it is,” Dittman said with a chuckle. Hunters, whether they’re pursuing ducks or morels, like to keep their spots secret.
This season, Dittman has shot nearly 100 ducks. Breaking the triple digits would be the first of any of his 33 years of duck hunting. At home, the loan officer by day keeps a bird-cleaning station where he plucks and dresses the carcasses before delivering them to Cinder Butte Meat Co. in Redmond, which produces the duckeroni his family likes to eat. He carries a package of the stuff on most of his hunts. Sometimes his children — Jacob, 10, and Aliana, 7 — tag along, too. Through the ODFW’s mentored youth hunter program Jacob shot his first duck this season, which Dittman supervised. He had the duck mounted and gave it to his son as a Christmas present. Aliana has yet to shoot a duck of her own, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy the hunt.
“My daughter once told me she had better come along because she’s better at spotting the ducks than me,” Dittman said with a laugh. “Hunting is a great way for us to connect in a way we can’t back at the house with video games and TVs and phones.”
He said that the secret to keeping kids content on a duck hunt involves plying them with snacks and hot cocoa. This morning, however, the moonlight was his only companion — and, until daybreak, his only illumination. It was also the longest he had to wait for sunrise — 7:11 a.m. — Central Oregon’s official green light for hunting to begin between Dec. 30. and Jan. 5. A timetable in the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife Game Birds Regulations helps hunters keep track of start times.
A few percussive, pre-dawn pops in the distance, however, told Dittman he wasn’t the sole duck hunter in the area.
“That’s a little early, boys,” he said.
A few minutes into the hunt, Dittman hunkered down on a grassy ledge overlooking a bend in the Crooked River. A dozen ducks and several geese were floating in the water and navigating the shoreline, which was slick with a layer of ice. Dittman’s large golden retriever, Scout, wearing a camouflage dog vest, had ambled next to him. He rolled on his back in the grass when not investigating mouse holes in the dirt.
“He’s 70 percent family dog and 30 percent hunting dog,” Dittman had quipped. Now, Dittman whispered a command.
“Scout. Back,” he said.
With a distance of about 40 yards, Dittman trained his shotgun toward the flock and let forth with a loud call.
“Hup! Hup!”
The sky erupted in panicked wing beats and shrill honking. Three 3-inch steel shot blasts bellowed from Dittman’s shotgun, which he fanned at the dispersing birds. A duck dropped with a leadened splash. Then a goose thudded to the water. Loose feathers pirouetted in their wakes. Scout, barking, bound into the river and swam to collect the dying duck — a drake gadwall — in his mouth. The duck stopped moving its wings by the time Scout got to shore, where he delivered the bird to his owner.
“Good boy, Scout,” he said, rubbing his panting dog’s reddish fur.
Dittman had to wade into thigh-high water, however, to retrieve the lifeless Canada goose because Scout has yet to figure out how to manage such a large bird. On a previous outing, an injured, hissing goose thrashed Scout, keeping him at bay. Dittman returned to his stake-out post, made comfortable by a drab-colored packable chair, and continued to wait. The duckeroni came out, and Dittman called on his duck whistle. Pairs of ducks flitted overhead. Their nervous, staccato calls announced them as divers — not worth Dittman’s time. Soon, teams of swans punctuated the sky with their long wing beats.
“Can’t shoot those,” Dittman said.
Despite setting up several dozen duck and goose decoys on the cow pie-strewn pasture and rudder-equipped ones in the Crooked River, nothing happened for an hour. Scout sniffed the limp, still-warm birds. He licked at a patch of blood on the duck’s torso and returned to sitting on his haunches, shivering a little. His owner alternated his jacket off and on.
“Not much flying today,” he said. “Like my son says, ‘Nothing is guaranteed; that’s why they call it hunting.’”
The aforementioned goldeneye scuttled to the river’s surface and, unmolested, floated downstream. Then a wigeon — female and mottled in gray-brown plumage — arrived in the water. It was a tasty dabbler. The duck didn’t notice as Dittman popped up from the grass.
“Hup! Hup!” Dittman called out again. His shots rang throughout the rimrock valley. Then Scout, barking, lunged into the water and began to swim.
“Go get ’em, Scout!” Dittman said. “Good boy.”
Bend Bulletin: Central Oregon Taxidermists Preserve Hunt, Camaraderie
Published: Dec. 6, 2017
Shaun Lewis placed two lifeless wood ducks on the counter of McLagan’s Taxidermy. He had shot the pair of drakes on a hunting trip with his buddies last autumn in the Umatilla National Wildlife Refuge. The electric company foreman stashed the spectacularly colored birds, which are “especially sought after,” in his freezer until he had $600 to preserve the hunting memories — the rain, the cold and the camaraderie — forever.
“It’s an exciting thing. Going into a taxidermist, you always have a good feeling because you’re taking something you want turned into memories. You don’t just shoot a tiny deer and take it in. It’s something that you’re proud of. It’s a great feeling.”
After Tim McLagan checked Lewis’ hunting license, the two talked about the scene Lewis, who has hunted since he was a teenager, would like him to curate.
“One drake will sit in a roosting position on a big piece of driftwood,” Lewis said. “He’s almost sitting down with his wings tucked in but you can see all the vibrant colors of his wing patterns. The other will be suspended in flight. Wood ducks are gorgeous.”
Swift, stinky business
At the height of several hunting seasons, which include elk, deer, bear and many varieties of fowl, Central Oregon taxidermists find themselves busier than ever. In his workshop situated between Bend and Redmond, McLagan presently has about 200 commissioned mounts that are undergoing various stages of preservation. In one shed — “the salt room” — 40 cured hides and capes (skin from the head and shoulders) are draped on hooks or are still lying in mounds of curing salt. Then they get tanned, a several-month process that McLagan outsources. Customers often commission two mounts of a single animal. The first, known as the European style, features the bare skull preserved and displayed on a plaque. The traditional mount showcases the hide, which the taxidermist fits on an anatomically-correct mannequin. A crucial step in the preservation process is maggot-aided decay. In his backyard, McLagan swung open the door of another shed he calls “the rot room,” in which the skinless heads of 30 deer, moose and elk sat wrapped in plastic bags that retain moisture and encourage rot. After a four or five days, McLagan simmers the skulls in water before he removes “goop material” with a pressure washer. Next, he soaks the skulls in a whitening peroxide solution. After an application of clear coat sealant, McLagan readies the skulls for mounting.
The heavy stink of rot and decay is a part of taxidermy — a factor that no longer offends McLagan unless it’s a hot summer day and the stench is particularly ripe.
“I keep these sheds right by my bedroom window,” he said with a chuckle.
“I guess I didn’t think that through.”
McLagan, 59, is one of about a dozen taxidermists in Central Oregon and creates about 300 mounts each year.
His price list ranges from full-bodied smaller pieces like crows and ducks ($300 each) to cougars ($3,200) and bears ($3,200 to $4,650). Larger exotic trophies, such as a full-body rhinoceros ($23,000), are an option, too, but McLagan has yet to preserve such a trophy.
“I’d certainly take it on, although I’m not 30 anymore,” McLagan said in the workshop connected to his rural home.
Plenty of research would be required to ensure the mount is anatomically correct as well as aesthetically jaw-dropping. In McLagan’s trophy room, boar, beer and gazelle shoulder mounts — which feature the head and end at the shoulders — vie for wall space and visitors’ attention. McLagan has hunted — and eaten — each of the animals. Cougar meat, he said, supplies excellent tenderloins and breakfast sausage.
“You would think it was pork,” McLagan said, adding that its leanness calls for lots of oil or butter.
While some of the larger trophies tell the story of an epic day in which McLagan almost became the prey, other pieces are sentimental. On the wall rests the head of an innocuous forked-horn buck. McLagan shot the deer on the last hunting trip he took with his father shortly before he died in 2005.
“It’s not how big it is, it’s the memories you’re preserving,” McLagan said. “We’re not just killer savages throwing heads on the wall.”
Not ‘stuffed’ animals
When Thomas Andreatta, a Chemult taxidermist, speaks about taxidermy with the uninitiated, he’s quick to point out that the adjective “stuffed” is a misnomer in the taxidermy world.
Contemporary taxidermists either fit hides over the polyurethane mannequins that were shaped in a factory or that they carve themselves. There is no stuffing to be seen. Hidden tape and wire help fan feathers and claws alike into anatomically correct positions.
While the ancient Egyptians’ mummification may be counted as the earliest strain of taxidermy, contemporary taxidermy is rooted in post-Medieval Europe and was later refined during the 19th and early 20th centuries, according to the website Taxidermy Hobbyist. Explorers and scientists would collect species from far-flung parts of the world. Preservation methods, however, were crude, and stuffing material included rags, straw and cotton. Many techniques didn’t completely halt decomposition.
“Early taxidermy was lumpy,” Andreatta said. “It was not true to form.”
Memory preservation
Andreatta, 53, said everyone who comes through his shop’s door has a story. A few years ago, two brothers brought in a few common ducks. The pair had recently lost a brother, who rounded out their hunting excursions, in a car crash. To commemorate him, the two packed his ashes into shotgun cartridges and went hunting. These ducks were what they came home with.
“Taxidermy (can pack in) some pretty intense memories,” Andreatta said. “When I heard that story, boy, I said, ‘Have I heard everything now,’” he added with a laugh. “Taxidermy is a study in anthropology. You really get to see what makes people tick.”
Andreatta, who specializes in birds and turns around 75 to 100 avian recreations a year, said sometimes he preserves people’s pets, such as parrots. McLagan once mounted a champion mushing dog, yet now declines pet preservation.
“The people I deal with all day are happy,” McLagan said. “If I take care of people’s pets, it’s emotional. They lost their loved one, and a couple months down the road, it’s a whole different ballgame.”
Birding for keeps
Alex Sackerson, 42, has owned and operated Predawn Adventures, which leads personalized group hunts, since 2014. Sackerson, who lives in Prineville, said he encounters a variety of hunters, many of whom keep lists of birds they hope to harvest and preserve with taxidermy.
“It’s almost like a bucket list for them, like a ‘I want to get this done before I die’ type of deal,” he said.
On a recent hunt, Sackerson shot a rare Canada goose with an atypical all-white head. He and his hunting party, who had spotted the bird during previous seasons in the same location, all hoped to fell it.
“So of course now he’s going on the wall,” Sackerson said. “I still have buddies who are envious they didn’t get him.”
Throughout his home, Sackerson has 20 “pieces,” which include a Ross’s goose, a white-fronted goose and an American wigeon. He also has a mallard and a spoonbill, which were the first birds his preteen daughters shot. Sackerson, however, is running out of wall space, which is why he has suspended five birds from his ceiling with fishing line.
“They look like they’re actually flying,” he said, joking that he would sooner buy a larger house than limit his growing collection of objects he considers art.
“Taxidermists are artists. They bring the animals almost back to life — that’s what I like,” he said, adding that the best taxidermists can expertly reproduce different flying and landing techniques. When seasoned hunters and trophy collectors convene, he said, they often delve into detailed discussions about the avian subspecies and rare cross-breeds and anomalies. Taxidermy specimens distill these conversations.
“To hunt king eiders, you might have to go on an extraordinary hunt up in Alaska. You’re dealing with nasty hurricane winds and 14-foot (ocean) swells. Conditions can be so extreme,” he said. “Or you can be down in Argentina in shorts and flip-flops shooting at ducks. (Taxidermy) gets people to reminisce about the special hunts of their lifetime. It’s quite the conversation piece.”
Bend Bulletin: Prineville Preteen Fills Coveted Bighorn Sheep Tag
Published: Oct. 18, 2017
Jordan Phillips had trekked four days on foot and four-wheeler over challenging terrain in southeastern Oregon. Accompanied by her father, Matthew Kline, the 12-year-old was on her first hunt for a bighorn sheep.
Jordan shouldered a 15-pound pack, along with her .257 Weatherby rifle, through a wasteland of sagebrush and fluctuating elevations. They trundled down a steep canyon on the fifth afternoon, sometimes crawling on their stomachs to avoid being seen by the pack of bighorn sheep, which numbered about a dozen. Once she found an ideal shooting location, Jordan settled on a ram that featured an ideal heft and horn shape. Hunkering down next to Kline, 43, the young girl sighted the ram through the rifle’s scope. At a distance of 575 yards, Jordan, antsy with nerves, squeezed off a shot. The explosive bang echoed throughout the shale-strewn canyon.
She missed.
“I was so nervous,” said Jordan, who is a seventh-grader at Prineville Middle School. “I was really worried they would run away.”
A once-in-a-lifetime tag
Jordan is exceedingly lucky to have drawn a bighorn sheep tag — or permission to harvest such an animal in a designated area — as she did in June. Each year, the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife organizes a lottery-like drawing for a variety of hunting opportunities throughout public land in the state. The chance for Kline’s daughter to win the privilege cost him about $140. These tags afford, quite literally, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities; hunters cannot win another such tag again. Of 21,775 people who applied for bighorn sheep tags, only 86 hunters got lucky. Jordan was one of only three to win a bighorn sheep tag in the ODFW’s White Horse Unit, which borders Idaho and Nevada in southeastern Oregon.
Jordan is one of about 57,000 kids in Oregon who hold youth hunting licenses. Some adult hunters, like Kline, enter repeatedly for the opportunity to hunt bighorn sheep and never get lucky.
Bill Littlefield, the president of the Oregon Hunters Association’s Bend chapter, has also had sour luck. Since 2000, he has applied each year for a bighorn sheep tag in not only Oregon but in Utah, Nevada, Wyoming, Colorado, Montana and sometimes Idaho, Arizona and New Mexico. Each year, he’s ended up empty-handed. Bighorn sheep and mountain goats, he said, owing to their small populations and the correspondingly scant tags offered each year, make them “two of the most coveted tags in the lower 48.”
In the lower section of the White Horse Unit, Kline watched his daughter’s initial shot through binoculars. He told her she was so close the bullet “parted the hair on the ram’s back.” He suggested she aim a little lower. When she fired again the bullet spiraled below the ram’s belly. The shots split the sheep into two groups. While the pulls on the trigger relieved Jordan of some jitters, she knew time was of the essence — the rams had now ducked out of view.
“She never lost her confidence,” Kline said.
With two bullets left in her magazine Jordan and Kline followed the sound of the rams’ hooves moving across the shale. When the rams reappeared 50 feet away, Jordan didn’t have a suitable place to rest her rifle’s tripod. Jordan’s father urged her to use his shoulder as a perch for the rifle.
“Tell me when you’re about to shoot so I can take a deep breath and plug my ears,” he told Jordan.
When the third shot rang out, the ram staggered and attempted to run before it tumbled down an embankment. Father and daughter were elated. Jordan cried “tears of joy,” the first time she had experienced the sensation in her life.
“It was amazing. It was crazy. I can’t really explain it. It was just such a relief I finally got one,” she said. The ram was lying down, yet it wasn’t dead. Jordan collected herself to send another bullet whizzing behind its shoulders, close to where her first bullet had also penetrated.
Conservation, aided by hunting
In the Western continental U.S. and Canada, the bighorn sheep population hovers around 80,000, according to the Wild Sheep Foundation. An estimated 170,000 to 190,000 wild sheep — which include three other subspecies — are spread throughout North America, with more than half found throughout Alaska, British Columbia, the Northwest Territories and Yukon, said the nonprofit. Since the first California bighorn sheep were brought to Southeast Oregon from British Columbia, Canada, in 1954, the population has grown to around 3,500, according to ODFW. Oregon populations benefit from ODFW’s conservation efforts, which are funded in part from the proceeds of the hunting tags. Other organizations, such as the Wild Sheep Foundation and Oregon Foundation for North American Wild Sheep, are also involved.
In preparation for their hunt, Jordan and Kline attended the nonprofit’s free sheep and goat orientation workshop in The Dalles in July. Available only to ODFW sheep and goat tag holders and their families and hunting parties, the nonprofit’s seminar touched on the mental, physical and technical demands of hunting in a remote area. The group recommended attendees ramp up their strength for multiday hunting treks by going on hikes and runs. They were also told to be ready to deal with the disappointment and stress of such outings, particularly if they do not find any sheep or goats. Nonetheless, after the presentation, the atmosphere was celebratory. Other tag holders congratulated Jordan, who grew to realize how lucky she was to have this opportunity.
“There were quite a few people who came up to me,” Jordan said. “One lady (who had also received her first bighorn sheep tag) talked to me for a while. As she was walking away, she turned and said, ‘Girl power,’” Jordan added with a laugh.
Kline applied for his daughter to secure a bighorn sheep youth tag in the White Horse Unit because he had accompanied a friend there 12 years ago on a similar hunt. He and his daughter drove down in an RV with friends, arriving a couple days before Aug. 19, opening day. The pair then spent two days stalking three rams, keeping tabs on where they bedded down at night. On the opening day morning, they lost track of them when they sprinted off to elude an unknown predator.
After days of trekking and camping, Jordan steadied herself to click off the third and fourth life-ending shots at the ram. Kline recorded a cellphone video of his daughter approaching her prize.
“He said he had led me through most of my hunt. Now it was my turn to lead him up to the ram,” she said. “It was just so joyful. I tried to hold its head up; I was like, ‘Ooh, this is pretty heavy.’”
She touched the ram’s horns, which were alternatively rough and smooth. Each horn was splintered at the end where the ram had “broomed” it, which is something rams do to wear down excess horn from blocking their peripheral vision. Kline took charge of the field dressing. Jordan held the legs while Kline removed the guts, which had been ruptured by one of Jordan’s bullets.
“We had to pick the berries and grass out of him,” Jordan said.
Two others who had previously tipped off Jordan and Kline to the bighorn sheeps’ location, helped carry the 80 pounds of meat out from the canyon and to their four-wheelers. The process took four hours and lasted until sundown. Jordan carried the ram’s 60-pound head — horns and all — on her 20-pound pack. It was a daunting task for a 90-pound preteen. A local taxidermist is persevering the ram’s hide and horns, which father and daughter will mount in their home.
“(To be back after a successful hunt) was a relief and exciting. It was just really joyful for everybody,” Jordan said. “We were definitely happy we didn’t have to wake up at three in the morning to go out again.”
A family affair
Kline shared in his daughter’s satisfaction.
“Hunting is a family thing. You may not all go out in the woods together, but you’re camping together. It’s a way to stay together,” said Kline, who has hunted since he was Jordan’s age. “When I was a kid, my uncles would go, my grandpa would go. No matter where you lived, you always showed up for hunting season.”
Jordan said she was thankful to her father for imparting his expertise on such an unforgettable hunt.
Kline still marvels at the experience.
“The bighorn sheep tag is an impossible tag to draw. I’ve been trying to draw one since I was 12 years old,” he said. “Even though I didn’t carry a rifle of my own, and I didn’t pull the trigger, this hunt with Jordan was the most satisfying hunt I’ve ever been on.”