Author: Greg Staggs

I’m a trapper. Let me clarify: I’m a HARD-CORE trapper. For many, that elicits a wide range of emotions right off the bat. There isn’t hardly an outdoor activity as misunderstood as trapping. Many people have very preconceived notions of what trapping is – and what it isn’t.

Largely, that’s due to one of two things: First, let’s be brutally honest – trapping is a dying art. There’s almost nothing in the outdoor spectrum that takes as much work, as much attention to detail, and as much unmitigated discipline as trapping does. Let’s face it; in today’s “microwave society”, we outdoorsmen like success to come quickly – and easily. It’s one of the reasons food plots are a multi-million dollar industry in the world of deer hunting; it sure is a whole lot easier to sit in an elegant box blind overlooking a lush green field as opposed to diving in to the undergrowth and emerging with briar cuts across your face and cheeks. Trapping puts you on the ANIMAL’s terms more than anything else out there – not yours.

Secondly, it’s been the easiest for animal-rights activists and PETA-type wackos to attack thus far. Because the numbers of actual trappers are dwindling, there’s more and more people in our country who are truly ignorant of both the skillset it takes to catch a target animal, and what actually happens when you do. That makes it very easy to misconstrue the truth and spread false propaganda. In other words, it makes it very easy to spread lies about trapping. Ever heard the old adage that you don’t know what you don’t know? Or even better, as the great Will Rogers said: “It’s not what we don’t know that hurts. It’s what we know that ain’t so.”

Author: Greg Staggs

If you’re on social media as much as I am, you inevitably notice new trends. One of my favorites that started popping up in my feed this past fall was a series of memes which started with the phrase “I don’t know who needs to hear this, but…” Usually they were supportive, uplifting and encouraging words that were intended to raise the spirts of someone who might be undergoing a challenging situation of their own.

So, here’s my take on it: I don’t know who needs to hear this, but… the end goal isn’t saddle hunting. The end goal is to kill your target animal. Yep, I said it.
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So far this season, I’ve regaled you with a collection of stories about my outdoors experiences… most of those have been singular in nature – meaning, each story has been about one topic, i.e., turkey hunting, or growing up in the outdoors, or chasing public-land bucks. I thought I’d change it up this time and throw out a hodgepodge of tips and tricks for you guys to consider. Take them or leave them as you need! 
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Author: Greg Staggs

​A tip!
 
As a long-time moderator on one of the most popular bowhunting forums on the internet, I consistently see two questions come across the screen from beginning bowhunters: How many pins should I use, and what colors should they be? Given that the large majority of bowhunters harvest their quarry at a distance of around 20 yards, I offer up a system that has worked extremely well for me chasing whitetails across the Midwest...

Author: Greg Staggs
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“Hey, I’m hunting over here,” called out the voice from above. I stopped and quickly scanned the skyline before spotting the figure perched atop the platform in the tree. I closed the remaining distance between us and we quietly greeted one another before he dropped the bombshell. “Just so you know, my buddy and I are accessing this area through that field” he said, pointing past the low-water creek and in the direction of a cut bean field.

“THAT field?!” I asked incredulously...

 Author: Greg Staggs

The icon alerting me that I had an instant message waiting to be read lit up as innocently as all the other times it ever had when someone messaged me through Facebook. I stole another glance to my left and identified the squirrel shuffling through the crisp November leaves, periodically burying his nose deep enough to hide his eyes from the still morning air. A pair of wood ducks raucously lifted off the slough to my right, and I scanned the water’s edge where it came up and lapped at the trees that marched out into its depths with extra care, looking for an animal that may have spooked them from their floating perches.

Satisfied I was alone for the present time, I turned my focus toward the phone in my hand and tapped the little button to open my message folder. A few seconds later that aforementioned innocence was gone. “Hey man, I think I’m pretty sure I know exactly where that spot is… Good luck to you.” Or something like that. It could have said I want to send you a million dollars; frankly, I couldn’t see past “I know where that spot is…”

Author: Greg Staggs

The question probably came from as far out of left field as she would have ever expected. It was more of a statement, actually.
 
“I grew up hunting. I bowhunt. I’m going to have mounted animals in my house. I’m not saying this relationship will ever get to that point…” I trailed off. Then I picked back up again, diving full-steam ahead. No sense in stopping now. “But if it ever does,” I began again, “Is that going to be a problem?”
 
She thought for the briefest of moments before giving her answer. “As long as you don’t put them in the bedroom, bathroom or the kitchen.” I paused just as briefly. “Fair enough,” I answered before we both started scanning our menus in prelude to the meal on our first date.
 
It had been the second question of the night for my future wife, right after the one asking when she wanted to have kids. We were both a bit older: She had been in the work force for a while and I was in my last year of graduate school. We had both been in enough relationships to know what we didn’t want, and neither one of us danced around issues important to us. We dove headlong into a beautiful relationship that after 24 years of marriage and counting has continued to provide me with the most supportive bowhunting spouse who doesn’t hunt that I could have ever hoped for.

Author: Greg Staggs

​The twin set of taillights quickly gained speed on the gravel road, disappearing in a cloud of dust and leaving the darkness to quickly envelope me and the gear stowed beneath the bridge. The water quietly lapped at the side of the boat, making soft plinking noises, and I managed to make out its form below me in the soft moonlight. I plopped lazily onto the concrete bridge, settling in for what was sure to be a thirty-minute wait as Dad drove his white pickup to drop off at our destination. Mom was following in the car so she could bring him back to the boat, then she would go home – her night over even as ours was barely beginning.
 
A chorus of insects slowly gained volume to accompany the cascade of fireworks hanging in the distance over town. I swung my feet slowly to the rhythm of the screaming cicadas and katydids and enjoyed the show until my parents returned.
 
“There’s a pretty big one sitting up that way about sixty or seventy yards,” I told Dad after we said our good-byes to Mom. “I may have spooked him off, though. I walked up that field row to see if I could place him a little better when y’all guys first left. I haven’t heard him since.”