Search Site   
Current News Stories
Solar eclipse, new moon coming April 8
Mystery illness affecting dairy cattle in Texas Panhandle
Teach others to live sustainably
Gun safety begins early
Hard-cooked eggs recipes great for Easter, anytime
Michigan carrot producers to vote on program continuation
Suggestions to celebrate 50th wedding anniversary
USDA finalizes new ‘Product of the USA’ labeling rule 
U.S. weather outlooks currently favoring early planting season
Weaver Popcorn Hybrids expanding and moving to new facility
Role of women in agriculture changing Hoosier dairy farmer says
   
News Articles
Search News  
   

Indiana DNR signs last-minute rule preserving deer rifle use


 

In a last-minute move to return the legality of using specific rifles for deer hunting, the Indiana Department of Natural Resources (DNR) came to the rescue of rifle-toting Hoosiers.

 

Prior to the announcement, improperly worded, but well-meaning, legislation omitted allowing the use of rifles on state or federal property. An emergency rule signed on Nov. 3 by the DNR, filed with the Natural Resources Commission and the Legislative Services Agency, states:

“Rifle cartridges that were allowed in previous years on public land for deer hunting are allowed on public land again this year during the deer firearms season, the reduction zone season (in zones where local ordinances allow the use of a firearm), special hunts on other public lands such as State Parks and National Wildlife Refuges and special antlerless season.

“This means the rifle cartridge must fire a bullet of .357-inch diameter or larger, have a minimum case length of 1.16 inches and have a maximum case length of 1.8 inches if used on public land. Full metal jacketed bullets are illegal.”

Some cartridges legal for deer hunting on public include the .357 Magnum, .38-.40 Winchester, .41 Magnum, .41 Special, .44 Magnum, .44 Special, .44-.40 Winchester, .45 Colt, .454 Casull, .458 SOCOM, .475 Linebaugh, .480 Ruger, .50 Action Express, .500 S&W, .460 Smith & Wesson, .450 Bushmaster and .50 Beowulf. Full metal jacketed bullets are illegal.

For more information on rifle requirements for deer hunting on private land, visit www.wildlife.IN.gov/7389.htm and click on “Equipment.”

Desire for Thanksgiving duck overwhelms hunter

As a boy, my thoughts were filled with the stories of famous hunters on fabulous hunts. I read and reread my hand-me-down copies of Outdoor Life, Field & Stream and Sports Afield. I was constantly daydreaming of someday experiencing the thrill of exotic hunting like my magazine idols.

Living on the south side of Rush County, Ind., big game was out of the question. Rush County is not known for herds of wildebeest, water buffalo or rhino. The best we have are some Angus and Herford cattle and a few Hampshire hogs, but no big game.

Back in those days, well over 50 years ago, it was even before the arrival of whitetail deer. Still, I vicariously lived hunting adventures as I thumbed worn magazine pages and dreamed.

Realizing I was in farm country, I decided hunting waterfowl was more practical. I’d dreamed of crouching in a camouflaged blind with my trusty Labrador retriever by my side, skillfully tooting my duck call and bringing in the flocks of ducks filling the sky.

Upon examination, Rush County’s skies were not filled with ducks; maybe an occasional mallard. The county is far from any major waterfowl flyway. As winter approached, migrating geese from up North would pass high over head, so high you would swear they were in the stratosphere. They never stopped, and one could barely hear their honks from high overhead.

My only shortcomings were that I didn’t have a retriever, a camouflaged duck blind or a duck call. You might say I was long on imagination and short on hunting essentials.

However, I did have a hunting hat and jacket, an ancient pair of leaky hip waders and a J. C. Higgins, bolt-action, 16-gauge shotgun. The old gun cost me the grand sum of $15, and it was battered with a beat-up stock, worn bluing and pretty much a junker by anyone’s standards.

The barrel was missing the front sight and it had been replaced with an aluminum screw. But, the gun handled well, and I knew it would kill a duck!

Rationalizing that should the need to call a duck become necessary, I would just quack. I’d heard my share of ducks on my grandparents’ farm – with practice, I could fool one.

I began to hone my skills at vocalizing like common waterfowl. Some of the folks in town looked at me a little strange as I quacked on my way down the street to the general store. All the people in town knew me, and probably expected at least a little odd behavior.

I set my sights on putting a golden brown, plump, piping-hot duck on the table for Thanksgiving. Yep … I was going to bag a duck, and my parents would be really proud of me.

With the lofty goal of becoming a successful waterfowl hunter, I set out. Scouting Big Flatrock River didn’t reveal any waterfowl hotspots, but I remembered seeing an occasional duck in the vicinity of the old quarry hole. Checking out the old quarry hole, I found a large group of willows alongside a pool of water about a half-acre in size.

The water was just a little over 2.5 feet deep with a hard, flat limestone bottom, and would just be manageable for my old hip boots. The willow thicket looked like it would make a good “natural” blind, so there was no need going to the trouble of erecting a hideout structure; I’d just hunker down in the willows.

With my brown jacket, brown hat and greenish-brown hip waders, I would blend right in with the willows. I’d found the perfect place! I was good to go, and the hunt was on.

Every evening, I would bail out of the school bus and head for the house at a dead run, quickly change clothes, pull on my ancient hip waders, grab my hat, coat and shotgun, jump on my bicycle and pedal at top speed to the old quarry.

Money for hunting expenses was tight, and I only had three shotgun shells. They were good ones though – high-brass #6 shot. I knew if my aim was true and I was close enough, I’d only need one shell.

Every evening was the same: rush to the old quarry hole in my floppy waders, set up in my willow blind and wait for a duck. The only arrival every evening was a lone coot. It would land and swim around a bit.

When it would come close, I practiced my quacking. Every time I quacked, the coot swam a little further away. I guessed it didn’t speak my kind of duck language.

For those not schooled in waterfowl, the coot is a really small black-colored duck and the bane of waterfowl hunters. The coot is to waterfowl hunters as a carp is to bass fishermen. The bird is not very highly thought of, since a coot has the culinary reputation of being undersized, nasty-tasting and tough.

Evening after evening, the same scenario repeated itself. No ducks – just the lone coot – and I was running out of time for something to put on the Thanksgiving table.

I knew one afternoon that I had to make some tough (and I do mean tough) decisions. If a decent duck didn’t show up this evening, the coot was going to take one for the team; I mean, for the table. It would just have to do.

(Tune in next week for the conclusion of the saga of young Jack’s pre-Thanksgiving duck hunt …)

 

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments may contact Jack Spaulding by email at jackspaulding@hughes.net or by writing to him in care of this publication.

11/8/2017