✅8-12 decent sized yellow morels
✅1 block (8 oz) cream cheese
✅1/4 cup chopped onion
✅3 Tbsp water
✅spoonful minced garlic
✅6 sprigs fresh thyme
✅2 Tbsp fresh chopped chives
✅5 slices cooked bacon
✅salt and pepper to taste
✅5 Tbsp butter
Trim your morel stems but do not halve them. Just cut the bottom of the stem off... Wash, rinse, then wash your morels again, taking care to rinse the inside as well. Pat dry. Put in a 350 degree oven for ten mins to get the water out, remove from oven, and then set aside between some paper towels to fully dry.
While the morels dry, cook the bacon until crispy. Once fully cooked, set aside to cool and dry. In a medium saucepan, put a Tbsp of butter in along with onion. Cook until onions are translucent, about 5 mins on medium heat. Add garlic and cook two more mins. Add cream cheese and water, and cook until mailable but not runny. Add 2 chopped springs of fresh thyme, pepper, the chopped cooked bacon and chives to the mixture. Turn off the heat. Let cool so that you can touch it but don’t let it solidify. Put cheese mix into a piping bag or a ziploc bag, and snip off the corner of the bag so that you can squeeze the cheese mixture out.
Fit the snipped corner of the bag into the (now dried) morel stem. Squeeze and fill the morel tightly with the mixture. Salt and pepper each side of the morel to taste (I recommend going easy on the salt, as the cheese stuffing is already salty) and set aside. In the mean time, get the remaining butter in the pan and starting to BROWN (not burn). Smash the remaining thyme sprigs and add the the pan until fragrant (less than a minute).
Slowly drop the mushrooms into the brown butter. It should sizzle upon dropping into the butter. Cook for about 30-60 seconds per side (depends on the size of your mushrooms). This should create a crispy and buttery crust, while the inside remains gooey and flavorful. Remove from the pan and allow to cool before enjoying!
Beer Braise Deer Neck Roast
My family has eaten wild game meat my whole life. We have butchered our own deer since I began hunting at age 12, when it just became more economical with twice the deer to pay for processing. Over the years my father’s garage has turned into quite the butcher shop with a walk in cooler, giant meat grinder, sausage mixer, and now it even has the amenities of heat and running water. The butchering process has always been a fun time with friends and family. Lots of beer, whiskey, and cigars have always been consumed out in the garage during these time.
I enjoy staring at the wall admiring my deer mounts as much as anyone. But the older I get, I find as much satisfaction cooking a meal of wild game for friends or family. Knowing the time and work it took to get that meat, and then prepare a meal that even non-hunters enjoy gives me great satisfaction. Over the last few years I have been starting to branch out and cook some different recipes and different cuts of venison. Some cuts that would normally end up in the grind pile have been saved for some low and slow type recipes. This beer braised neck roast recipe is one that that is very easy, and I plan to use every year from here on out.
Ingredients
- 1 venison neck roast (bone in or bone out)
- Olive oil
- Salt and pepper
- Flour
- 1 yellow onion
- 2 carrots
- 1 celery stalk
- Beef stock
- Stout Beer
- Brown sugar
- 2 Bay leaves
Instructions
1. Salt and pepper the neck roast, then coat it in flour. I usually just pour a cup or two of flour on a plate and roll the roast in the flour until it is completely coated.
2. Heat some olive oil in a dutch oven, just a couple tablespoons worth. Once the oil gets hot, brown the roast in the oil. You want to get a nice brown crust on all sides of the roast, a few minutes per side. Once browned, remove the roast and place to the side.
3. Chop the onion, carrots, and celery. Add a little more oil to the dutch oven if necessary, and then add the onion, carrots, and celery. Cook for about 5 minutes stirring until the vegetables begin to soften.
4. Add the roast back to the pot. Add in about 2 cups of the beef stock and enough beer to almost cover the roast. Add the bay leaves, brown sugar, and 2 tablespoons of flour. Mix the liquid until all ingredients are evenly incorporated.
5. Put the lid on the dutch oven and place in the oven at 350. Cook for 4-6 hours depending on the roast. You want to be able to shred the roast with a fork. Periodically check the roast making sure there is enough liquid, and the roast doesn’t dry out. If needed, add more beer to keep the roast 3/4 covered and liquid. This will help produce a nice gravy.
6. Shred the roast and serve over mashed potatoes or rice with the vegetables and gravy.
ENJOY!
The Value of the Hang N’ Bang
For a long time, the Working Class Bowhunter Podcast crew has preached the importance of the Hang n’ Bang (coined by the WCB crew) - The idea that you are not limited to pre-hung sets. The basic idea is that you have a stand and sticks that are light, compact, and easily caried in and out. This allows you to make adjustments, whether little or big, based on most recent information (MRI). It also allows you to tear down and move if the wind isn’t as favorable as predicted. The value of this type of hunting was made abundantly clear to me on Friday the 13th of this year.
Before sunup, I went in with my stand on my back and set up on a ridge top where I knew that does sometimes bed during the day. I had great visibility and the wind was forecasted to be straight out of the north east. However, when the sun came up and the day winds began blowing, the wind was blowing due east. The direction I was expecting deer to be coming from. It was a light wind so I decided to stay put and hope that the thermals would override the wind direction and suck up to me out of the bottom. This was not the case. At 7:45 I let out a few grunts and waited. The leaves were crisp but I failed to hear the buck slip in from the bottom. I heard a deer take off and turned in time to see a nice buck bound away. He had come up the ridge in a blind spot and got directly down wind.
Frustrated, I tried calling but it was pointless. I started looking at my map and remembered a ridge that I had scouted two years prior that had a great transition line where thick pines met the hard woods. It had been littered with rubs and scrapes along that edge so I decided to slip over there and try that. The transition line ran east/west so I set up on the south side of it down far enough so that if a buck was traveling along that line, the wind would be in his favor but I would be just south of what he was smelling.
(The red line in the transition line and expected travel route. The blue arrow is the wind direction. The stand location is marked by the yellow x)
I started tearing down my initial setup at 9 AM and 45 minutes later, I had moved locations and was in the tree ready to hunt. It was a slow first hour but, like they say, it can all change in an instant - and that’s what happened. At about 10:50 I heard crashing and running. I looked behind me and saw a doe running down the hill from the opposite ridge. She started coming up towards me and stopped to look behind her. That’s when I knew there was something behind her. Not five seconds later, I spotted a big bodied deer trotting down after her.
As he neared her, she took off running up the hill towards me and walked twelve yards from me into the thick pines. The buck came straight up on the same trail following the doe.
(Twelve yards away - the moment before the shot)
That morning I had no intention of hunting this location. I set up in an area that I thought bucks might travel while scent checking for does. It was a mobile setup to begin with but the wind was wrong and I had been busted. If you listen to lots of well-known big buck killers, they will tell you that the number one concern that a hunter should have is wind direction. Having blown an opportunity, it took some mental back-and-forth to convince myself to tear down and move, but once I had made the decision, I was kicking myself for taking so long to do it (it took about an hour from when the buck busted me to when I decided to make the move). Fortunately for me, I was set up with plenty of time to catch this mature 8 coming through with the doe. I was unsure of the shot so I backed out and went in to look after dark. My buddy brought his dog out in case it was a tough track job but the shot, although a touch back, had been good and got the back of the lungs. The deer was dead 88 yards from the shot and had died running.
(Lucca got on the trail and brought us straight to him in less than a minute)
There is no doubt in my mind that the ability to be mobile is what killed this deer. I had never hunted here before, although I had scouted it in previous years. I made an adjustment based on wind direction and I will never think twice about moving again. The Hang n’ Bang hunting style has proven to be effective over and over again and I would encourage everyone to try it. Call this my “ahah moment”. It is mentally daunting at first but I feel confident that if you are smart about it, you will see the benefits and reap the rewards.
Story Of Triton
The story of Triton begins on August 19, 2019. A trail camera placed on the inside corner of a midsummer bean field caught a sequence of six pictures from a buck that we had no history with, a buck my daughter Taylor would later give the name Triton. These six pictures would be the only pictures we would get from this mystery buck.
We assumed the buck was bedding on an adjoining property and had only been passing through. After talking with one of our neighbors and sharing pics ,we confirmed our suspicions that he was staying on their property.
Fast forward to November 13, my alarm went off at 345. I rolled over and pulled up the forecast on my phone. It called for morning temperatures in the single digits and wind gusts 10-20 mph increasing throughout the day. It sounded like a good day to sleep in and head in to the stand a little late. My wife on the other hand wasn't keen on being woke up twice and kicked me out of bed. So off I went! Conditions were great for the 2nd week of November. There was a fresh inch of snow on the ground that covered my noise entering the stand along with a stiff SSW wind. The morning started off with some great action. Smaller bucks cruising , grunting, and chasing does all over the ditch bottom I was dug in to. The plan for the morning was to sit until 930 or so, head to town to grab a bite to eat and warm up a bit, then head back in to sit the rest of the day. Those plans didn't stick long because the action didn't stop all morning. At 10:40 I caught movement on the opposite side of the ditch. At first sight it was a "No Brainier" , this buck was a shooter. I quickly grabbed my bow and range finder. If he was to stay on the path he was headed, I'd have a 49 yard shot at him. As I'm getting ready to dial my HHA Tetra to 49, I looked up and he split off the trail and started heading up to the bedding area. I had to make something happen now. I picked up my grunt call and tried to give a few soft grunts, but it was froze up. I gave one hard blow until the reed freed up and threw out 4 horribly sounding grunts. He turned and started down the hill for me and it was then that I realized that it was Triton! He started running down the ridge straight for me stopping at the creek pausing for a brief second. He then leapt the creek coming straight in on a string. I drew my Elite Ritual settled my single pin on his vitals as he came closer and stopped at 22 yards broadside. I slowly squeezed off the shot sending a shot through both lungs.
After the shot my emotions and the cold settled in instantly. I had to sit down and get my bearings. I made a few quick teeth chattering and blubbering phone calls to buddies and my wife. After sending some messages to my Working Class Bowhunter Podcast friends ,I decided to get down and back out for a bit. I thought the shot was kind of high and Triton needed some time to expire. After giving him a couple hours , I headed back into track. Instead of heading straight back in to the blood soaked arrow, I decided to sneak down the edge of the ditch, glassing where he had ran into instead of risking the wind if he was still alive. There were two drainages that lead to the creek where the deer like to bed, so I figured I'd give these two spots a quick look. The first drainage came up empty, so l moved another 10 yards to check out the second. As I'm working my way up the drainage with my binos I make out the rump of a deer. I rearrange myself to see around the tree and there he was laying in his bed; expired! I ran straight across the ditch, knelt by his side and offered thanks.
The story of Triton was short-lived. He no doubt lived up to expectations of a mystery buck. Curt Geier will be scoring the rack after the 60 day drying period is done.
Chasing Turkeys With George
It's getting to be that time of year again when I think of going turkey hunting with old George.
George was my grandparent's neighbor in Pittsfield, Illinois. He drove a Cavalier Wagon that he believed could not get stuck, and depending on the time of year it would be filled with hunting and fishing odds and ends. I most vividly remember it in late spring, containing several 2x4's of varying lengths tethered together by twine and camouflage burlap, piles of odd sized hunting clothes, and a turkey decoy named Henrietta. I would wake up very early, so that the topic of the day and reason for any misfortune would not be that I slept in and made us late. Sitting on the tailgate of Pop's pickup and looking out the garage door window I'd wait for the old maroon wagon to rumble up the driveway from next door. As the garage door went up and let the cold air in the shivers would wash over me as I carried my stuff to the wagon and found a place for it in the back seat.
The passenger door would swing open before I was given the chance to open it, and the smell of George's cigars would wash over me. I've never been fond of cigar or cigarette smoke, but I never felt reason to complain about the little cigars George lit early in the morning and chewed on until the sun went down. I never, ever saw him light one. I can see the package sitting there in the cubby hole in the dash with no more that two of the little cigars in it, half obscured by an ancient can of bug spray. Finding a place for my feet was always a bit of a challenge because there were always shell boxes and papers on the floor boards. He'd always say "Bill up? Making a pot of coffee?" I'd show him the mountain dew can that was a fixture on my person and he'd grumble about it. "Want one of these?" he'd ask as he motioned to the little brown nub that had already created a brown ring on the corner of his mouth. Many times I had considered it, but always turned him down.
Conversation for drive out to the timber almost always consisted of a combination of information gathered from the landowners and people living nearby, as well as his recollections from hunting wherever we were headed in previous years. I never got a word in. Each new piece of information that was divulged was accompanied by a sharp tap from the back of his hand to the very same spot on my upper arm, which on long rides would begin to ache. He'd always ask about the young ladies. Even though I couldn't usually see his face in the dark I knew he was giving me the eyebrows as he nudged me with his elbow and inquisitive "Eh? Eh?" Every time we went hunting it was to a different spot usually quite a ways outside of Pittsfield, and even though the heater was always blasting I'd shiver. Sometimes the moon was still up and it would illuminate the roadsides. The cornfields and stock lots gave way to hilly tall grass pasturelands and deep hollows as we grew nearer to the destination. George always had his speculations about the day based on what the weather man said and what he'd heard about at coffee the week before, and they'd pour from him as the sun drew nearer to the horizon.
The road always ended in the grey light just before the sun began to color the sky. George would put out his cigar and pop it back in his mouth. He'd fling the door open, wrestle to get to his feet, slam the car door so hard I wondered if it would ever open again, and then cut loose with an often surprising imitation of a barred owl that always ended with a big hacking cough. Whether it caused a turkey to shock gobble or not, and it often did, there would be a motion and he would rasp "Over there!" He'd call me to the back of the wagon and begin hastily loading our gear into my outstretched arms. While I struggled to contain and carry everything George would get a head start and continue his long gargling "Whoo-ah's" as he went. It didn't matter where the toms called back from, he'd always already have a good spot picked out.
On one particular morning we'd set up our little blind in the lowest corner of a newly planted bean field. Though he remembered the location and previous hunts well, George could never remember which trees were the best to lean on. We would set the blind up in the dark at least once before thinking better of our situation and moving it. As the sun came up and lit the the thin clouds I could finally see Old Zebrun. Not having the mindset of young hunters like myself, George never even considered matching his camouflage to the season or situation. He wore the large blotchy patterns from before hunting was big business. Guys my age call those patterns "Old Skool" and wear them for fun and to pay homage to our hunting forefathers. From any number of his pockets would come calls to be arranged around us so that they were easily found by feeling when taking our eyes off the bird wasn't an option. He had box calls, and friction calls, locators, you name it. Most he'd saved from hunting buddies, and most made an awful thin sound since they were usually handled incorrectly or had been wet. One thing about George's turkey hunting collection amazed and baffled me more than anything else. Henrietta. She was an old, and I mean right after they were carved out of wood old, hen decoy with real skin and feathers stretched over it. I have no doubt that the entire thing was older than I was. Truth be told it looked like hell, but I doubt an amorous tom thought twice about the possibilities. She always seemed to do her job except for when I was around. Stage fright, I suppose. Across his knees lay an old single shot twenty gauge. He liked it because it was light and he knew just how to hold the bead in every situation. There hadn't been a great deal of activity on this morning, and it was soggy and cold. Behind us in the timber two small creeks came together and created a good sized pool at the base of an oak tree before meandering off to parts unknown as one. From my very low vantage point I'd always try to get a lay of the land without moving two quickly or sticking my head up. This usually got me pretty familiar with anything closer than twenty feet that wasn't in the field ahead of us. There George would sit next to me seemingly watching an invisible gobbler and clucking every now and then on one of his calls, his glassy eyes peering through his face net. Laying there on the ground as the sun came up, burning off the haze and warming the air, I was helpless to fend off sleep's embrace.
After nodding off and on for most of the morning, at half after nine I heard the distinct wing beats and a cluck behind us as a bird hopped across the nearest creek. I gathered that it was a hen making her way out to the field, and as long as we kept quiet she'd keep Henrietta company and help our situation. George had not heard her, which was perfectly understandable because he was into his eighties. Fifteen or twenty minutes later he batted me hard with the back of his arm and growled loudly and quickly "Jeez Ch... T'ere's a hen o'er here! T'ree o clock!" He didn't hear her leave, either. We spent the next hour waiting for her to come out into the field with the tom that George was certain was courting her. I sat there knowing better, but didn't want to tell him as he did his very best to coax the nonexistent tom out to the field edge. At about eleven George told me to take my gun and sneak around behind him. Anyone who's been in the turkey woods knows that there is no sneaking after the sun comes up, and I'm sure he knew that. He just wanted me to jump something. After Elmer Fudding my way through the timber for half an hour I reported back. George told me to go ahead and walk around a bit. "Take your time, I'll get all this gathered up and meet you back at the car." He did this no matter where we hunted. It was usually my favorite part because it gave me a chance to look for antlers and mushrooms on unfamiliar ground. Once back to the car we'd sit and chat about anything I'd found or seen while he finished his cold coffee and I opened the soda I hadn't quite gotten to on the ride out. At this point there was only one thing on his mind: a ham and cheese from Hardee's. He always accented both syllables, like if you were saying RD's. I went with George many times, but it just never seemed to come together. I didn't mind a bit. All he wanted was for me to get my gobbler.
The last time I spoke to George I was home from for a visit from living in Alabama. He was seeing double. A growth far up in his nasal cavity was putting pressure on both his eyes, and he would be having it out soon. George told me many times, sometimes it seemed like every third sentence, that at his age there was no sense in slowing down. The day he stopped "going" would be the day that he kicked his bucket. He proved his belief and resolve to uphold it when he broke his foot squirrel hunting and never thought twice about having it casted. He just kept on going. As I've been told, and this information made it to me through the intricate system of small town conversation, George's surgery went off pretty much without incident. The doctor asked him to take it easy for a few weeks, but George said no. The doctor asked for a week. George said no. Seeing that he obviously wasn't going to come out ahead in the argument, the doctor pleaded for just a few days. George obliged, and spent the day after his surgery taking it easy. Taking it easy didn't sit well with him. The next morning he was up early and off to Coffee at Hardee's. He hopped in his wagon and off he went. He walked in, greeted the crowd, ordered his cup, and as he walked back to sit and gossip with all those in attendance he had a stroke. When he came to in the hospital the next day, or maybe the day after that, he was thoroughly aggravated. Having lost his power of speech and most of the use of one side it was clear to him that "going" was no longer an option. He made his wishes clear by withdrawing the IV's and tubes without proper medical assistance more than once.
I think back to that last conversation. Before I opened the glass door to Pop's garage I could see him musing to Pop while twiddling his thumbs and inspecting the state of his finger nails.There he sat in the chair nearest the east door in the afternoon light with one leg propped up on the other and a ring around the cigar nub hanging from the corner of his mouth. On his feet were grey shoes with two velcro straps, and sticking up from those below his short pant legs were what could only be mismatched socks. He wore a splotchy olive drab t-shirt with a few holes near the tail from carrying a leaky battery to his john boat some years past. He'd lift up a worn out Pheasants Forever hat he'd gotten free at a banquet to scratch the permanently tanned bald head he kept underneath it. As I opened the door he greeted me with a big smile, asked me how living down south was, and if I caught any good fish or seen any pretty girls on the beach. He updated me on all the goings on since I'd left early in January, commented about shifts in the weather at length, and proclaimed that he was happy because it was finally going to stay warm. When he wasn't telling a story or talking about his pals at the DNR office or about his cat Zoey, he was ribbing Pop about not going fishing with him enough. Pop would just sit and chuckle and shake his head as he fiddled with bits of a small engine he was fixing for poke money. After BS'ing for awhile I hesitantly asked George how he was doing, having heard of his predicament before my arrival from my grandparents. He said he was seeing doubles. "Two of everything past three feet out" he stated matter-of-factly. I asked doubtfully how his turkey season went. He told me who he'd hunted with and how the weather had been. He told about where they'd hunted and about the things they'd seen and heard, knowing fully well that he was skirting the answer I was really after. With a bright twinkle in his eye and a grin he finally said he'd helped a few guys get their bird, and filled both of his tags doing it. Incredulously, I asked how? His grin grew into as big a smile as I'd ever seen on his face, the little nub nearly loosing it's footing on his lip. He laughed loudly and said "Dammit, I shot t' one on the right!"
So there he sat, so pleased with himself and my reaction in the fleeting warmth of a late May afternoon. And there old George Zebrun will sit until I no longer have the luxury of memory, teasing Pop and smiling with that little cigar nub and tobacco ring in the corner of his mouth.
Judd McCullum
How To Enhance Your Trophy
Written By: Allison Rauscher
The first “wall-mount-worthy” buck I ever harvested, is by far one of my most prized possessions. It was a solo hunt; from choosing where I would sit, the fatal shot, field dressing, and then picking out what pose I wanted the taxidermist to use. Being my first shoulder-mounted whitetail, I envisioned it being at the center of my future trophy room display. Being the stubborn, “I-Know-What-I-Want” kind of girl that I am, I chose a straight-on, semi-sneak pose, despite my Dad’s suggestions. Little did I realize my feelings would change over time. While my Dad and I found cool ways to display him with our other mounts, I began to realize how limited I was by choosing that pose. For awhile, I thought that was just how it would always be.
Until recently, I had started seeing new and cooler ways to display mounts. Back when I was younger and would walk into a hunter’s home, you’d simply see whitetails just hanging up against the wall. At the time, that looked and seemed to be the best way to display them. Since then, I’ve discovered Full Range Hanging Systems, that allow me to display that first big wall-mounter in new ways.
Full Range Hanging Systems allow you to display your trophies in various ways. The system mounts to the wall and the arm of the system mounts to your trophy. You can adjust the arm at both ends, providing the ability to move and rotate your mount 180 degrees at any given time.
The Full Range Hanging System comes in several variations of designs; the Single System, the Double System, and the Corner System, which allows you to use every space of your trophy room. The Single and Corner Systems hold up to 35lbs, whereas the Double System can hold up to 70lbs, giving you the versatility to mount your whitetail, mule deer, antelope, sheep, etc.
The Full Range Hanging Systems packaging contains all the materials and hardware needed, and is simple and versatile to assemble using minimal materials. They come with a one-sided sheet of directions with only a few steps that are incredibly easy to understand, but I didn’t even feel like I needed these. Both the Single and Double Systems come with 3/16” Steel Plates and a 1” x 3/8” Steel Swing Arm that is 8” long, and are required to assemble your system.
The Corner System is unique and versatile when it comes to filling each nook and cranny of your trophy room. It comes with essentially the same build, however, the Steel Wall Plate is customized to fit a 90 degree angle.
Full Range Hanging Systems are phenomenally sturdy, so you know you don’t have to worry about your trophy falling off the wall. You can purchase your Full Range Hanging System online or at any Cabela’s or Scheel’s store with prices ranging from just $34-$50.
I used to feel so limited by my pose choice for my first wall mount. With the Full Range Hanging System, it’s as if I have a brand new mount and I have so many new ways to display him. After discovering Full Range Hanging Systems, I’m not sure I’ll ever display another mount flat on the wall again!
For more information and to purchase yours today, you can visit https://fullrangesystems.com. You can also find them on Instagram (@fullrangehangingsystems) and Facebook.