Greatly Shaken

  Meet me at the place,

The place where sun burnt grass

Caresses waists and engrains

Their maps across our backs.

  Meet me there, up on the hill,

Under the grand ole Oak.

A history written across his gnarled back,

A history we cannot read just yet

Because we are charged to write our own.

  Follow me there,

Down to the white house.

Weathered rockers on the wraparound porch,

Two of them, waiting for gray hair and creaky knees

To keep them company

In morning fog and coffee steam.

  Follow me inside,

Where the walls breathe in your love,

And out mine. Covered in a story,

Written through weeks and days of

Indefinite time.

  Follow me through the mountains

It will take to get there. Ascend her

Peaks, navigate her woods.

The climb will be tricky,

My boyfriend and I went trout fishing over the summer. It was my first time and I was really excited... until it started raining, I was soaked from head to toe, and I kept getting my line caught in the trees. I was irritated for the first half of the trip... until I caught my first fish. After that, the rain didn't matter nor did the mud. I wrote this story for the Western Carolina Journlist.

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If ever you’re bored and wanting to find an outdoor activity, I suggest looking up local fishing shops and learning what you can about trout fishing. With the Tuckasegee, a heavily stocked delayed harvest water, so close to home, it’s almost too tempting to pass up.

According to the NC Wildlife Resources Commission (NCWRC), the NCWRC stocks about 6 million fish in public lakes, ponds, streams and rivers each year. The fish are raised at hatcheries in various places across the state. There are four coldwater NCWRC hatcheries and one coolwater NCWRC hatchery in Western North Carolina. According to the NCWRC Hatcheries website, the Armstrong Hatchery and Marion Hatchery in McDowell County and Bobby N. Setzer Hatchery in Transylvania County raise more than a half million brook, brown and rainbow trout annually. It is imperative for the hatcheries to stock the fish to maintain the populations. Many factors go into choosing fish for stocking and can be searched further on the NC Wildlife website. The brook trout is the only native species in WNC.

Over the summer I went trout fishing for the first time in Mills River, North Carolina just over the eastern hill from WCU. The day started out grim and gray, like most days over the 2013 rainy summer in Western North Carolina. Ominous clouds hung overhead and distant thunder rang faintly in the distance. Matt Bodenhamer and I pulled up on the side of the road in a spot hardly big enough for Matt’s big red truck to be off the blacktop. He was taking me to his secret “honey hole”.

“No one is ever willing to travel as far as we went,” Matt said. “I found that spot a few years ago with my dad and have been going there ever since.”

Matt and I were fishing in North Mills River, which is hatchery supported trout water during delayed harvest. During delayed harvest, which will open at 12 p.m. on June 7 in 2014, anglers can harvest seven fish per fisherman per day using whatever bait they choose.

“During delayed harvest, you’re allowed to use any type of bait, single or treble hooked, natural or artificial baits. When it’s not delayed harvest its single hook, artificial bait only and you cannot keep the fish,” Matt explained.

During other times and on different types of rivers, other stipulations apply.  There are quite a few regulations on mountain trout fishing. Public fishing sites around the area include catch and release/ artificial flies only trout waters, catch and release/artificial lures only trout waters, delayed harvest trout waters, hatchery supported trout waters and wild trout/natural bait waters. The NC Wildlife Resources Commission has a handy map so that you can type in your location and it will show you what types of waters are around you.

We gathered our essential supplies—fishing poles, bait, net, extra hooks. When our trip started, I was a little irritated because it was damp and chilly and we had to forge the river three times. It had rained so much that summer that the ordinarily well-kept trail was turned to nothing but mud and rivets. Matt was trucking along in his waterproof waders and knee-high boots, oblivious to the mud and the moisture I was diligently trying to maneuver around in Chacos and pants that would theoretically dry quickly. With each step we took it seemed as if the clouds hung lower in the sky, heavy under their burden of rain.

Brown trout can also be found in WNC rivers. Matt Bodenhamer caught this one while fly fishing in North Mills River. Photo Credit: Matt Bodenhamer

According an article by David Fegura on blog.syracuse.com, “Rain, rain: It’s good for the trout fishing- – sometimes”, trout fishing in the rain can be a good thing—sometimes.

“With crystal clear water, it’s difficult to stalk them. They can see you. but with a little bit of rain and some color in the water, you can get right on top of them,” said Jason Decapio, a renowned central NY trout fisherman and owner of The Wayfarer Company, in the article by Fegura.

According to Decapio, if the rain is warmer than that of the river water, it sends the fish into a feeding frenzy. Rain can also be ideal weather for trout fishing because it knocks food sources into the river such as earthworms and bugs from the banks and from trees.

It wasn’t long before Matt and I figured that out. We had hardly made it to his “honey hole” and cast a couple of times before the droplets started raising ripples on the river and then bubbles because of the force of rain hitting the water. I stood in my t-shirt, drenched from feet to knees and from head to waist, irritated because I kept getting the line and weight tangled in the tree limbs hanging over the river. Matt patiently helped me untangle the lines and demonstrated the correct way to cast. Upriver, let the bait float down a little ways, wait a few seconds, then reel it back in and try again. He went back to his spot and it wasn’t long before I heard him shout in excitement. I laid my pole down on the bank because I was tangled in the tree again and walked over to where he was.

As I made my way over to Matt, I saw that his line was taut and flashes of silver struggled below the water. He reeled in the first rainbow trout of our day. After removing the hook, he placed the fish on the stringer and I went back to my place, determined to catch a fish despite the rain and a bad attitude.

One of the most important tips about trout fishing is to have the right equipment, but it is certainly not the only challenge.

“In the man-versus-nature category of activities, fishing ranks as one of the most satisfying challenges. And trout fishing, whic­h requires knowledge of fish habits, stream characteristics and weather patterns, may be the pinnacle of the sport. Perhaps that’s why almost 7 million Americans spend 76 million days a year on the hunt for brookies, rainbows, cutthroats and their spotted kin,” William Harris explains in an article, “Top 5 Trout Fishing Essentials”, on How Stuff Works’ website.

According to Harris, the first essential in trout fishing is the “rig”. Knowing when to use a small rig or a large rig is imperative and could be the difference in catching or not catching a fish. Smaller rivers or streams have smaller fish and therefore call for a smaller rig. Harris suggests an ultralight rig between four and five feet. For larger rivers, deeper water and larger fish, he suggests a medium to heavy action six to seven-foot rig.

Other essentials listed in Harris’ article include baits and lures, waders and boots, vests and hats and nets and creels.

I cast a few more times through the on and off rain and finally felt the bump-bump of a fish on my line. In my excitement, I set the hook harder than I should have and the rainbow trout flew out of the river towards the bank. It landed in the water about two feet from where I stood on the bank and I had to reel in the slack in the line before it darted away. Matt helped me pull the fish in and we put him on my stringer. From that moment on it was if the rainbow trout were attracted to my line. I pulled in six trout and Matt pulled in four before we were forced to leave in a hurry as all the rain had caused the river to rise very quickly. On our way out, the river was almost up to my waist where on the way in it had been only at my knees.

I was pleased to have caught one of the biggest rainbow trout Matt said he had ever seen (I named him Bernard). After drying ourselves off, we took our catch back to his house where Matt cleaned the fish.

We caught 10 fish total in North Mills River and enjoyed a couple for dinner the same night

“I first start at the throat, then sever it down the belly to the tail. Then I cut the head off, and with the head comes the entrails. I then peel it all out and then clean the rest of it by washing it in water,” Matt explained.

We then experimented with our own cooking techniques and wound up with a delightful meal, made entirely on our own.

Trout fishing was an exhilarating experience from the rain to the casting to escaping the raging river to the cleaning. It was also a great way to have a delicious meal without even having to pay for it.

Catch and release artificial fly and artificial lure waters are open year round as well as wild trout natural bait waters. However, make yourself familiar with the NCWRC regulations before heading out. For more information about regulations, visit the NC Wildlife Resources Commission’s Inland Fishing Regulations & Information document on mountain trout.

Quarter Horses date back to the late 1700s. The breed is a mixture of English horses with the Chicksaw breed in the southeast United States. The American Quarter Horse is typically compact, good for working cattle, gentle, friendly, and willing to work. They’re known for their burst of speed in the quarter mile and have been used in rodeo events for many years. They’re typically good trail horses, surefooted enough to navigate the rocky terrain of the Appalachians. The quarter horses grew popular with colonists when they discovered their speed and agility, competing against each other in things such as roping, reining, and flat “quarter mile” racing. When settlers started expanding west, the American Quarter Horses went with them.

I have two of my own American Quarter Horses. In the sweltering heat of a July afternoon in 2010, a month after graduating from high school, I met Super Rio Image. She was standing tied in the wash stall of a barn that would, soon after this meeting, become an all too familiar place for the both of us. The look of utter annoyance in her big brown eyes was excessively obvious and was radiating throughout the (at this point in time, flabby) lines of her sorrel body. But I approached her anyway, ran my hand down her long neck, across her strong shoulders, down the legs, over the large knee joints, across the back, under the pregnant looking belly, and ended with a pat on her large, powerful hindquarters, all of which was consequently received with an irritated swish of her tail. That didn’t matter, though, because I already loved her.

Rio acquired the nickname Diva shortly after arriving home that summer. She moved in to the freshly built master suite of stalls in the barn at my home, had all the grass she could eat, and strolled around, high and mighty, like she owned the place. Even though she was ornery, selfish, attention-seeking, had a problem with discipline, minding, and following instructions, and even though she never considered others before acting out, I felt a connection to this horse like I have never had with anyone.

I cannot explain it now any better than I could then. All I knew for certain was that I needed her just as much as she needed me, because what I saw when I looked her in the eye was anger and imperfection, an inability to trust, an unconfident soul with an inner self-hatred that threatened to eat her from the inside out. What I saw was myself. Rio has forced me to turn an inner eye on the struggle that has raged inside of me for as long as I can remember, one that I have tried to repress and to sugarcoat from myself (and everyone else) for a long time.

                With Rio, there is no fear of being judged or being rejected. She has offered me solace when I hit the end of my rope, a silent understanding between us that because I take care of her she will return the loyalty and the trust. She depends on me, looks to me for guidance, for confidence, and, through the confidence I have had to instill in her, I have unintentionally learned that it is okay to be who I am, to be confident, as well. Life isn’t about what everyone else thinks of you, life is about what you think of yourself and what you are willing to do with that.

Gunner is a different story. I saw a picture of him that my horse trainer posted on her Facebook page about four months after I bought Rio. I saw his small one-year-old gangly self and fell in love with his sorrel body and flaxen mane and tail instantly. After a little coaxing, I finally got my parents to let me look at him as a new barrel racing prospect. We went to the barn and I got him out of the stall. At the time his back was only a little taller than my waist. I checked him out and when I noticed that he had huge joints and huge hooves, I knew I had to have him. Large joints on a quarter horse, especially one that will be barrel racing, is like buying the most expensive shocks for your car and you get a ton of miles out of them. Barrel racing can be strenuous on a horse’s joints, but with all the extra room with Gunner’s I knew he would last a long time.

When my trainer had him he was named Moses because a church youth group had the opportunity to name him when the visited the farm. I knew I couldn’t have him for 20 years and call him Moses, so his name had to change. It took me forever to figure out what I wanted to name him and for the longest I simply called him “baby”. I’m not exactly sure how or why I came up with the name Gunner, but I do know it took me forever to actually start calling him that. I had called him Baby for so long it almost felt embarrassing calling him by a legitimate name, as if he wasn’t going to be “my” baby anymore.

Gunner’s always had a peculiar personality. He has a working horse head, which is long and big, and he’s always had a “goofy” look to him. He’s pesky, he likes to play, he likes to be in everyone’s business, he likes to lick like a dog. He’ll do something and get in trouble and then stand there and look at me with his big brown eyes like “it wasn’t me, mom”. He was never really spooky or afraid of much as a baby but I couldn’t ride him until after about two years of having him. I sent him off to my trainer’s shortly after his third birthday. When I sent him off he was a pudgy, gangly, fuzzy, goofy looking baby. When I got him back three months later, he was a full blown horse. He’s a sweet boy with a big soft nose that he likes to stick in my hair and sniff. Even though he’s almost five years old now, he still acts like a baby. His personality reminds me of a toddler.

With him, I’ve had to learn obedience. I’ve had to learn to let go of a baby and let (more like make) him grow up. He gives me glimpses of maturity every now and then, but when his blonde mane is sticking up in every direction and he has that goofy look on his face, he still seems like the one-year-old I purchased nearly four years ago. He’s been a handful to train. He wants it his way or no way, yet he’s still gentle. He knows the difference when I get on his back or when a trainer does and I think he knows that I’m supposed to be up there, I can physically feel him relax beneath me. Gunner… is a handful. I’ve had to learn to be the adult in the situation and, by watching and helping him grow up, I’ve had to watch myself grow up as well.      

“Walk”

  I am standing in the middle of the ring and

Dust floats up in the shafts of sunlight

Coming through the open door.

Sorrel body and flaxen mane

Swirl around the taut rope.

  “Trot”

  Right hind picks up, followed by the other three

And the sorrel body lifts with energy.

Flaxen mane floats off the sweaty neck

Then lays back down again.

Wiggle the rope and exhale.

  “Walk”

  Sorrel body shifts to both hind legs

And languidly starts forward.

Head bobs down as right front

Strikes the dusty ground.

Breath in and kiss.

  “Canter”

   Right hind moves in unison

With right front, reaching around

The circle. Leather creaks,

Metal stirrups flop against the

Sorrel body. Wiggle the rope. Exhale.

     Growing up just up the pasture from the small farm owned by my grandparents, I’ve always considered myself a self-appointed cowgirl. My papaw owned a slaughterhouse, quite a few head of cattle, baled hay, went to auctions, wore overalls, drove tractors, and has always been one of the strongest men I knew. He’s always held a mystical quality to me. He is a big man, strong, even as he has aged in the blink of an eye, because of a life of hard labor. As a girl, I traversed the pasture he’d maintained as if it was the plains of the west and the cattle staring back with wide, curious brown eyes were the buffalo. I would saddle my white horse, Dixie, and we would work the pasture as if there was no fence to hold us back. As a girl, I yearned for the freedom of the open plains, the big sky of Montana. As soon as I learned to saddle her myself, I rode and dreamed that Dixie and I were in perilous danger, escaping the clutches of robbers, or that my blonde hair and blue eyes had transformed into the dark richness of the Indians and Dixie’s whiteness had become painted. I was in constant indecision of whether I wanted to be the cowgirl or the Indian. One thing I was certain of was that the mountains housed us in. Their walls rose and I yearned to see past them. Mine and Dixie’s wanderings could only be fueled by my imagination and her willingness to follow me into it.

                On Mondays when my brother and I were out of school, we woke up early when the morning was crisp and piled into my Papaw’s diesel truck hooked up to the gooseneck stock trailer. We piled in the middle bench seat between Papaw at the wheel and Nannie in the passenger seat. I could not pinpoint on a map or say the name of the place we were going, but the stockyard, to me, was a place of enchantment. When we arrived, Papaw would disappear, I never knew to where, and Nannie, my brother, and I went into the stockyard holding pens. In the building, a web of ramps was suspended above the holding pens so that bidders could scout out the cattle they might want to purchase at the auction. The smell of the place was sharp and pungent. Upon first walking in, my breath was shortened, my lungs in protest about the air filling them. After a few moments of forced inhalation, they would concede and my nose filled with the rank but sweet smell of cattle and manure. There was a heavy, almost tangible, curtain of dust that clung to the air, trapping the scent and dimming the light. I climbed on the bottom rung of the railing and peered over and down at the cattle shifting nervously below, Nannie warning me not to lean too far over. I stood and watched them for as long as I could before Papaw returned. Resting my chin on the railing, I imagined myself down amongst them with Dixie, riding by with my legs brushing up against their furry bodies, not an intrusion but an accepted part of the herd, not a human, but an extension of the horse. When the auction was over and I had watched my Papaw raise his hand during the indistinguishable mutter of the auctioneer, I cared not about the interworking of bidding, but about where the cows were going. I knew the ones that Papaw herded onto the trailer would be brought home and released in the pasture and would become a number of the herd, sold, or meat. But the others who were going home with the scattering of men in overalls and wranglers had possibilities. They were going wherever I wanted them to go.

I do not know how anyone can live without some small place of enchantment to turn to.

  -          Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

  I woke up one Saturday in September before the sun had a chance to rise and burn the fog off of the morning. Rubbing the grogginess from my eyes, I rolled out from under the warm comforter and padded my bare feet over the cold hardwood floors towards the bathroom. As I passed the living room’s big picture window, I paused. A fog had settled over the pasture, making the slope of grass and the hay barn appear cloaked in the gray mist. I imagined the horses out of their stalls, heads down behind the rusted cattle fence picking grass. I felt as if I looked at an old black and white photograph, the subjects discernible only as dark masses amongst the starkly contrasting black and white landscape. The sun had begun to peak over the pine trees, bleeding color into the top left of my picture. I yawned and looked at the time on my phone hanging limply from my right hand. I was getting ready to make my first real road trip down east to Raleigh to see my boyfriend. My cousin Christa was going with me, and she was supposed to come to my house after working the night shift so I could drive.

I pulled out of my driveway ten minutes after I wanted to be gone. I had looked forward to this trip onto I-40 east and the 252 miles away from Hendersonville that it would take me. The intoxicating exhilaration of my first adult voyage clutched my senses and I pulled away with childish excitement. I planned to drive down 64 to Lake Lure and then to No. 9 into Old Fort, and from there onto I-40 east. The drive is steep and curvy descending into the valley, with a mountain on the left and a drop off down to the river on the right. As we passed the turn to Lake Lure, I remembered the day over the summer when my boyfriend and I took his canoe to the lake. Blinded by our glamorized visions of a canoe trip, we hoped to mark it one of the most romantic outings we had ever taken.

After purchasing a day pass to be on the lake, Matt backed his truck with the 16 foot, flat-bottomed fishing canoe down the boat ramp. We half hoisted, half dragged the hefty green concave of heavy-duty plastic to the edge of the water. We placed our essentials into a waterproof container and placed that into a holding tank meant for fish. Matt parked the truck and I sat in the front of the canoe, the plastic bottom suspended between weightlessness and the concrete boat ramp every time a ripple passed over the water. Matt climbed in the back from the dock and we began our romantic journey with frizzy hair and sweaty backs. We made it just out past the boat docks before we realized we had no idea what we were doing. Our strokes were out of sync and we couldn’t figure out whether we were supposed to row on the same side or opposite, as each way seemed to send us forward in zigzagged disarray. The sun had come up full swing by the time we made it around the first bend and the absence of the picnic lunch we had forgotten was making itself evident. Eventually, we made a wide berth around the shoreline. We ventured only slightly out into the big water because the motorized boats’ wakes rocked us back and forth in the brown water. After going a small distance, we shambled more than glided back to the safety of the cove. Two women added insult to our pride of making it that far when they effortlessly stroked into the cove in their v-shaped hull canoe, and landed on the shoreline with the grace of Pocahontas. Matt and I looked at each other, sweat beaded on our brows, shoulder’s pink from the sun, and laughed. We had driven ourselves in a shaky circle for no more than thirty minutes. When I looked at him, I saw the same desire to give up that was reflected in my own eyes. I sat back in my mesh seat and looked out over the water. I looked at him, and it was if the green mountains that rose up around the lake urged our last romanticized thoughts into sticking our oars back in and paddling on.

The drive on No. 9 is one of my favorite scenic routes. There’s a house on the right a few miles onto the pastoral highway. It’s an old Victorian style farmhouse with peeling white paint and a large front porch. The house sits only a couple of hundred feet away from the road, positioned right in front of the mountain emerging behind it. I am always a little awed and a little sad when I see it. As I drove past it, I noticed that brown weeds were crumbling in the front yard and vines snaked up the side of the house. The yard was cluttered, but most of all I saw the house for what it had been. Tucked away between rising peaks, I could see that it once looked out over the valley and the wild of pine trees and corn fields that would have dominated that area. I imagined that the people who used to live there were farmers and I wished that I could have known the place before the road was built, before the paint chipped and the weeds grew. I wished I could have known the sweat and the tears, the fights and the laughter it took to build a home and to make a living off of the land that was blurring past my window.

The winding length of No. 9 is almost a drive back in time. Old farm homesteads dot the land and wild turkeys are thick in the fields. I grew up on a farm with cows and pigs and horses. I have my own little red barn at the top of the pasture with two horse stalls and a hay loft. We brought the dilapidated barn up from my Nannie and Papaws house where it had been used for generations. During my childhood, it was used to house the pigs that were to be taken into the slaughterhouse just down the hill. I can still remember the pungent sweetness of cow manure that clung to the holding pens and to my Papaw’s denim overalls when he pulled my brother and me into his large belly for a hug. I watched the stock trailers come in with cattle and pigs for slaughter, their wheels churning up dust that rose into the trees over the gravel driveway. I stood out of the way until they had backed up to the door. My brother and I climbed up on the wheel houses of the trailers when they stopped and peered in at the unassuming animals while Papaw conducted business. Their wide, glossy brown eyes stared back at me and blinked long feathery eyelashes. Sometimes a wet nose would cautiously reach out towards my fingers and sniff, and then shift uneasily, rocking the whole herd, the whole trailer. A single cow would low and that set the rest of them off, like they knew their death was imminent. The slaughterhouse had greenish tinted lights that hummed like caged bees on the high, concrete ceilings. There was a room for tanning the hides that smelled like old salt, and a room with rusted metal barrels that held the entrails. I knew what the animals faced inside—a single bullet in the head, being strung up by their hind legs and skinned, their whole bodies cut in half, cleaned, gutted and wheeled in a freezer before being transported to the meat lockers in town. Outside in the stock trailer, they were cautious, lowing, brown-eyed pets that grazed the pastures below my house with knobby knees and skinny tails. Yet, somehow, by crossing the threshold of stock trailer to slaughterhouse, they became separate entities, no longer what they once were, but not yet just meat.

I wrote a story for The Western Carolina Journalist about going dove hunting with my boyfriend and our friend Zack. I was taken aback by the beauty of The Green River Game Lands and how that place made me feel connected to the mountains I have grown up in in Western North Carolina.

Dove Hunting was a bittersweet experience for me. I enjoyed it because I was spending time with people I care about in a beautiful place, and because I have never gone before.It was bitter for me because I had raised my own mourning dove quite a few years before and I can still remember the soft feathers on the back of his little bobbing head. I couldn't actually hunt because I have never taken a hunter's safety course, but I enjoyed watching and taking in the experience. 

The Green River Game Lands

The sun had shifted from directly above to directly over the trees on the opposite side of the blown down corn field, leaving no space for shade except the slat right behind the trees we were standing under. We had to stand under the trees on the edge of the woods for camouflage. Our short-sleeved camouflaged t-shirts became sweaters in the mid-afternoon September heat. Gray decoys perched on the ground and on broken corn stalks, feigning food and safety. The Mojo Voodoo Dove Decoy’s wings flapped restlessly in stationary flight. Suddenly, a gray mass arose from the line of treetops on our left and flew towards us in synchronized disarray. Individual mourning doves swarmed and dove towards the decoys, frightened out of their safe havens by some unknown interruption, and Matt Bodenhamer and Zack Davis raised their shotguns.

Matt Bodenhamer and Zack Davis carry their shotguns and decoys to a better location

My first dove hunt began on a hot September afternoon in the Green River Game Lands of Henderson and Polk counties. The Green River Game Lands are over 10,000 acres of forest set aside for management and conservation of the wildlife in the Green River Gorge. Hunting, fishing, and trapping are allowed on the game lands, as well as hiking, at risk to the hiker during hunting season.

“The section of the Green River Game Lands that we hunted has got to be one of the most beautiful places in all of Polk and Henderson counties. It has one awesome panoramic view of an old homestead farm and mountains surrounding it. You couldn’t ask for a better habitat for doves,” said Zack Davis, an NC State Fish and Wildlife major and dove hunting companion.

Matt and Zack attend NC State University as Fish and Wildlife majors and have both dove hunted for a while now. For both men, dove hunting originated from a love of hunting in general. For Matt, it started in a cut soybean field with a couple of friends, a couple of shotguns, no decoys and no idea how to hunt them. When a few flew overhead, he shot two, and from then on was inspired to learn about their habits, how to harvest them and how to sustain a better population of mourning doves. For Zack, it began in high school when his agriculture teachers, who were avid dove hunters, took him for the first time.

“I didn’t get to shoot a dove that day, but I did get to shoot at some, which got me hooked, and since then I’ve been going several times a year. I fully intend to continue dove hunting and make it a tradition for my kids,” Zack said.

According to the Fish and Wildlife Service’s 2013 “Mourning Dove Population Status Report”, mourning doves are one of the most abundant bird species of North America. The migratory birds are managed by the US Fish and Wildlife Service and annual hunting regulations are made according to results of population assessments throughout the year. In the past two years, North Carolina has had the highest annual count of mourning doves. The most recent absolute abundance estimates concluded that there were 349 million mourning doves in the United States in the 2012 preseason and the numbers continue to rise. Mourning doves are abundant in southern Canada, throughout the United States into Mexico, Bermuda, the Bahamas and Greater Antilles, and in scattered locations in Central America.

The blown over corn and millet fields, surrounded by trees and forest, provide an ample habitat for mourning dove. According to an article, “Mourning Doves”, by Dan Hicks, doves are attracted to many different seeds and grains such as sunflowers, millet, grain sorghum, corn, buckwheat and sesame. For hunters looking to hunt the mourning doves, they should seek out a large, open field with structures such as trees or power lines, as doves like to perch and loaf around ideal areas.

Fallen corn fields make great habitat for mourning doves

The Green River Game Lands make for a perfect habitat for the mourning doves that we were hunting.

“It was the first time that I have ever been on the Green River Game Lands. The NC Wildlife Commission has worked tremendously hard on this land to manage it correctly and supply the general public with not only a breathtaking landscape, but a land full of hunting opportunities. We walked over a mile and crossed a small creek where most people are not willing to travel. The gently sloping land was filled with patches of corn, millet, and pokeberry,” explained Matt Bodenhamer.

Several times during our hunting trip, one or the other of us would take out from the cover of trees and walk around the field in order to find where the birds were perching when they weren’t flying. I walked with Zack on the first of these excursions. We kept our eyes peeled for lone doves diving from treetops and, sure enough, they had moved to the opposite end of the field. He put his hand out to stop me from walking any further and we moved towards the edge of the trees where they were perched and waited. Two doves flew out from their safe haven and Zack raised his shotgun to his shoulder, took aim at one of the birds, and shot. The bird tucked away back into the safety of the trees, unharmed, but it wasn’t long before we heard several shots ring out over the hill.

The only gun allowed to be used to kill doves is a shotgun that holds no more than three shells. A shotgun allows the hunter to have a broader range of shot and better chance of getting a bird as the doves are quick and fly in sporadic patterns.

“Where a rifle shoots a single projectile round at a designated target, a shotgun shoots many different small bead-like projectiles known as shot. Shot is contained in a shell that consists of the powder wadding and the shot,” Matt explained.

We crested the hill and found Matt in amongst the trees again, with a few doves at the trunk of the tree. The sound of Zack’s shot had spooked the doves on the edge of the corn field out of the treetops and Matt was able to bring a few down in their frenzy. The doves fly from the treetops towards the decoys because the dove decoys make the birds think there is a food source and that it is a safe place for them to land.

The Mojo Voodoo Dove Decoy tricks the doves into thinking there is a safe food source

For Zack, the most exhilarating part of dove hunting is the natural instinct he feels.

“When the doves are almost in range there is that moment of anticipation, you’re raising your gun to get the bird in your sights all the while your mind is focused on the shot. For that brief moment you don’t think, you simply let your instincts follow the bird and when it’s in range you pull the trigger. That’s the exhilarating part, being able to do something without even thinking, like its second nature.”

By the end of the day, we walked away with six doves.

According to the US Humane Society’s website, mourning doves are a “farmer’s friend” bird and should not be hunted.

“[Doves] are too small to provide any sustenance, they don’t cause any problems, they’re not overpopulated. These birds don’t cause car accidents, they don’t knock over your trashcans, they don’t spread diseases. These are gentle, inoffensive, backyard songbirds and they should not be treated as game,” said Michael Markarian of the US Humane Society in a Youtube video on the society’s website.

However, according to the Fish and Wildlife service, hunting mourning doves is a healthy way to keep the population maintained. All of the doves that Matt and Zack shot were made into dinner that same night, as well. Dove breasts are small, but can make a substantive meal with quantity and the right seasoning. Dove mean is dark and delicate and made a delicious post-hunt meal.

“The best way to clean a dove is by breaking off both wings and pinching the lower end of the breast plate. There is a gap between the breast and the anus where the skin can be pinched. Grip it tightly and pull the skin towards the head. This will sever the skin and feathers. Gently push on both sides of the breast and the skin and feathers will slide off. After the feather removal, push your thumb underneath the breast plate and lift up,” Matt explained.

Matt cooked the doves he shot and we had them for dinner

Both men had similar ways to cook the meat as well, of their own creation, both involving the breasts being wrapped in bacon. Zack prefers to season his dove meat simply with salt and pepper, while Matt enjoys marinating his.

“Some argue that mourning doves are the most succulent bird meat of the game species in NC. Their meat is extremely tender which allows it to soak up marinades well. My favorite recipe is marinated dove breast wrapped in hickory smoked bacon. It is as simple as it sounds. Simply put your dove breasts in a bag and marinade them with your favorite marinade for an hour. Wrap the bacon around the breast and use toothpicks to hold it in to place. Cook it slowly on the grill and that is all that you have to do. My favorite marinade is Allegro original,” Matt explained.

I had never tasted dove before this hunt and, having raised a mourning dove that had fallen out of a nest some years before this, was a little hesitant. Wrapped in bacon, however, it didn’t look so much like the bird I had raised as a pet. As I took my first bite of the succulent meat, I was surprised at the lack of gamey taste I have experienced in the meat of other wild animals such as deer. The breast is approximately the size of a chicken nugget yet laden with rich meat, nonetheless. Because the breasts are so small, they drank in the marinade and were dripping with flavor. Paired with the bacon, green beans, cornbread, mashed potatoes and sweet tea, the dove made for a mouthwatering country dinner that I could look forward to every dove season.

I wrote this story for my school’s online journal, The Western Carolina Journalist, about the host of MTV’s show Catfish, Nev Schulman, coming to WCU. I expected the talk to be something humorous, regaling tales of being catfished and the horrors of online dating, but what the audience got to experience was a refreshing insight on being yourself and finding out how to be your best self.

Catfish brought to WCU

By: Hope Quinn

Nev Schulman, the host of MTV’s reality show, Catfish: The TV Show, brought inspiring advice to hundreds of fans packed into the UC Grand Room on Monday, Sept. 23, hosted by Last Minute Productions.

An hour after the doors opened, Schulman made his way up the center aisle, videoing fans, shaking hands, and even kissing a baby named Constance, his youngest audience member to date. He began his presentation amidst enthusiastic applause and screams from a wide berth of audience members.

Schulman started his presentation by frankly confessing to multiple mistakes that he made as a young adult, such as getting kicked out of elementary, middle, and high school, as well getting kicked out of college, getting arrested and numerous other offenses.

“I don’t normally introduce myself to people so candidly. Yes, I did get kicked out of a number of schools. It’s not something I’m proud about, but it happened. I wouldn’t normally lead a conversation with that, but it’s part of who I am. I think a big part of my success and a lot of what made me the right person to host this crazy TV show, is that I have a knack for just sort of being honest and saying what I think,” said Schulman.

Nev Schulman was as excited to see the audience as the audience was to see him. Photo by: Hope Quinn

Schulman started with a tale about him and his friend, Josh, who, after getting caught flooding urinals and throwing paper wads at the ceiling in their elementary bathroom, became inseparable best friends since Kindergarten. The tale leads to their college days and a time when he and Josh were working with the Neistat brothers on a documentary film. The day was early, and after about four days of being cooped up in a hotel room together, patience was running short. Around day five, Nev and Josh were in a Radio Shack waiting to film and Josh was playing around with a bull horn. He accidently set off the alarm in Nev’s face. This led to an altercation between the two.

“I was so mad that he had pushed me and I was just so frustrated and annoyed with the situation and, it’s not an excuse, but I definitely blacked out and I threw one punch. As hard as I guess I could because I hit him right in the face and broke his nose and… basically his face. I sent him to the hospital and in that moment, in that two or three seconds it took for me to forget who I was and why we had had that stupid fight and to throw that punch, I basically erased 13 years of friendship,” said Schulman.

What he had not realized was that he had been acting a certain way for a long time. He says that he had been a bit of an unintentional bully in the way that he acted and he took people for granted. About a week after the fight with Josh, he sat down with his brother, someone he wholeheartedly looks up to. His brother told him that he loved him, but he did not like him.

From his brother’s brutally honest words, Schulman realized that he needed to make a change in his life. It was the spark he needed to realize that he was totally lost and needed to find who he truly wanted to be. Schulman offered his advice to the audience about the importance of surrounding themselves with honest people.

“Be brutally honest with yourself and find people who are willing to do the same. As honest as you are with yourself the people you surround yourself with are the people whom you make your life. If you just hang out with people who tell you what you want to hear, you probably won’t grow that much.”

Carrie Prevette was beyond ecstatic to meet Nev Schulman. Photo by: Hope Quinn

On his way to discovering himself, Schulman began photographing ballet. He wound up taking a shot that was published in the New York Sun.

“It wound up on the front stoop of a woman in Michigan named Angela, who saw it and loved it and reached out to me. I fell in love with her even though I had never actually met her.”

This was the beginning of what would become the documentary film Catfish and eventually the reality showCatfish: The TV Show on MTV.

There is a quote that Schulman has hanging over his desk in his office that reads “If you work really hard and are kind, amazing things will happen”.

“The hard part, for me at least, was the kindness. That kind of gets lost in the second half of that sentence, but I cannot stress to you enough how important it is. You need to appreciate how important [people] are even if, in that moment, you don’t think that they are.”

Shulman’s presentation lasted a little over an hour but the audience never lost interest in what he had to say. There were murmurs of approval, rumbling laughter, and shouts of affirmation for the advice he offered.

“It was life changing and inspirational. He was down to earth just like I expected,” said Alison Orlikoff, a WCU sophomore.

He closed out his presentation with one last word of advice, to not judge your worth or value by the number of friends or followers, likes or comments that you receive on social media. He urged the audience to find a set of friends that you can be yourself around.

“Invest time in your real friends, you really can’t predict how important it’s going to be to have those people to count on,” he said.

I have a blue chair that has been sitting in front of my barn for almost two years now. It’s nothing special, just a tacky, blue-green metal chair with a fanned back akin to a seashell that was probably produced sometime in the eighties. If you lean too far forward while sitting in this particularly uncomfortable seat, it will almost always send you face first into the dirt. But still it sits because after a long day of working horses in the summer heat, when my muscles ache satisfyingly and the sweat of an accomplished day drips into my eyes, the blue chair is always there to offer a kind break and an unsurpassed view of my Blue Ridge Mountains. 

One hot day in July, I pull this chair from the scorching sun into the last slat of shade provided by the barn and sit, my back tingling from the warmth. My blue jeans are sticking to my legs, pulling them tight across my knees, while the tank top glued to my back is a wool coat between my skin and the half-hearted breeze blowing from the south. I know it won’t be long before the earth shifts again and my shade withdraws, pitching me unwillingly into the sun’s angry clutches, so I wipe my brow with the back of a hand and sit back, enjoying the small break from the dirt, the sun, and the sweat.

I look out to the pasture where, through the rungs of the rust encrusted gates of the riding ring, I see Gunner’s flaxen tail leisurely swatting flies away from his small sorrel body. Rio is standing right beside him, eyes closed, content with soaking in the sun’s warm rays. I notice that, despite she has just been ridden for an hour in this ninety degree heat and is covered in a layer of dust, she shines like a scarlet beacon, the queen of rubies, out amongst the emerald grass. I smile at this and languidly shift my gaze below the horses to where the small creek trickles downhill past the hay barn and out into the world. Through the nostrils of childhood adventure, I can still smell the damp, rustic aroma of the soft muddy creek sand and the cool, fresh scent of the green foliage that scales the crumbling banks and decrepit fence line I have spent countless summers exploring.

Psalm 62:2 ESV