The Outdoor Scene

Last week, I bid farewell to my routine and headed to the Mid-Atlantic Tourism PR Alliance (MATPRA) meeting in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

Traveling is a wonderful thing.  Once I recovered from the flurry of undressing and unpacking at airport security, visiting ghastly public restrooms and pondering the questionable history of my hotel bed spread, it really was nice to take a detour from my pig trail.

My goal at this conference was to meet people, participate in a panel discussion and learn about the tourism industry. I’ve attended plenty of meetings in the last 20 plus years – outdoor writer conferences and trade shows, shooting sports summits, and wildlife and hunting conventions, symposiums and seminars. But never a tourism conference.

The two biggest and most obvious differences in the two types of get-togethers is wildlife meetings are mostly populated by men (though there are more women now than in the 1980s). The MATPRA meeting was overwhelmingly attended by women. That was nice. I had so many wonderful conversations while I was there, chats and revelations you can really only share with another female. One woman and I marveled at how when you’re young you get your thrills at rock concerts and parties, but when you’re older, there’s magic in gardening and bird watching.

In addition, based on this experience, tourism conference participants eat much better than the wildlife crowd. At a wildlife conservation meeting, you can expect to be served at least one entrée where the meat resembles a hockey puck in shape and taste. The MATPRA shindig was all about fine dining, and I ate like a beast.

Just as pleasing was the panel discussion I participated in which covered why and how to pitch outdoor travel to women, including hunting trips. The audience included convention and visitor’s bureau staff and travel writers, most of whom were not hunters. In fact, virtually all of the hunters in that room sat on the panel so I was curious to see how the message would be received. And based on feedback, audience reaction mirrored just about every survey I’ve ever seen on this topic – the majority of Americans approve of legal, ethical hunting.
 
The panel covered so much more than hunting, though. Cindy Ross, Mary Burnham, Karen Lee and our moderator Connie Yingling have hiked, paddled, birded, camped and hunted across this country. Most of our remarks centered on the fact that women are a viable outdoor travel market with tips on how to promote outdoor destinations to them.

Connie Yingling, public relations coordinator for the Maryland Office of Tourism, pointed out in her opening remarks that if you read a general travel magazine, you would think the only activities women are interested in while traveling are shopping and spa treatments. However, the Adventure Travel Trade Association reports 52 percent of adventure travelers (those who camp, bike, bird, paddle, etc.) are women.  The National Sporting Goods Association keeps tabs on how many women (and men) participate in each of these sports. You can see the breakdown below.

Another eye opener is the 2006 National Survey of Fishing, Hunting and Wildlife-Associated Recreation (conducted every five years by the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service), which reveals many women enjoy wildlife based recreation as well. Of the 87.5 million people who hunt, fish or watch wildlife, 45 million are women. 

Women may approach outdoor adventure and wildlife associated recreation differently than men, though. In general, it seems to me that men are interested in the number of miles they’ve hiked, the category of rapids they’ve paddled or the number and size of fish they’ve caught. Certainly women also relish those types of accomplishments. But our enjoyment is also based in being connected to nature, mastering new skills, rest and relaxation, improving our health and rediscovering who we are.

Something men and women have in common when it comes to outdoor recreation is the importance of spending time with friends and family. In addition, women also spend money on outdoor adventure travel, a fact that hasn’t fallen on deaf ears in the travel industry.

Yes, shopping does rank number one on just about every travel survey seeking to learn what women most want to do on vacation. However, a growing number of women are searching for more excitement than what they can find at boutiques, gift shops and outlet malls. And I predict as the travel industry seeks new business in this tight economy, we’ll see even more opportunities for women to embark on outdoor adventures.

National Sporting Goods Association Study of Female Sports Participation (2007)
http://www.nsga.org/i4a/pages/index.cfm?pageid=3346

Camping (vacation/overnight) - 23.3 million
Bicycle Riding - 17.5 million
Hiking - 13.9 million
Boating, Motor/Power - 13.6 million
Fishing - 11.4 million
Backpack/Wilderness Camp - 5.4 million
Target Shooting - 4.7 million
Kayaking - 2.9 million
Hunting with Firearms - 2.5 million
Mountain Biking (off road) - 2.5 million
Skiing (alpine) - 2.2 million
Water Skiing - 2.2 million
Mountain/Rock Climbing - 1.9 million
Archery (Target) - 1.2 million
Scuba Diving (open water) - 1.0 million
Skiing (cross country) - 0.8 million
Hunting w/Bow & Arrow - 0.4 million
Muzzleloading - 0.3 million

With turkey season ending with a bang last week, I was ready to retire to the peace and quiet of my own backyard.

But, alas, there is no such thing. In fact, my yard is more soap opera than sanctuary. All kinds of tiny dramas unfold every day. And some of what happens is just plain trashy - a female goldfinch consorting with not one but two males at the feeder. I also saw a pair of mourning doves shamelessly bird-dogging each other in the treetops.

Like any good melodrama, there are sentimental moments, too. I could almost hear the music swell when a male cardinal went beak to beak with his mate to feed her a sunflower seed. Watching a bluebird pair working together to feed their quartet of hungry mouths was sweet theater, too.

There’s also plenty of aggression on this show. For example, the blue jays are total bullies. They’ve been known to mimic a hawk to scare off the feeder crowd so they can swoop in and chow down. However, their hostility also can be a big help to the rest of the gang. A red-tailed hawk soared across the yard the other day and the jays went bonkers. It’s possible their racket alerted birds several counties away, causing the hawk to give up and glide off.

It’s not all daytime drama, though. Some of the murder and mayhem occurs when Nielson ratings are lowest – midnight to 6 a.m. when the audience is sleeping. 

I was delighted when a titmouse pair decided to nest in a box just outside my office window. I got a kick out of watching them time and again literally drop out of the sky into the box.

One morning, though, I saw nest material hanging out of the bird house, unusual since they were such a tidy couple. I had a bad feeling about it. Wes investigated the matter and found raccoon fur on the box, confirmation that in the middle of the night one of the masked bandits had made a grab. Egg shells and nest scraps littered the ground.

However, with avian theater, there’s always another scene. One of the most entertaining acts are the screech owls that raise young every year in a nest box that resembles a miniature outhouse, complete with half moons carved on the side.

We know the cycle well. The adult owl first shows up in the fall, sitting at the entrance of the box. And throughout winter and early spring, it makes brief, regular appearances in the morning and evening. Then in early March the show goes on hiatus, and we don’t see the owl again until April. When it does reappear, it (or they?) hangs out at the entrance on and off throughout the day. And then, like clockwork, we see the owlets on Mother’s Day weekend.

This spring, there were at least three young perched in the front and side “half moon” holes, bobbling around like Sesame Street puppets. Per usual, we saw the whole family regularly for about a week. Then, we got a new glimpse into their life on Friday evening when we saw an owlet fledge. We’d been hearing the adults quietly whinnying in the evening, possibly encouraging the young to take their maiden voyage.

The owlet wasn’t a flying ace right out of the gate, though. There was a great amount of flapping and hopping around at first. After awhile, the novice pilot seemed to get the hang of it, though.

Now the nest box is empty again and I can’t help but glance at it every time I walk past the window. I miss watching the goings on during sweeps week. But, I’ll have to wait until next season for original programming. Until then, I’ll just change the channel and watch Birds of Our Lives.

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The weekend before last a black bear chased me from my turkey hunting spot at the worst time possible, when a gobbler was making his approach. On Saturday, I wasn’t taking any chances. I threw the fear card and asked my husband to join me at the root ball blind. It wasn’t hard to twist his arm since the option of hearing a gobbler versus the music of warblers, wrens and cardinals was clearly better.

Wes and I usually don’t hunt together. We figure we can cover more ground if we split up. And our hunting styles are different. I’m more three-toed sloth because I tend to hang out and call. He’s more mountain lion - always on the prowl. But when we do team up, there’s no pretense. We’re equals afield, and the independent woman in me likes that. Given the chance, I’d shoot a turkey out from under Wes in a heartbeat. And he’d do the same.

As we neared the field, the bird blasted out a good morning gobble. Without putting much thought into it, I sat down where I always do and Wes took the other side of the root ball. The next gobble made me doubt my choice, because I realized the birds had roosted to my hard left. The likelihood of them entering the field from the swamp trail was pretty high, which would put them directly in my husband’s line of fire.

Wes became a one-man hen band, calling with his diaphragm, box and slate calls. Truthfully, even though he’s a great caller, I thought he was a little over the top. That is until I saw a hen enter the field 80 yards in front of me. Next thing I knew, the whole flock began pouring into the field – three hens and three jakes. And they were followed up by big daddy, who was alternately strutting and charging at the jakes. The first hen ran towards us like a crazy woman, then forgot what she was doing and started to bug. The rest of the gang rushed towards us, too. Coming through the tall grass, they looked like an army of necks marching into battle.

Next thing I knew, big boy came out of strut and looked around as if to say, “So, what do you think of that, baby?” Instinct brain reappeared out of nowhere and pulled the trigger, likely out of concern that conscious brain would screw up in the midst of this adrenalin rush. A flopping gobbler in front of me proved once again that instinct brain had served me well.

Now, the privilege of hunting is something I don’t take lightly. I’ve attended too many conferences where the topic du jour was the idea this time-honored tradition might be slipping away. There are several reasons for this, but urbanization is often cited as a primary cause. There are many tentacles to the urbanization monster. It eats up wildlife habitat with its strip malls, parking lots and housing additions. It thrusts hunting areas inconveniently far from would-be sportsmen and women. And it severs people’s ties with the land so they are neither knowledgeable nor realistic about wildlife populations and habitat management.

When it comes to animals, people often rely on emotion as their guidepost. And groups such as the Humane Society of the United States manipulate that naiveté. They would have you believe they take care of abandoned pets by running your local dog and cat shelters but nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, HSUS shares with PETA and other animal rights groups an extreme agenda of eliminating American traditions such as hunting and fishing.

Apparently Rush Limbaugh didn’t get the message, though. As hard as it is to believe, this is one conspiracy Rush hasn’t uncovered. He is actually supporting HSUS, and has produced ads for them and provides a link to their Web site. It’s not clear why he would support this extraordinarily well funded organization whose CEO openly admits he’d like to see the end to all hunting. I guess Rush, too, suffers from urbanization, and just doesn’t know that hunters are the ones footing the bill for wildlife conservation.

Thankfully, there’s a group out there working to make this fact abundantly clear. The U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance has taken the lead in challenging the popular radio talk show host. A letter expressing disappointment was signed by 28 respected conservation organizations and sent to Rush. As powerful as that is, making your voice part of the din is even more effective. The folks at USSA encourage you to get in on the act by arming yourself with the facts about the HSUS and its anti-hunting agenda. In addition, they urge you to contact Rush and tell him the truth about the HSUS. For more information, visit http://www.ussportsmen.org/rush.

I can assure you I emailed Rush expressing my concerns about his support of HSUS. My instincts told me it was the right thing to do.

Not all adrenalin surges are created equal. There’s the kind that happens when that big gobbler finally steps out in front of you. It makes your scalp tingle and your heart race.

And then there’s the kind when something scary happens.

This weekend, I experienced the kind of rush that induces the fight-or-flight response.

I was tucked against a giant root ball, blissfully surveying a 3-acre field that in years past has been the preferred strutting zone of discriminating longbeards everywhere.

A gobbler from the bowels of the adjoining swamp sounded off early in the morning, and then shut down for about an hour. When he picked the conversation back up around 7:30 a.m., I was delighted. After I delivered my best Mae West, “come up and see me sometime” yelp, a louder, closer gobble said he was taking me up on the offer.

So, I started to scrutinize every inch of the field, wondering where he’d step out. Would he gobble again or come the last several yards in silence? Would he strut into the field? I was playing out the various scenarios when a loud crashing through the woods behind me interrupted my thoughts.

Not wanting to get busted by a sneaky gobbler, I went as long as I could without moving. When I finally caved in and turned my head, I spotted a black bear about 60 yards away, bumbling towards me.

Now, my husband and I are abundantly aware there are bears in mid-Georgia. Over the years, we’ve had several bruins pose for our game cameras. It’s just they were always filmed at night. So Wes and I always kid each other about being careful when walking alone in the dark to our respective deer stands or turkey hunting hotspots. Seeing a bear in broad daylight was just not something I had considered.

At the precise moment I saw this bear’s ugly mug, “conscious brain” surrendered and was immediately superseded by a clump of nerve cells I call “instinct brain.”

Instinct brain’s first decision as the gray matter in charge was to begin coughing loudly. Conscious brain later concluded that instinct brain didn’t want to scare the approaching gobbler but thought it could fool the bear into thinking I had swine flu.

For a couple of seconds after the faux coughing fit, I didn’t hear or see anything. I desperately wanted to peer around the root ball and see the bear’s hind quarters romping away to the swamp. But, instinct brain had commanded my body to freeze.

Then suddenly, I saw him, all 250 pounds of this shaggy brute. He cleared the root ball that shielded my view to the left and stepped out 20 yards in front of me, swinging his big ol’ head in my direction. Bears don’t see particularly well, but their sense of smell and hearing make up for it. I’m guessing he was curious about what the heck smells of Neutrogena shampoo, insect repellent and pee.

Instinct brain took control again and had me shout “Go. Go away.”

Bear just stood there, staring dumbly at me. So instinct brain kicked off another grand idea - treat the big mammal like a foreigner who has just landed in America and doesn’t know a word of English. I yelled “go away” even louder. But cranking up the volume did nothing to improve bear’s comprehension, and he just kept looking at me. And the 20-gauge I had pointed towards his face meant nothing to him either. I didn’t want to pull the trigger. With my luck, a load of 6s would just put him in a bad mood. And so far, he seemed more dumbfounded than irritated.

Meanwhile, instinct brain, now grasping at straws, made my body slowly rise from my turkey hunting stool. This movement finally kicked bear into action and the next thing I know, he had swung his enormous rump around and galloped off in the other direction. Thank God, because instinct brain hadn’t let me in on what my next move would be.

I shakily gathered up my calls, Thermocell and other odds and ends and headed back to the camper. No point in hanging around. The gobbler, not knowing about the bear, was likely confused by the mixed messages I sent (Come here. No, go away!). I could just see him nervously flicking his wings before he changed directions, too.

I’ve hunted the same property for eight years now, the same family land that my husband grew up roaming around. Unfortunately, that could come to an end this year. While I probably won’t kill a turkey this spring, I’ve had an experience that I will never forget. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.