OUTDOOR LIFE INTERVIEW Part 2 of 3

I’m proud to say the May 2013 issue of Outdoor Life magazine includes a short piece about me in the “My Outdoor Life” section. The editor, Andrew McKean, “interviewed” me by emailing a list of questions, which I answered in writing. We covered much more than Andrew was able to publish in the half-page article, so I’ll put up my lengthy answers here in three posts. Here’s the second part.

Deer hunting with Andrew McKean in Montana

Q: There's a lot about you that impresses me, but one of the most remarkable details is that your passion for hunting hasn't dimmed. Post-ALS, where have you hunted? Any remarkable or memorable hunts in the mix?

            A: I refuse to let a minor setback like an incurable, fatal illness diminish my passion for hunting or my zest for life.

            I’ve done more hunting in the six years since my diagnosis than in the 16 years prior! As explained earlier, I went through a long stretch when opportunities to hunt were scarce and I had other demands on my time. Shortly after my diagnosis I jettisoned from my vocabulary phrases like “some day” and “maybe next year,” and started taking advantage of as many opportunities as possible. Since 2006 I’ve hunted in British Columbia (black bear on Vancouver Island); North Carolina (whitetail, squirrel); Georgia (whitetail, turkey), South Carolina (whitetail, turkey, wild hog, squirrel); Florida (alligator, hog); Alabama (whitetail); Texas (fallow deer, axis deer, hog); Wyoming (pronghorn, mule deer, prairie dog); Idaho (black bear); Montana (whitetail, mule deer); Argentina (red stag, European boar); Uruguay (feral hog).

            As I answer this question I look around my living room and see antlers, skulls, hides and dozens of photos on display to remind me of wonderful days afield. Three hunts stand out for three different reasons.

June 2006, Vancouver Island black bear

            I had booked this hunt with Vancouver Island Guide Outfitters a year in advance, when my symptoms were just beginning to show. My doctor issued the diagnosis of ALS just one month before I was to embark on the adventure, so I asked his opinion. “Bear hunting? Don’t go. It could be too strenuous.”

Ligia and I agreed that the rewards of taking the trip would justify all efforts involved. It would be far worse for my health to simply give up and stay home. The only ones who regret our decision to go on that hunt are the doctor—we found a new one—and the original owner of the 7-foot black bear skin that now adorns our wall. I had a fantastic time, saw some gorgeous country and realized that even a guy with ALS can, and should, get out to try new experiences. This trip’s success encouraged me to plan more hunts.

December 2008, South Carolina squirrels

During Christmas week at Bang’s Paradise Valley Hunting Club in Ehrhardt, South Carolina, my good friend Ron Wagner and I took a break from deer hunting to shoot some squirrels. We invited nine-year-old Klay Elixson, who was in camp with his grandfather, to join us.

We had a hoot that morning as the three of us took turns using my adaptive shooting gear to pick off bushytails. More importantly, that outing led to a lasting friendship. Since then, Klay always comes to see me when I’m back at Paradise Valley so we can spend quality time in the blind hunting deer, turkeys, hogs, and especially squirrels.

October 2009, Wyoming pronghorn and mule deer

When I told my friend Ron Wagner that I’d like to try hunting out West, he immediately replied, “Just say when and where. I’ll be there for you.”

Research on the Internet led me to an outfitter in Wyoming who accepted the challenge of guiding a disabled hunter. Ron and I, along with our wives, had a fun, action-packed trip. We marveled at the landscapes and saw plenty of game every day—new, exciting game for us Eastern boys.

We shot pronghorns and prairie dogs early in the week, and on the fourth morning of our hunt, Ron helped me take a mule deer. Another dream came came true when I gripped that muley’s antler and inhaled the invigorating, snowy air.

That adventure taught me that, yes, dreams come true, but nobody delivers fulfilled dreams to your doorstep. I was inspired to keep planning new adventures and put forth the effort to make my dreams become reality.

Q: And why do you continue to hunt even though it takes such a physical toll on your body?

            A: Although he encouraged me to pursue my interests, my dad was no outdoorsman, so hunting never came easily for me. If I wanted to go, I was on my own, or I had to find neighbors or cousins willing to take me.

            I never took hunting for granted, and I learned to cherish my time in the woods. Now, when I see a sunrise, hear a red stag roar, breathe in the scents of the woods, feel the adrenaline rush that only hunters know, I forget any discomfort I may have endured to get out there.

             During a bear hunt in the Idaho Rockies, as the guide was driving Ron and me in his Mitsubishi 4x4 over a terribly bumpy logging road, he noticed that my head was getting jolted around quite a bit. “Do all these bumps bother your neck?” he asked. I laughed and asked, “If I say yes, what can you do about it?”

            My philosophy is, “If you wanna play, you gotta pay.”

            But I do need to pace myself on a trip, typically hunting only mornings or afternoons.

            Researching and planning the next hunt keeps my mind engaged in positive activity—a crucial factor for anyone with a physically debilitating illness. Cancer patients receive chemotherapy, so I decided to treat my ALS with camotherapy.

            Besides, what else is there to do? I never learned needlepoint and I’m lousy at checkers.

In the Idaho Rockies, June 2010

OUTDOOR LIFE INTERVIEW Part 1 of 3

I’m proud to say the May 2013 issue of Outdoor Life magazine includes a short piece about me in the “My Outdoor Life” section. The editor, Andrew McKean, “interviewed” me by emailing a list of questions, which I answered in writing. We covered much more than Andrew was able to publish in the half-page article, so I’ll put up my lengthy answers here in three posts.

Hunting with Andrew McKean in Montana, November 2011.

Q: You grew up hunting in your home state of Pennsylvania. What species did you cut your teeth on?

A: As a young kid I loved fishing and observing nature, but I had a late start hunting. In the eighth grade I began running a short trapline for muskrat, opossum and raccoon. At 15 I started hunting small game such as doves, rabbits and pheasants, but I especially enjoyed hunting squirrels—and I still do.

Q: Tell me about your life in Brazil. What prompted your move there, and tell me about your writing and editing work. What titles did you work for and what positions did you hold? How did you manage to produce content from another continent? Were you able to continue to hunt from your Rio base?

A: While working on my master’s degree in educational media at Temple University in Philadelphia, I met a classmate named Ligia and we eventually got married. When Ligia completed her Ph.D. in 1990, we moved to her hometown: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Ligia continued her career as a university professor while I found freelance work as an English tutor, translator, photographer and videographer. I also began submitting articles—in Portuguese—to a Brazilian fishing magazine called Trofeu Pesca.

In 1995 Trofeu Pesca hired me as a full-time writer/photographer, a position that let me travel and fish throughout Brazil. A year later I left that job to begin publishing my own fishing magazine, in Portuguese, entitled Pescando. My many roles there included publisher, editor, photographer, marketing manager—heck, I even delivered bundles of magazines to sell at local tackle shops.

Ligia in a cover photo I took in 1996

In 1998 I received an offer I couldn’t refuse when Doug Olander, editor in chief of Sport Fishing magazine, invited me to move to Orlando, Florida, and join his staff as associate editor. Ligia, who has always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, gave her wholehearted support. I accepted the job, we made the move, and by early 2000 I’d been promoted to editor.

One of my Sport Fishing covers

In 2001 Ligia said she’d like to move back to Rio to help care for her aging parents, and I readily agreed. I resigned my position, we moved back to Brazil, and I spent the next 18 months freelancing for American and Brazilian fishing magazines.

In 2003 Sport Fishing rehired me as senior editor with the agreement that I’d work out of my home in Rio. I was responsible for writing several regular departments (Gear Guide, Game Plan) and one or two feature articles per issue, as well as editing freelancers’ submissions and proofreading my fellow editors’ work. Although I live in Brazil, I could produce content for our predominantly American readership because I traveled often to attend trade shows and cover destinations in the US, Caribbean and Central America.

Hunting took a back seat during this phase of my life. There’s no legal hunting to speak of in Brazil, and from 1990 to 1998 I couldn’t afford to travel internationally just to hunt. In 1995 a Brazilian friend asked me, “What do you miss most about the States? The food? Your family?”

I answered, “I miss the leaf-loam smell of a hardwood ridge mixing with the aroma of burnt gunpowder on a crisp October morning.” The puzzled look on his face told me that no matter how I tried to explain, he’d never understand.

From 1998 to 2001, when I lived in Florida, my work at Sport Fishing kept me too busy to go hunting. But don’t cry for me: “Busy” means I was living the dream, traveling to the world’s premier saltwater fishing destinations, from Alaska to the Azores. And our condo had lakefront access, so I did a lot of bass fishing in the evenings and on weekends.

My hunting bug emerged from hibernation after Ligia and I moved back to Rio in 2001. I was traveling to the States four or five times per year, so I started tweaking my itineraries to allow quick side trips to get together with friends and hunt small game in Pennsylvania, waterfowl in Maryland or hogs in Florida.

I “discovered” Argentina in 2004 when I visited Brazil’s neighbor to hunt doves. The outfitter told me about his country’s big-game hunting, and I returned in April 2005 to take my first red stag and a puma in La Pampa. I was thrilled to find hunting opportunities close to home (4-hr flight vs 10 to the US), but then—on to the next question.

 

My red stag and puma in La Pampa, Argentina, April 2005

Q: When were you diagnosed with ALS? Can you describe early symptoms, and the state of your physical and mental health over time?

            A: Physically: My body is going to hell in a hatbox.

Mentally: I’m determined to enjoy the ride.

I had always pursued an active, athletic lifestyle. In June 2005—when I was 43 years old, stood 6 feet four inches, weighed 185 pounds, was working out at the gym four mornings per week and playing several hours of beach volleyball a week—I began having persistent twitching (called fasciculations) in my shoulders. Over the next few months I lost my normal quickness and leaping ability, which made me flub routine plays in volleyball. My arms and legs started seizing up in agonizing cramps. I lost smoothness in my step and my gait became a stilted shuffle. I frequently lost my balance. I consulted a general practioner, who referred me to a neurologist, who conducted many exams over the following months without issuing a clear verdict.

            In September 2005 I lost my balance while crossing the street, took a hard fall, and shattered my right collarbone so badly that the ER doctor asked if I had been thrown from a motorcycle. Despite the pain, my sense of humor remained intact. When the doctor explained that surgery would be necessary to reassemble the bone fragments, I asked if he could install a recoil pad under the skin.

            I began using a walking stick in early 2006. In May 2006, after many more tests, my neurologist diagnosed my condition as amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease). This malady destroys nerve cells that control voluntary muscle movement. When they stop receiving signals from nerves, the muscles weaken and gradually wither away. There is no known cure or effective treatment for slowing the disease’s progress.

            Having ALS compares to donning a full-body suit of wet cement. At first your arms and legs feel very heavy. As the cement dries, your limbs stiffen and eventually become immobile. The rate at which ALS progresses varies greatly from one patient to another, but statistics show that most ALS patients die of respiratory failure within two to five years of diagnosis. I feel fortunate; somebody must have dumped slow-drying cement on me because I’m approaching seven years and still have limited use of my legs, arms and hands.

            In late 2006 my balance got so shaky that I needed a four-legged walker. When I brought home the shiny, polished-aluminum walker, the first thing I did was wrap it in camo tape because I knew I’d be using it in the woods.

On a deer hunt in Georgia, November 2006

By early 2008 I was in a wheelchair and my arms had become too weak to raise a rifle. In 2009 I started using a rigid cervical collar because my neck became too weak to hold up my head. My speech has become labored, slurred and difficult to understand.

            As ALS robbed my strength, daily physical tasks became increasingly difficult. We hired two personal aides who trade off in three-day shifts to give me round-the-clock assistance. They help me bathe, dress, eat.

            Mental health…ALS only affects motor neurons, so all my senses still function. Although I can’t lift my arms or stand on my own, I can feel pressure, pain, heat, cold.

            My vision, hearing, sense of smell and, especially, my cognitive processes, are as good as ever. I’m alert and aware of what’s going on around me. And I get kinda cheesed off when strangers think they need to speak to me LOUDLY AND SLOWLY.

Through it all, I’ve maintained a positive attitude. I never let myself fall into the “Why me?” trap. Rather than complaining about my condition, I look for ways to overcome my challenges. I don’t waste time lamenting what I can’t do; I focus on what I’d like to do and find ways to make it happen.

            About a year after my diagnosis I noticed that no matter how much I ad-libbed, ALS insisted on following the script of progressively eroding my muscles. I was fighting what was cruelly destined to be a losing battle. I realized that having ALS is like having a disagreeable roommate in college: You can channel all your energy toward fighting him (which makes life miserable for everyone) or you can make the best of it and learn to live with him. At that point I quit fighting ALS and decided I would live with it as well as I could.

            As a writer, I respect the power of words and avoid negative terminology. I have ALS, but I’m not a victim of the disease. I don’t suffer from ALS. I especially dislike the phrase “confined to a wheelchair.” Confined? My wheelchair gives me freedom! Without it, I’d really be confined, unable to get outside.

NEW CAMERA

This one gives me some cool options for recording hunts and other events.

            I don’t consider myself a technology buff, but I recently bought a Veho VCC-005-MUVI mini camcorder. I already own one each of the smaller-than-your-thumb VCC-003-MUVI and VCC-004-MUVI-ATOM micro camcorders, and they’re useful for no-hands recording when clipped to a headband.

            Although quite compact (measuring 3 by 1.8 by .74 inches), the VCC-005 is a bit too large to comfortably strap to my head. I like this camera because it comes with a remote control and waterproof case, opening up a world of possibilities.

            My aide Ricardo Meneses and I tested the camera here in my ninth-floor Rio apartment, where hummingbirds and bananaquits regularly flit in and out the window to drink from a feeder hanging in our living room. We also improvised a bird bath, which the bananaquits use every day.

            First we put the camera on a tripod by the bird bath:

            Then we put it in the water. I added some slo-mo when editing this video:

Nature is all around us, and adventure is where you find it—so get out there and start looking!

FLAT TIRES

If that inner tube were Indian, it would be a patchy.

Of all the places I’ve been fortunate to hunt, Argentina’s La Pampa province has proven the harshest on my wheelchair by far. I first went there in 2005, before experiencing any mobility problems, and enjoyed an exciting hunt for red stag in the caldén thickets.

When I returned to La Pampa in 2010 I obviously couldn’t sneak through the heavy cover in my wheelchair to stalk stags, so my guide, Carlos Martinez, set up ground blinds overlooking food plots. We hunted at night, which is legal in Argentina, and took a fine 5x5 by the light of the full moon. On our way back to Rio from that hunt, my wheelchair’s left tire went flat while waiting for our connecting flight in Buenos Aires. No choice but to limp home, riding the rim, and slap a patch on the tube the next day.

In April 2011 I was back in La Pampa. The stags didn’t cooperate so we switched our focus to wild boars—again, hunting at night from ground blinds. Halfway through the week my left tire deflated, but it was no surprise because after each trip afield my aide Ivson had to remove the very sharp and very abundant burrs that the Argentines so eloquently call “rosetas” from his boots and pants, and from my tires. My gracious hosts injected Fix-a-Flat in the tire to no avail. (I’ve since learned that Fix-a-Flat is designed to mend tubeless tires only; the instructions say the product isn’t for use on inner tubes.) When we got home we found three holes in the inner tube and decided to simply replace rather than repair it.

I set a new personal record on my trip to La Pampa in April 2012. Both tires got the wind knocked out of ’em on the first afternoon! We knew that trying to patch the tubes (I had packed a repair kit) would be an exercise in frustration, so I accepted the rough ride as part of the adventure. My aide Alex wheeled me around on flats for an exciting five days during which I took two stags and a European boar. The tires were still good when we got home, but the tubes were shredded.

Several people have suggested getting solid tires, but I’m not ready to invest in them because: 1) I only go to La Pampa once a year; 2) Inner tubes are cheap; and 3) Rio’s sidewalks are so bumpy that I need the shock absorption of inflated tires to keep my teeth from jarring loose.

Besides, hunting on flats is better than sitting at home on perfect tires.

TIME OUT

Enjoying Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro

People come from all corners of the world to celebrate Carnaval in Brazil, and I wasn’t about to miss the party in my own back yard!

            Far from the lavish parades in downtown Rio’s Sambadrome stadium, you’ll find traditional Carnaval celebrations stopping traffic and taking over the streets of Copacabana. Revelers follow bands through the neighborhood like rats behind the Pied Piper, and folks of all ages don costumes and stroll along Avenida Atlantica (the beachfront avenue is closed to vehicular traffic for four days during Carnaval).

            My aide Ricardo and I pulled on some Mossy Oak Breakup and Realtree APG, and took CamoTherapy to street level. Since there’s no hunting culture here in Brazil, everyone assumed we were guerrillas. One guy called me “Private Brian.”

Ligia likes to push me around.

We met a cute little Tinkerbell…

…and a not so cute, much larger Tinkerbell.

GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST: 2007 & 2008

Do stories about Christmas ghosts scare the Dickens out of you?

Fear not, these yuletide tales focus on fond memories of jolly spirits and Christmas hunts in South Carolina.

Here are a few holiday memories:

JASON’S FIRST DEER

In 2007 Ligia (my wife) and I began our tradition of holiday hunts at Bang’s Paradise Valley Hunting Club in Ehrhardt, South Carolina. We arrived on Christmas Day and spent the last week of the SC deer season in camp, enjoying the family atmosphere.

The highlight of that trip occurred one evening as I sat in a two-man tree stand with my nephew Jason (then 16 years old), who was on his first-ever hunt. In the last moments of daylight I saw two deer enter a clearing 50 yards to our left—perfect, because Jason sat on that side of the blind.

I nudged Jason, and when he saw the deer, he carefully placed his .270 on the shooting rail. “Which one?” he asked.

Both were full-grown does, so I whispered, “Either one.”

The deer were just shadowy forms in the fading gloam, but I knew the scope’s 52 mm objective would give Jason a clear view of his target. Even so, we had no time to lose. One deer turned perfectly broadside. “Should I shoot?” he asked.

“Take your time,” I said. “Aim carefully and squeeze the trigger.”

The kid hesitated. The deer took a step forward. I tried to stay calm, but inside my head I screamed “Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!”

A few more long seconds, and then the rifle roared. One deer ran away while the other stood still. Before Jason could rack the bolt, the 100-pound doe wobbled and collapsed. A perfect lung shot!

“Are you OK Uncle Andy?” Jason asked. “When I was aiming I could hear you breathing kinda fast.”

RUDOLPH’S DEMISE

The following year we arrived at Paradise Valley for our holiday hunt on December 22.

The lodge owner, Bang Collins, had a cake ready for Ligia’s birthday (Dec. 23).

As my friend Ron and I were heading out to hunt that afternoon, Ligia said, “Bring back some venison for my birthday.”

We saw only one deer that evening. On any other day we would have let the button buck walk, but I reminded Ron of Ligia’s birthday wish. My wife was all smiles, visions of venison jerky dancing in her head, when we returned to camp with a deer. Just when Bang was ready to snap our photo, Ron said, “Wait a minute!” and trotted into the lodge.

He emerged with a red Christmas-tree ornament and fastened it to the deer’s nose. “Rudolph flew a little too low tonight.”

“You rascals have a warped sense of humor,” Bang said. “I love it.”

SQUIRREL SAFARI

Ron and I figured Santa wouldn’t bring us any gifts after we took out Rudolph, so we went squirrel hunting on Christmas morning. We got four bushytails, and had such a good time that we went again the next day.

Although we tallied 10 squirrels, my shooting setup hindered our effectiveness. The .22 was mounted on a BE-Adaptive LM100 gun support; Ron aimed while we both watched the sight picture on the scopecam, and I squeezed the trigger with a cable release. When hunting deer, Ron would take careful aim and say “Squeeze” or “Whenever you’re ready.”

But when my point man lined up the crosshairs on the first squirrel that morning he said, “Smoke’m!”

I started laughing, which made my wheelchair shake, which wiggled the gun support, which made the crosshairs dance, which made it impossible to shoot until I had regained composure.

That evening as we talked about our “rodent-control project” I noticed a youngster listening with wide-eyed attention. Nine-year-old Klay Elixson had come to Paradise Valley with his grandfather Rick Hires, another regular visitor at the lodge with whom we’d become good friends. I asked Rick, and when he gave his permission I invited Klay to join Ron and me for a squirrel safari.

            The next dawn found the three of us anxiously waiting for some squirrels to appear. We didn’t have to wait long. We used my shooting equipment, which kept everyone involved in the hunt. Ron aimed while Klay and I took turns using the cable control to squeeze the trigger. Klay displayed fine hunting skills by keeping still, spotting bushytails and patiently waiting for high-percentage shots. The scope camera proved an excellent teaching tool as we followed squirrels on the monitor and discussed why different situations and angles made for good or bad shot selections. Our apprentice soon earned the title of No-Playin’ Outa-the-Wayin’ Lead-Sprayin’ Squirrel-Slayin’ Machine.

            Sharing our knowledge and watching a young hunter enjoy himself, Ron and I probably had more fun than Klay that morning. Time in the woods with an enthusiastic kid also showed me that despite having special needs, disabled hunters can and must take responsibility for helping pass on our outdoor heritage to the next generation.

THE CATNAP BUCK

If you think my friend Don Christensen hung up his rifle after helping Ralph shoot the “Blind Man’s Buck,” think again. Hunting on his property in Spooner, Wisconsin, Don received a dose of good luck from an unlikely source.

Here’s the story in Don’s own words:

It had been a slow four days of hunting. My daughter Beth and I had only seen two small does and a pair of spikes. I wanted to hunt on Nov 21, the day before Thanksgiving, and figured something would show up because Beth decided to take the evening off to start Thanksgiving prep. Seems there is always a day or two during season when she has something else to do, and that's always when I have opportunities.

I had been sitting for an hour in a blind 100 yards behind my house when our cat—a jet-black female named Bob (because of her short ears)—felt she needed to come out in the woods and hang out by my stand. I have no idea why she does this. I've never even petted her, but she inevitably shows up and scratches at the door of the shooting house. I wasn't in my elevated shooting house this time so she jumped right up on the windowsill. I whispered a few obscenities to her and she, being a cat, jumped onto my rifle rest and burrowed down in the blanket on my lap and went to sleep. I figured things would get pretty intense if I surprised her with a shot during the evening, but being quadriplegic, there wasn't much I could do.

Bob performs double duty as lapwarmer and good-luck charm.

Not long after that, a buck stepped onto the food plot about 100 yards from me. My rifle rest would only turn about half the necessary distance to get my sights on the deer, so I needed to turn the chair quite a ways. By the time I realized that, he was only about 80 yards away, standing in the oats.

I turned and my wheelchair made a loud click. He froze broadside, looking in my direction, but I had turned just far enough where I could do the finer aiming adjustments with the joystick on my rest. Thankfully he stood still for the couple of seconds that took. A little squeeze on my bite trigger and BOOM went my .243.

The shot seemed to have no effect on the buck and he trotted off to the right out of view. You know, that cat never even moved until I started shaking after the shot as the adrenaline left my system. Reminds me, I've got to bring her out some turkey from dinner. Don't get me wrong and assume I like that cat but she did stay quiet when I needed her to.

I knew the shot felt perfect, so the buck wouldn't go far. I gave my son Riley a call and he came out to recover the deer. I couldn't figure out what was going on because there was no blood, no hair, absolutely no sign of a hit. My whole family, my caregiver, and the neighbor searched the area but there was absolutely no sign of any kind. We decided to let him be till morning, then start really working the woods. The morning search didn't go any better, so I was totally confused. Riley set up a target back in the woods and I took a shot to check the scope. Perfect shot… I knew I did not miss.

One more look by Riley did the trick. The 8-point buck had trotted about 80 yards before piling up on the backside of our pond. Never a drop of blood…it was a complete pass through right behind the shoulder and the Hornaday BTSP never expanded!

Anyway, he's in the cooler and now it's up to Beth to tip over the big one. We'll be out again this afternoon!