Hunting turkeys in the suburbs deserves serious contemplation about how to use a firearm. Read
It’s like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. A quiet, suburban neighborhood in the Midwest is held hostage by a pack of adolescent punks. They spit curses at passersby. They gang up on dogs. They block the roads. They tear up yards. They impose their hostile climate over any otherwise happy, normal day. Read
Jim Spencer’s first "Bad Birds" column recalls a lesson in humility.
My first morning of Osceola hunting wasn’t turning out as planned. But considering overnight temperatures in my home state of Wisconsin hovered near zero, I wasn’t complaining. Read
My first successful fall hunt didn’t include the drama of calling in a turkey after scattering a flock. Heck, in the end, my voice proved more deadly than a few perfectly reproduced hen clucks. No matter. Little perseverance and a lot of dumb luck let me kill one of the biggest gobblers our area had seen in a long time. Read