SLINGSHOT HUNTSMEN
By Noel Jordan
When John “Slingshot” Milligan came to Detroit to work at Ford's from “a little wide space in the road near Marysville, Tennessee”-this was back in '29-he brought an idea with him. He was convinced that the old forked-hickory slingshot he had used as a boy in school could be made into a real hunting weapon. He saw it as a strong rival to the bow and arrow for sportsmen who wanted to give their quarry a fighting chance.
Since then Slingshot Milligan has gone a long way toward proving his point. A club of enthusiastic slingshot hunters is now a recognized unit in the Ford recreation program, and indication that the sport is becoming formalized. The club takes turnabout with the riflemen and the bowmen on the range.
Milligan's chief contribution to the sport, aside from his enthusiasm, is the Milligan Special-a 7-ounce alloy aluminum crotch with a special gum rubber band 11 inches long, which is good for some 1600 shots.
The ammunition is fully as important as the sling. For hunting, the club uses a 7/16-inch lead ball, which is heavier than the steel ball bearing normally used for target practice. The true flight of one of these balls is a thrill to anyone accustomed to the erratic course of a pebble from a homemade slingshot.
Slingshot Mulligan claims as kills hundreds of rabbits and squirrels, numerous crows, pheasants, groundhogs, frogs, and an occasional snake. He has shot with the Detroit police at their pistol range, scoring an 87% average at a distance of 30 feet.
The slingshot, more than any other weapon, puts a premium on continuous practice. There are no gun sights and no arrow for sighting. It is all hip shooting.
To practice at home, advises Milligan, just throw an old piece of medium-weight canvas over a clothesline or over a water pipe in the basement. Then shoot at a marked target in the center, and the balls will drop harmlessly to the floor.
A fascinating thing about slingshot hunting is that there are so many records still to be made. Has anyone killed the first fox with this weapon? The first wild duck or goose on the wing? The silence of the slingshot has advantages, too. One man is going for partridge in the north woods with a gun-shy setter.
The club hunts small game in the fall and varmints-especially crows - the rest of the year. Crows, when they flock up, will attack a stuffed owl en masse, making a fine target for the hunters concealed below the decoy. When hunting with a crow call, the men use the stalking method-take a step and wait-take a step and wait.
“The slingshot is an interesting weapon, and provides a good, clean sport,” Milligan insists. “There is no reason why it shouldn't have an honorable place in recreation. It is quiet and inexpensive. All emphasis on skill. Try it and see.”
SHOOTING GROUSE FROM A CANOE
by Harold Titus
When I took my first look at the originals of Morgan Douglas' paintings, here reproduced, it took me back to Model T days, to Charlie Carver, and to my introduction to grouse hunting from a canoe.
You see, ruffed grouse hunting is my top sport, my passion-my vice, perhaps. I'd rather shoot at a thunderbird and miss than bring home my limit of anything else that flies-and the older I get the happier I am about the misses. I started out after birds with a water spaniel named Jigger and a single-barreled twelve-gauge I acquired for $1.25 cash and a bicycle pump. Because of maternal misgivings, I was forced to hide the gun in the family barn between hunts, but I never had to hide the birds because there never were any. The reason, I found out later, was that the barrel was bent.
Now this Charlie Carver was one of the finest men that ever lived. He built bridges and things but only because it enabled him to hunt and fish. And, praise be, he brought me up in the way a lad should go. He was one of those rare grownups who enjoy being with youngsters, passing on knowledge and wisdom in quiet, unostentatious ways.
“Now, I'll tell you,” he said one evening when we were homeward bound in the Tin Lizzie with birds at our feet and the tired setter sprawled in back, “there's nothing finer than plastering a grouse that your own dog has handled well for you. But there are other ways of hunting birds,” he said. “And when you get the time, I'd like to show you how it goes. This thing calls for a canoe and maybe quite a walk at the day's end. But, “he said, “I'll bet you'll like it!”
I couldn't get the time to try the new way until the next morning when sunrise found us on the Manistee, one of Michigan's finest trout streams. Charlie was in the stern, his own unloaded gun at his feet. I was in the bow, my loaded double across my knees. It was October. Soft maple flared its crimson at us above the cedars. The sky was as brittle blue as a robin's egg. Small jackpines gave a shadowy undertone to the fall brilliance, and the air was something you could drink.
“Around the next bend,” said Charlie, who was giving the canoe no more then steerageway, “are wild grapevines. It's ten to one a bird will be feeding there. You try to take him. But,” he said, “don't lift that gun until I count three-remember that. It's part of the game.”
Oh, yes, a bird was there! The grouse was busily feeding, his rich brown plumage blending with the background. Charlie whistled through his teeth and the bird stretched its neck sharply upward, crest rising in alarm. We were within 30 yards. Charlie whistled again. The head snapped our way. Then the paddle thumped the gunwale and the bird was on the wing and my hands were sweating on barrel and stock.
“One!” snapped Charlie as the bird left its perch. “Two!” he said as it swung to cut downstream. “Three!” he yelled as the target banked for a dive.
I slapped butt plate to shoulder and cheek to stock and pulled, and missed by yards!
“Didn't lead,” Charlie remarked mildly. “Stopped your swing when you pulled. Bad,”
He said, “but the next grapes are on the left.”
Two birds were there and Charlie counted again. I missed both and swore some, but he refused to change places. Not until I'd dropped one, he said. I wangled it on my next try. The bird rose nicely, and as it wheeled across the bow, there was no trouble about covering it with the end of the gun. As we retrieved the grouse from the river's surface, I turned to see Charlie's happy grin.
“Ain't it fun?” he chuckled.
“Fun?” I echoed. “No name for it!”
We exchanged places, then, and he insisted that I count for him. He took one, then another. I missed several in a row because I always was a lousy shot and shooting from a canoe is tough, but I finally downed my second. The misses bothered Charlie not at all. The lone hit brought a nod of approval.
Then Charlie scored on two black ducks as we rounded a sharp bend. I can still see the jeweled drops of water spattering back as they made their characteristic bound, with Charlie holding his fire for that precise split second of poise before they started yonder.
There were moments of comedy in which I was the unintentional clown. I knew well that one must sit in the center of a canoe and keep his weight low, yet who could resist rising to a crouch when a bird wheeled overhead? Only Charlie's balancing act saved us that time.
We went ashore at an alder flat and tramped it for woodcock. They were there and we took a brace. A big swamp rabbit bounded through the browning brakes and Charlie sent him spinning, too. In a marshy flat we had a try at jacksnipe and dropped a half dozen.
We boiled our tea water and ate our sandwiches there and Charlie's dark eyes glowed because I liked it all and he'd had a deal to do with making me like it.
So when I looked at Morgan Douglas' pictures, it all came back. The thrill of trying a new twist to a noble sport, the challenge of jumping such resourceful birds and trying to get on them from the seat of a canoe.
Not many hunters try for grouse this way. Since Charlie's active days ended I've coaxed a few to go with me. But not many. Mert McClure, of the Michigan Department of Conservation, is a canoe-grouse hunter. We had a day on the Au Sable's South Branch not too long ago. The bag was little enough, but, mister, it was a day! With October's tapestry all about and trout dodging the canoe shadow, and we, never knowing what's around the next bend! We saw a deer, coy and dainty, looking at us from behind a poplar, seemingly aware that we weren't shooting at her because the deer season hadn't started yet. Deer seem to have an understanding of the calendar.
The technique illustrated by Douglas is something to try. With a dogless hunter on either bank and another gun in the creek, the kill isn't going to be heavy no matter how many birds are flushed. Counting three after they're on the wing keeps a man clear of the charge of potting `em. And, with such a bird, such a charge must be avoided.
Parts of all the northern states should offer chances for this sort of fun. And what if the birds avoid the water but stick to the far uplands? Unless you're just another meat hunter you've had a wonderful time!
Archer’s Fly
By
Art “Dakota” Elmendorf
As a young boy growing up in a family of sportsmen I can remember anytime my Dad and Uncle Bob got together with their friends the conversation always came around to Archer’s Fly. They would tell tales of the huge whitetail bucks found there. I would sit quietly and listen to every word, not wanting to miss a single thing. They sure loved that spot, and I was forever begging to go along. I was told the time would come when I was old enough. The time finally came the summer of my 13th birthday.
My Dad was planning a week-long trip into the Fly to scout for big bucks, and do a little Trout fishing. Uncle Bob, Old Trapper, And Big Mike were going along. This was my chance to finally see Archer’s Fly. The night before we were to leave they got together and laid out everything on the garage floor. At the time I could not imagine what we needed all that stuff for. Everyone had his own pack and the canoe was loaded as well. My Dad had placed a set of wheels under the canoe that I thought were neat. They even had two boxes of canned goods to bring in and bury for the upcoming deer season. Everything was accounted for and we were ready. With all the excitement I don’t think I got much sleep that night.
The next morning the guys arrived at 6AM, loaded the pickups, and we were off.
About two hours of bumpy roads later we pulled off into a parking area used by log trucks. There was a lot of laughing and joking and all were happy. My Dad helped place the pack on my back and asked if it felt ok. I was quick to answer yes, but remember it was heavy. As we headed off into the woods I realized there was no marked trail. Dad explained that going in without a trail was called bushwhacking. He said that Trapper had discovered this spot some years earlier while setting out his trap line. He and Old Trapper were best of friends. They shared a passion for the big woods that even I could understand. The woods were thick and dark, and the bugs were a pain. We hiked for what seemed like hours, stopping now and then so Dad could check his map and compass and take a drink. I had never seen anything like this. Some of the Pine trees were so large that three of us hooked together couldn’t get our arms around them.
Dad would often ask if I was ok. He told me I could put my pack in the canoe, but I said no way. I remembered Mom telling him the night before not to forget I was only 13 years old.
We had pushed and pulled the canoe uphill for what seemed like forever when I could see sunshine coming thru the trees ahead. We came out on an open ridge top looking down at what surely must be Archers Fly. I remember Trapper taking off his cap to wipe his brow and say God bless us all. It was a sight I’ll never forget. A beautiful lake dotted with several islands, surrounded with yellow grass and shrub pines. There was a large swamp on one end. The Loons called out to us as we headed down to set up camp. We made camp on the eastside, as it would get the most sun.
I was surprised how quickly we set up camp. Big Mike was making sandwiches and talking about doing some scouting, looking for old rub-lines. Dad must have known I was tired and asked if I wanted to do some fishing with him. We set up our spinning rods with Lake Clear Wobblers and worms. I don’t think the canoe was 50 yards from the shoreline when I caught the first Brooke Trout. It was just about non-stop action from then on. We kept enough for dinner and released the rest. I thought this had to be the best day of my life. After dinner we were sitting around the fire and Dad told me how proud of me he was, and in front of everyone. I was just beaming. No one had trouble sleeping that night. We all had a laugh on Uncle Bob as he was snoring before the lantern was turned out.
Uncle Bob had the coffee on and breakfast cooking when I crawled out of my bag. We were having breakfast when Dad asked me if I wanted to see his tree stand. We hiked thru the tall yellow grass around the swampy end of the lake. There were game trails and beds all over in the yellow grass. We both whistled a tune to let the bears know we were coming thru. The stand was placed on a high spot in a small group of pines. I was quick to climb up and sit down. Wow, I could see the entire swamp. Back then Dad couldn’t possibly have known the spark he had ignited in me. He couldn’t have known that I would come to cherish this spot as much as he, or of the countless hours I would spend there. He couldn’t have known I would become good at a sport we both loved so much. Thanks Dad, for everything.
Art (Dakota) Elmendorf
Mayfield, New York 12117
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOUR OLD TIME TALES OF HUNTING OR SOME INTERESTING FACTS, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO EMAIL ME AT rnc1968@frontiernet.net AND WE WILL BE HAPPY TO INCLUDED THEM ON THE PAGE.
© Back To Basics Adirondack Wilderness Adventures 2004