Bleacher Report - Outdoor Sports

Fundamentals the Bedrock of Hunting Safety

John Zaktansky — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 19:13:49 -0500

During the predawn hours of May 15, Shirley Grenoble hiked into the woods near Raystown Lake, in Huntingdon County, on a late spring turkey hunt. Despite the anticipation and thrill of the hunt, she forced herself to take each step quietly, carefully, so she didn’t startle her quarry.

A few hours later, Grenoble was again forcing herself to take one step after another—except this time it was for survival. Her face, neck, head, back, legs and arms were filled with small lead BBs. She blindly and unsuccessfully used one camouflage hunting glove to wipe her face, and especially her eyelids that had been pasted shut by streams of warm, sticky blood.

"I just kept walking, forcing myself to take one step after another, knowing that if I didn’t, I’d probably faint," said Grenoble as she recalled with vivid detail her ordeal from 20 years ago.

She had been the victim of a hunting accident—one that could have been avoided if two 40-year-old brothers had taken a few extra moments to properly identify their target.

"They heard turkey calls and decided to sneak towards the noise to see what was going on. That was mistake No. 1," Grenoble said. "Then they saw something moving, a flash of color, whatever. They put these clues together and it verified at that moment in their mind that they were looking at a gobbler."

Series of unfortunate events

Grenoble, a lifelong nature enthusiast, avid hunter and outdoor writer from Altoona, was no stranger to the concept of hunting accidents. Less than three weeks before her fateful hunt near Raystown Lake, Grenoble was hunting with her son, Mark, and his wife in Missouri.

"We were coming down out of the woods as quietly as we could and walked into an open green field. Someone shot, and Mark fell right at my feet," Grenoble said. "They (the landowner and a friend) heard turkey calls on top of the hill, heard something coming down towards them and couldn’t see very well from a thick, brushy gully. They saw movement and wound up shooting my son in the face.

"Mark was taken by helicopter to the hospital and BBs were removed. The doctor said that four BBs were lodged in lethal places—one missed a vital spot by the width of a thumbnail."

Grenoble returned to Pennsylvania after she knew her son was safely on the road to recovery. Spring gobbler season was winding down, and so she headed out one more time before the end of the 1989 spring season.

Following a gas pipeline through the woods above Raystown Lake, Grenoble stopped every so often to do some calling, but never got a response.

Around 9 a.m., she decided to change location again and bent down several times to pick up her belongings, including a waist pack, small pillow and her shotgun. Just then, a shot rang out and Grenoble was hit in the face by hundreds of small BBs.

"It knocked me down, just like in the movies. I knew immediately what had happened and curled up into a ball on the ground," Grenoble remembered. "There were two brothers, each with 12-gauge semi-automatics, and they fired six shots at me—at least three hit me.

"I looked up and saw the two men standing on the gas line. They were in shock. Blood was running down my face, out my mouth and nose, across my chest."

Safer than you’d think

Despite the gruesome circumstances of Grenoble’s ordeal, hunting in Pennsylvania is relatively safe from a statistical standpoint.

In 1980, there were more than 200 reported hunting-related shooting accidents in the state, but the numbers have been consistently declining since then.

Last year, just 35 incidents were reported, according to the Pennsylvania Game Commission’s Hunting-Related Shooting Incident report for 2008. Of the 35 incidents, 40 percent were self-inflicted injuries. According to the study, most of the incidents occurred on a clear day in a wooded setting during daylight hours.

Out of the 35 incidents reported, three (8.6 percent) were fatalities—all of which happened during the 2008 deer season.

The closest fatality last fall occurred in Snyder County along Old Colony Road, near the Middlecreek Antique Machinery Association grounds, when Kreamer resident Blain Spickler was accidentally shot in the abdomen when an unidentified man was attempting to unload his .243-caliber Winchester rifle.

According to the game commission, a total of 926,892 hunting licenses were sold in 2008. This means that approximately one-400,000th of one percent of all hunters who bought licences in 2008 were victims of a hunting-related shooting accident.

In fact, during 2008 there were 8,369,575 licensed drivers on Pennsylvania’s roads and 128,342 reported motor vehicle accidents. This means that motorists were 406 times more likely to be in an automobile accident last year than licensed hunters were to be in a shooting-related hunting incident.

Safety still top priority

"There are just a handful of accidents out of the thousands upon thousands of people who hunt. However, it is very easy to be misled into taking a bad shot," said Grenoble, who has used her experiences to speak publicly during the past two decades about hunting safety, including at mandatory game commission-sanctioned Hunter-Trapper Education classes.

"We spend 95 percent of our time teaching new hunters how not to become the victim, but we seldom warn them about not becoming the shooter," Grenoble said.

"But you can be the shooter. You can be deluded. Hunters think they’d never cause an accident like that, but when you are in the woods and you hear something, then see something and start putting those clues together, on top of the adrenaline, it can be easy to be tricked or fooled into making a mistake out of sincerity. I should know—it almost happened to me on one hunt after the accident."

According to Grenoble, the old cliches of hunter safety—treat every gun as if it were loaded, completely identify your target and what lies beyond it, and numerous others—are cliches for a reason.

"These fundamentals are the bedrock of hunter safety. Identify your target. Never assume because you hear something or see something move that it is the game you are after," she said.

Back in the hunt

It didn’t take Grenoble, now 74, long to return to the woods and her favorite pastime. Immediately after the accident, one of the shooters stayed with her and helped her slowly walk more than a mile down along a jagged path along the gas line. The other ran ahead to get Grenoble’s truck.

Later, at the hospital, Grenoble had to endure a lengthy surgery to remove lead BBs from all over her body. Two additional surgeries were needed in the months after the incident to remove a BB that had lodged into a finger joint and another from the back of her head that had gotten infected.

She was ready to return to hunting by the following fall season. She is currently in the midst of her 55th year of hunting in Pennsylvania.

And how did her experiences 20 years ago change her view on hunting?

"I still get a little antsy when I go around the corner of a cornfield or walk into an opening in the brush. More than ever, I don’t want to be the one who shoots someone else, so it takes me longer to take a shot than it used to. If I am in the woods and hear something behind me, I must turn and look. I break into a cold sweat if I don’t," she said.

"But hunting has been a lifestyle to me for a long time. I wasn’t going to let some yahoo take that away from me."

E-mail comments to zaktansky@gmail.com . Originally published here .

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The Thanksgiving Turkey Hunt

J. Andrew Lockwood — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 00:43:53 -0500

Growing up in the south, I always felt a little out of place when the topic of hunting or fishing was breached. I had caught my fair share of sunfish on my Grandfather’s dock growing up, but I never shot a gun until my sophomore year in college. And even then, it was only for a skeet shooting contest with a few buddies.

So, when I had the opportunity to hunt turkeys the day before Thanksgiving with my girlfriend’s father, I knew it would be the experience of a lifetime.

I don’t pretend to really know too much about hunting. I had never been before—never had the opportunity. It was a new world to me. It reminded me in some ways of making my first tackle in a football game, riding my first mile on a road bike, and making my first big hit in little league. I was…beside myself.

It turned out to be a rather rainy Wednesday morning in central Florida. I was supposed to meet Mike at noon in order to head 20 miles south of St. Cloud to hunt for the different varmints on the property. And the weather, by all accounts, didn’t look too promising.

The deluge of rain was much needed in the usual dry fall and winters in that part of Florida. However, I was more caught up in my thoughts of what animals do in the rain. Do turkeys walk around in the rain and dig for grubs? What would I do if I were a turkey in the rain?

I asked a lot of questions on the way about the guns, the ammunition, the animals, where to shoot them and how to shoot them. After all, I was a hunting greenhorn. I even packed a peanut butter sandwich even though turkey and cheese was an option. I figured it to be a good hunting omen. I’d bring home the bacon then, right?

The forty-five minute drive with Mike was full of plenty of conversation. From life to work to what shotgun shells are made of, we didn’t stop talking until the scenery started to abruptly change. Fewer and fewer signs of civilization were around as the light grey skies met with green pastures and small groves of trees at the horizon.

As we entered the property, I knew I would exit with either a turkey, smaller varmint, or a slight bit of disappointment. Mike was driving and knew the spread well. He’d been hunting this property for years and seemingly knew all the nooks and crannies of the place. He killed his first turkey when he was 13. He knew how to hunt.

We stopped as we pulled in and he pulled out his two shotguns, a pair of 12 gauges. “Remember how to shoot it?” he asked. The last time I had shot a gun had been a good few months ago at the same place. He had tossed an old plastic bottle in the air a few times for me to shoot that first time since we couldn’t find any varmints on the property in the middle of the summer time.

“I remember most of it,” I answered.

“How about hitting that bean then,” as he pointed to two beans dangling down from a plant a few yards away.

Ka-pow! “I didn’t hit…did I?” I muttered. I had aimed a little south of the actual bean by lining up the top of the notch on the end of the barrel with the center of my target. A rookie mistake I suppose.

“Yeah…you missed it,” he laughed. Oh boy, I was thinking. How could I ever hit a turkey if I couldn’t even hit the stinkin’ bean plant?

I really wasn’t dressed for the occasion as I guess I should’ve been. Mike let me borrow his camouflage rain jacket to conceal my light blue shirt and we pulled up on the property looking for the small critters that run around on the large piece of land. For acres and acres heads of cattle sat on the ground or stood in small droves watching us move by with a puzzled look on their face. After all, from their point of view I guess we humans seemed a bit silly making this "hunting" thing harder than it had to be. If it was food we were looking for, they were seemingly big targets.

But hunting isn’t just about the food. Food is a part of it, but the art of hunting seems to tap into the primal instincts of every man. Maybe it’s the sneaking up on the prey part that we like, or outsmarting the critters. It could even be that we like to test our accuracy and the steadiness of our hands. For me, it was all of the above.

I’ve always loved the outdoors. I go hiking for the smell of the woods just as much as for the visual appeal. And, there was a certain smell to the place. A smell that penetrated and that was foreign to the civilized world.

I followed Mike into the slough of trees that surrounded a feeder. The property had multiple feeders on its hundreds of acres and the animals had grown accustomed to knowing the exact time of day when the food would be dispensed. Dinnertime for the critters was at 5pm every day…and it was only 1 o’clock.

We waded through the brush, aiming to make as little noise as possible when Mike turned around at the edge of the tree line and motioned to get lower to the ground. As I looked through the palm fronds, I could see two large sand hill cranes socializing next to the feeder.

“Do you see it?” he asked.

“Turkeys?” I responded.

Then he pointed straight off in the distance to the tall grass about twenty yards away.

“Hens,” he spoke softly, “about four of them.”

As I lowered my body to get a better look I had cracked a dried out palm frond on the ground making a louder noise than I had expected. I slowly lowered myself to see the hens turn about face and slowly jog off into the tall grass.

Crap! I just blew my opportunity. The sand hill cranes started squawking as we walked parallel to the tree line and exited back to the vehicle.

“Don’t worry, there will be plenty more opportunities later,” he replied as we stepped back in and drove away.

Driving across the property seemed to be the most logical thing to do, especially considering that the terrain was vast and rugged and the land so spread out. We continued to take small sand paths through the fields that connected the lines of trees and brush. In places, there was little underbrush while it appeared rather swampy in other locales.

The drizzle continued from the sky as we looked through binoculars from the left to the right. Then, straight ahead, we spotted a pack of ten or twelve hens walking in the middle of the sand path like a group of kids walking home from school. As we approached, the large birds took to the air and flew over the trees to our right.

“We’ll catch ‘em on the back side. Don’t worry, we’ll see them again later today,” replied Mike.

We continued to drive in the gentle drizzle until we saw a flock of doves congregating on some power lines above. It was target practice time.

Doves, as I quickly found out, are much harder to kill than your average animal. It not only flies left and right, but also up and down and in and out. Target practice was harder than I thought. Three shots and nothing to show for it. Mike even went behind the birds in one drove of trees in an attempt to flush them out for me to take a few good shots. They flew the opposite way and he nailed two as a clump of feathers slowly fell to the ground.

He’s a good shot and it showed. On my first trip to the property he had shot a dove driving along a path near the tree line. He was driving and the dove was flying the other way. And he still hit it square enough to drop it out of the sky.

I was able to see my first hog, though. It was a medium sized, stubby little critter with coarse, black hair. It ran off before Mike had a chance to bring his shotgun up, but he estimated it to weight about 130 lbs.

We kept traveling to different areas on the property but no to avail. No animals anywhere. As we entered a field about three hours into our ordeal we saw a pack of hens off in the distance. There were about 15 or 20. They were hard to count through the lens of the binoculars, but they were congregating and having a big party. Maybe it was a rainy day grub party.

Whatever the case, we edged closer and closer to get a peak. All hens. This was the opportunity.

“We’re going to corral them,” he said as we approached from the left. We did a semicircle until we got within about 40 yards of the hens. They were loud and having a big time.

“Your shot,” he added. “Pick one out and aim for its head.”

I looked down the barrel of the 12 gauge, slick and wet from the constant rain. I looked up as I took the safety off. There’s so many! Which one do I shoot?

I paused for a brief second before I shut my left eye and peered down the barrel again. I turned to the left as I found a group of hens mingling. All of a sudden, one hen extended its neck as if to say to its neighbor, “Hey! Stay out of my space! This is my ground to roost and dig for grubs!”

That’s the one! I waited until the hen brought its extended neck back up before I fired.

Ka-pow! Feathers flew up into the air, the flock of hens scattered off in all directions. Some flew and some bolted across the pasture like Olympic sprinters. I followed the trail of smoke and found not one but two hens ruffling their feathers and sprawled out on the backs on the ground.

TWO TURKEYS! I was beside myself. Mike finished off the paralyzed turkeys for good measure and then I let out some sort of yell. I don’t exactly remember how it went, but I can only imagine it was the type of yell that comes with killing one’s first turkey…or two in my case.

Upon further examination, I had nicked them both in the neck, right on target. Mike and I gutted the birds and cut off the legs and necks. It was a different experience, but I really didn’t mind the warm entrails of the hens I had just killed. I had just killed a Thanksgiving turkey after all. And two at that.

We drove home and shared our story with everyone else as we de-feathered the fowls and prepared them for the deep fryer the next day. It was an un-paralleled experience. As we enjoyed dinner, I then remembered my peanut butter sandwich in the car. It had been hours since breakfast, but in our pursuit for a turkey I had didn’t eat a thing. I wasn’t really that hungry, though, for lunch.

Looking back though, I didn’t have time nor a need for a sandwich. The hunt for a Thanksgiving turkey requires too much attention for one to get caught up in the details of what’s for lunch. Although I had never been hunting before, I felt like a forager of food that day before Thanksgiving.

And every time I will tell the story, I’ll make sure to say, “Not one turkey…TWO turkeys with the same shot!” A Thanksgiving to remember for sure.

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