tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36295311119749875272024-03-08T00:09:17.608-06:00Whiskey In A Snipe GlassAl R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-70443438128018739392024-01-11T18:28:00.002-06:002024-01-14T10:09:02.202-06:00Gunning<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xBgR4ksL-ITRJjJxlRgQKPrMQSz3Is23vqlozl8zH6cv_-208CiYzoGKN-c5DaWvAOTzXsIqVPuNvnRPBo8xQavZqMBFZ38fdMFD1QbVbiWSVcjpxSZ8dRSYF9EpYqgb3y1Bc0z-44Bfh1sX7ssEM0wRgQkzdcKR8Q7JJ66IqYiKNCnp_qvugnxCrVyy/s2134/Grouse%20box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1698" data-original-width="2134" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xBgR4ksL-ITRJjJxlRgQKPrMQSz3Is23vqlozl8zH6cv_-208CiYzoGKN-c5DaWvAOTzXsIqVPuNvnRPBo8xQavZqMBFZ38fdMFD1QbVbiWSVcjpxSZ8dRSYF9EpYqgb3y1Bc0z-44Bfh1sX7ssEM0wRgQkzdcKR8Q7JJ66IqYiKNCnp_qvugnxCrVyy/s320/Grouse%20box.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> It was the end of Autunm and winter was on the way, but it still took a while to get things put away. The effort was made to keep fly fishing for as long as possible with a late season outing for muskie, and an even later steelhead trip. But finally the rods were slid into their tubes, the boats stored under cover, motors winterized with the thought of staying ahead of the cold and snow; and the shotgun was uncased.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09Gc-OLNcjWyzAvgt72aXJvW93gm30cAXTgw1LFvqpyGvfqFt412iO2ubQyXYvVCNox6zcKrsupSOlbfxWR-CSYkKTAOX7YGYxLRU4GpWSlRLp1N7JKckJTB0ptuTNK0_14LFrADJkHMw2370vAwQ45NEoy8p_UmjQsjqbc-l1yJNzTBt74Xc7RcgEOfc/s3264/Canoe%20shed%202023-10-19.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09Gc-OLNcjWyzAvgt72aXJvW93gm30cAXTgw1LFvqpyGvfqFt412iO2ubQyXYvVCNox6zcKrsupSOlbfxWR-CSYkKTAOX7YGYxLRU4GpWSlRLp1N7JKckJTB0ptuTNK0_14LFrADJkHMw2370vAwQ45NEoy8p_UmjQsjqbc-l1yJNzTBt74Xc7RcgEOfc/s320/Canoe%20shed%202023-10-19.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;">I turns out there was really no hurry. Winter didn’t come. Well, that is, not at its usual time. By Christmas we’d only received a couple of short-lived dustings of snow, and we’d enjoyed one of the longest, and warmest snow-free grouse hunting seasons I’ve ever experienced. And the grouse numbers were up, way up. Social media was bombed with dead grouse proudly lined up on tailgates by about anyone who could lift a shotgun. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuagXbIJ6G_hIWQvWa-BIlAYvJH6ubKdwxTUAPgezImbe8NkLh5yj6L7U1LFKOXlGlhQPFCJ_tEIkFMXZLSQTGEESBHOATQkq_Ly7PeOOJry-ICAkrS9X_84R6TjciQmIDROt474wSZcADMK4OqdTHWu3-_HV8amc4_nPfTyxd_Kx7cCZkcN8KuuOCg87/s1348/20231204_113939.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1348" data-original-width="1340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuagXbIJ6G_hIWQvWa-BIlAYvJH6ubKdwxTUAPgezImbe8NkLh5yj6L7U1LFKOXlGlhQPFCJ_tEIkFMXZLSQTGEESBHOATQkq_Ly7PeOOJry-ICAkrS9X_84R6TjciQmIDROt474wSZcADMK4OqdTHWu3-_HV8amc4_nPfTyxd_Kx7cCZkcN8KuuOCg87/s320/20231204_113939.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Back in 1970 F. Phillips Williamson put together an anthology for Amwell Press, mostly about duck hunting. Introducing one of the chapters he wrote about guns, “... the one gun still being manufactured that will operate, day in day out, in rain, sleet, snow, dust and salt is the Browning Auto 5, known for years as the Browning Automatic. The Remington Model 11, now long since discontinued, was the only autoloading shotgun that could match it for reliability.” Of course, since then a lot of newer tech and systems have been built into newer autoloaders, but if they are really better is an arguable statement. For some time I sort of snubbed the automatic loading shotgun, except for waterfowl, where shooting heavy loads from the Auto 5 produced little recoil thanks to its operating system. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A little over a year ago Grandpa’s old Remington Model 11 was dug out and brought out to the gun club. I’ve talked about this gun before, and how I could feel the good vibes shooting this old gun that’s been in the family since 1940. These days I’m mostly a grouse and woodcock hunter and that old 16 gauge is far from the classic grouse gun, but I had choke tubes installed in the full chokebore barrel, and it suddenly became a versatile upland shooter. This past season it’s the only gun I used hunting. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEftvca5HNuNh6_wAxo8gqUTk7P6VY3EEYb2YkYOY35i6bwx70_lJVPkaIN4lVTfNC9KVnKsC0Awfj7JDppHR-A3pbEigiWNUiOa4jedqfZXu7PCvgGANdAUdwXGcAduWE0oNkNdKo6pj1mmlVmZ9SxwbtVWhYkCupBroBMlDYOuVYQIHXhakxrtLEx2I6/s3264/20231116_114437.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEftvca5HNuNh6_wAxo8gqUTk7P6VY3EEYb2YkYOY35i6bwx70_lJVPkaIN4lVTfNC9KVnKsC0Awfj7JDppHR-A3pbEigiWNUiOa4jedqfZXu7PCvgGANdAUdwXGcAduWE0oNkNdKo6pj1mmlVmZ9SxwbtVWhYkCupBroBMlDYOuVYQIHXhakxrtLEx2I6/s320/20231116_114437.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>It's not unusual to see other wildlife when we're out in the woods. One interesting afternoon I was moving down an old trail and came face to face with a moose. In the seconds that followed I tried to remember how close it was to the rutting season, and considered this moose might be looking for trouble. Fortunately, I got a hold of Gabbi before she saw it and snapped a quick photo as we retreated. <br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vGAZ5-FHzRIwPYXrm5kAvR-M-hoz4v2pa8CHdeWitVhtM8ulEnWFUApTT9l2f0mN9YfOZJn8DMF7oZRE1F7N5uof2EFD2C4NSFwXU_5p5TykF18EsydCuRNLWiiJ2BEUZuRurPzeIw0Ilk9-sT12T3CfZSP_5c-6V6cU9MtaPIQFSDjX-KMLxQisTilq/s1624/20231102_134513.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1624" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vGAZ5-FHzRIwPYXrm5kAvR-M-hoz4v2pa8CHdeWitVhtM8ulEnWFUApTT9l2f0mN9YfOZJn8DMF7oZRE1F7N5uof2EFD2C4NSFwXU_5p5TykF18EsydCuRNLWiiJ2BEUZuRurPzeIw0Ilk9-sT12T3CfZSP_5c-6V6cU9MtaPIQFSDjX-KMLxQisTilq/s320/20231102_134513.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not a young man and I don’t hunt from light to dawn anymore. My setter, Gabbi, isn’t so young either, so though we hunted many days, our hunting consisted of basically working a cover or two with a break in between. This past fall, it seemed enough. I love eating ruffed grouse and I can’t think of any wild game that’s better, but I don’t hunt for food. If I did, I’d likely hunt differently. Besides, we get our groceries at the store and so far, we’ve never gone hungry. Still, those tender grouse breasts, grilled quickly over coals make my mouth water just thinking about them. Our last hunt was a day before the season ended, December 30. Gabbi and I took a short walk through some woods near home. We moved six grouse, four she pointed and two wild flushes in just over an hour. I was offered three reasonable shots, and I was satisfied. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJGHJDG8QaD2NAyVlRnclY0CthDsBqzOuxaBAaJfd2FESLjIDM1oNe8HKv-uKIk1MNYk1BcxjEZx_qAMKGcncUVHf4I4e1PSD0sCHursbfa3KZimYHOHHuRxnCrt3TzeY-in2kW6N_9HPn-10pwKb0mMaWUHNVObi-mALvH81OlH0R6NYlEukLVg3ewaB/s3264/20231129_171050.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJGHJDG8QaD2NAyVlRnclY0CthDsBqzOuxaBAaJfd2FESLjIDM1oNe8HKv-uKIk1MNYk1BcxjEZx_qAMKGcncUVHf4I4e1PSD0sCHursbfa3KZimYHOHHuRxnCrt3TzeY-in2kW6N_9HPn-10pwKb0mMaWUHNVObi-mALvH81OlH0R6NYlEukLVg3ewaB/s320/20231129_171050.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The snow did come, finally. It started four days ago with a light, drizzly falling that made roads and walkways slippery. It hasn’t stopped yet but last night the temps dropped and we woke to six inches of the fluffy stuff. When I go out to plow the driveway it’ll be a foot deep. If it stops now. Tomorrow is predicted to be below zero temperatures. It was bound to come – I guess winter has arrived. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xdiiW35Cpx9EQrLkAN-jm0nxkzbYkN_r08e6gRts0v4I63WqKKMFqTboEEjIFXLNrE1EoeZpMtYbd1cbPdkLPhrUGrMHQ_6fc1m-6YcPxsLVWk9xPyqOTKd6enQYJLGANFW4tMdj-LI_z_yzfxPhIUKTj_6gzSY7L6esXHk5M5jxpodtbBfs5-O7FFut/s1715/20240111_154210.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1505" data-original-width="1715" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xdiiW35Cpx9EQrLkAN-jm0nxkzbYkN_r08e6gRts0v4I63WqKKMFqTboEEjIFXLNrE1EoeZpMtYbd1cbPdkLPhrUGrMHQ_6fc1m-6YcPxsLVWk9xPyqOTKd6enQYJLGANFW4tMdj-LI_z_yzfxPhIUKTj_6gzSY7L6esXHk5M5jxpodtbBfs5-O7FFut/s320/20240111_154210.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-29050492810838477162023-08-17T12:43:00.000-05:002023-08-17T12:43:17.221-05:00Warm days, cool nights<p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Yesterday morning I stood out on the deck watching the day begin. Mid-August, 41 degrees, I was barefoot, wearing pajamas under a heavy robe and enjoying breakfast while Gabbi patrolled the perimeter of the yard. A cup of one of those hearty granola cereals drenched in ice-cold milk, and topped with a handful of fresh raspberries, seemed perfect. Strong coffee to follow. By afternoon the temperature would rise to 80 and a strong wind would bring a thunderstorm.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">It’s easy to drift into a contemplative mood, sort of melancholy, on a morning like this, waiting for the sun to rise over the treetops. I don’t tend to look back at the past much, certainly not to dwell on it, but sometimes you wonder how life might have been had a different route been taken or another answer been given. Mostly, though, I think about more down-to-earth things: like how musician friends and poets make a living with no other visible means of support. Or how about a couple of those deck boards that soon need replacing. Or why did I miss so many birds at the skeet club last week? You know, stuff like that. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNeteBxyIUkQkesYr2LKW0m3pDg5QCvWraJ910xIT4czi_2RniZ76UaRHVzrOVoeW4b21_tjw298Be-rE646it0HybZWiq-Bers3xsZ7HihkSbV97puuOcbhmOXgSkG8PggUFPcyqcHcyenXL7tUz_MNuJMbgckgUviShTTU4VfoXmEbsD_d_78en_9_o/s2065/maple%20leaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2065" data-original-width="2021" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNeteBxyIUkQkesYr2LKW0m3pDg5QCvWraJ910xIT4czi_2RniZ76UaRHVzrOVoeW4b21_tjw298Be-rE646it0HybZWiq-Bers3xsZ7HihkSbV97puuOcbhmOXgSkG8PggUFPcyqcHcyenXL7tUz_MNuJMbgckgUviShTTU4VfoXmEbsD_d_78en_9_o/s320/maple%20leaf.jpg" width="313" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The fly fishing for smallmouth bass on Vermilion has slowed way down, as it does every summer. They go deep, they fill up on crawfish, they become nocturnal – I don’t know, I’ve never gotten a good handle on it. And the last two river outings have been nothing to brag about, either. Four decent smallmouths on the St. Louis, a half-dozen on an un-named flowage. Most on streamers. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9hfIBlQM3OHeYShSqq_uvLZDQipBwKy4EMqzCs5dUIv14SrYJHobqLEACSocYmJhz4Fk4O5d__sCo-qXHHTzo3EYnKL_dMnSb1SQOQGkksa78x-vuuBj-KMChFyh-S2YKOf6E_RF-D-1QxsrtBXIudVP7UWoAv3rZCrLQukIPzliz_XU3pvmW2B1SOwA/s2334/Jon%20boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2334" data-original-width="2164" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9hfIBlQM3OHeYShSqq_uvLZDQipBwKy4EMqzCs5dUIv14SrYJHobqLEACSocYmJhz4Fk4O5d__sCo-qXHHTzo3EYnKL_dMnSb1SQOQGkksa78x-vuuBj-KMChFyh-S2YKOf6E_RF-D-1QxsrtBXIudVP7UWoAv3rZCrLQukIPzliz_XU3pvmW2B1SOwA/s320/Jon%20boat.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1EH0bL2BTKtp7i2XtciWz9AvHwH17qBv9WVPEauhmxcZ-2XuUUcdQ14nkE3Lfy5cH8lGqX-hPYOny_qPJIj5P8vyfefSGDmUvR7MCFXx5ogImoTKdj6Wo6CeCpd6twRpY2Pz3VQMvvWi3MuUUrV0Hl0C1HhaSgt1NNWoewalksvGn51vbLj_1Eirc9Llg/s993/far%20and%20fine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="993" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1EH0bL2BTKtp7i2XtciWz9AvHwH17qBv9WVPEauhmxcZ-2XuUUcdQ14nkE3Lfy5cH8lGqX-hPYOny_qPJIj5P8vyfefSGDmUvR7MCFXx5ogImoTKdj6Wo6CeCpd6twRpY2Pz3VQMvvWi3MuUUrV0Hl0C1HhaSgt1NNWoewalksvGn51vbLj_1Eirc9Llg/s320/far%20and%20fine.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">But Karr Lake, only a few minutes from home, has a healthy and eager population of bluegills along with some decent largemouth bass. All sixty-nine acres of lily pad covered shoreline are just right for a small boat or canoe and I seldom see anyone else there. Except for Pastor Don. The good pastor is a neighbor and enjoys padding his beautiful wood/canvas canoe on the lake early mornings. Probably helps him come up with a meaningful sermon for Sunday service. Whenever he sees me out there, he paddles over for a chat. He’s good company. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtSwi1AHuPYhM60HKZqRf7RqDwm4TCetpQCkSvM0GZvJZuVB8eoUhYv9FsoS9oARKvcPvlrdrcAgbsg3U783LLQ7mGtPI8v_fiZsb9zWYbhvpy80wdb9zmP4rqCZHgtJvUTWuxyU9PchXLExbRsYT2hknvskegPeb9C77HSTVARMMEoFQSzj40hajs4HE/s4320/IMG_0564%20(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtSwi1AHuPYhM60HKZqRf7RqDwm4TCetpQCkSvM0GZvJZuVB8eoUhYv9FsoS9oARKvcPvlrdrcAgbsg3U783LLQ7mGtPI8v_fiZsb9zWYbhvpy80wdb9zmP4rqCZHgtJvUTWuxyU9PchXLExbRsYT2hknvskegPeb9C77HSTVARMMEoFQSzj40hajs4HE/s320/IMG_0564%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My bluegill poppers are all close to the same. Most of my fly-tying material is mail order, and I received a pack of yellow deer hair I wanted for some bass bugs. But the hair is frustratingly short, too short for the large poppers I wanted to tie, and I nearly tossed it away. Instead, I marked the bag “short" and stuffed it in my materials box. Turns out it works fine for a small bluegill popper. It’s a quick tie: two small clumps of hair spun on the hook, no stacking or packing, and a disk of foam on the face. A quick trim job and it’s done. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQGyDX6-K0jLexVn2S_bQjY8zwMlpm1NfvVYh5l60wO4zB6nAijshN4tYzncCjrWuU76XUsV_ZgElrndE9AewSz4iJiJePqLNkDlLiRNORFbX4fD27KaS3tZNQPJHWfbhBmuYt_hvsmICtMzGZqGkWZe-3AOOYPLLD2HMtyK62zbDQ-JvMp2T6hvmdVxl/s1612/bluegill%20poppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1399" data-original-width="1612" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQGyDX6-K0jLexVn2S_bQjY8zwMlpm1NfvVYh5l60wO4zB6nAijshN4tYzncCjrWuU76XUsV_ZgElrndE9AewSz4iJiJePqLNkDlLiRNORFbX4fD27KaS3tZNQPJHWfbhBmuYt_hvsmICtMzGZqGkWZe-3AOOYPLLD2HMtyK62zbDQ-JvMp2T6hvmdVxl/s320/bluegill%20poppers.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;">Even when the bite is slow the bluegills are a pretty reliable source of fun, and there’s always the chance for a surprise largemouth. Good fishing! </span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtI8ALPUaufR3I3PdHT5IFd5_oUCiqwKJ2JQRYMyW1x2z-3FFVQ6e1ydozUMnc2Np2fkiQKazrgmhy9-xImV6J_3JXlP-PDaBJ3sZXeWAd71aX2mXWLPo9S1sZDweTmu6crQNMI09WE7gRR5-yWuiYnzPI0aiOciTXkPnOEZmxv19UlpputOq61--h2dL/s3264/'gill%20on%20jon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtI8ALPUaufR3I3PdHT5IFd5_oUCiqwKJ2JQRYMyW1x2z-3FFVQ6e1ydozUMnc2Np2fkiQKazrgmhy9-xImV6J_3JXlP-PDaBJ3sZXeWAd71aX2mXWLPo9S1sZDweTmu6crQNMI09WE7gRR5-yWuiYnzPI0aiOciTXkPnOEZmxv19UlpputOq61--h2dL/s320/'gill%20on%20jon.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-41517907677280343202023-06-22T12:03:00.000-05:002023-06-22T12:03:51.576-05:00the TUG...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlstlPV0Vx7hWFUouf275EG7cD8iDi7zOvguiGft5j1C8F6Z1wmSu1vAlcMNpyiK7ZiNIajvW5h5kt6-pZpydI0qK1-P2qYYvTLGogFOBRqbfDa9VxZFpWcmomMvqzRqYocebVbtIFEWf8e77lK72jhuRbgCQe7IsCZ5plUK_co-aZEJb8cSxd_0vdohB/s1920/may%2023%20vermilion%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlstlPV0Vx7hWFUouf275EG7cD8iDi7zOvguiGft5j1C8F6Z1wmSu1vAlcMNpyiK7ZiNIajvW5h5kt6-pZpydI0qK1-P2qYYvTLGogFOBRqbfDa9VxZFpWcmomMvqzRqYocebVbtIFEWf8e77lK72jhuRbgCQe7IsCZ5plUK_co-aZEJb8cSxd_0vdohB/w400-h225/may%2023%20vermilion%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"> I was up at 4:30, wanting to get to the lake while it was still early and, supposedly, while the smallmouth bass would be active in the shallows. It’s generally considered early morns and evenings make for the best still-water bass fishing – a belief that holds true for pursuing any wild game. Except, that is, for flowing rivers. Whenever I get with my river running friends, we never seem to get on the river much before 10 a.m. They say the water needs to warm up for the bite to get good, and I don’t doubt it, though I’ve never been on those streams as the sun was breaking. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNOHgGQ32uDugvYL_V5hzduij0lAH1w34ugN8NyTCWDFRjPjE6i-MiC-pNZcbNCCs2JU2ibHCgi--d2Ec7x7eD-LZ0_bNvQWvN0DcD1hyH68Rw_LylIWJRfT8kMowtcMWXnzTAIkZEhqZQjD6XsS7eruie7lxwPkGRSospx1iuhlhpcL7ugBq8ahfO2va/s2153/Parking%20lot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="2153" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNOHgGQ32uDugvYL_V5hzduij0lAH1w34ugN8NyTCWDFRjPjE6i-MiC-pNZcbNCCs2JU2ibHCgi--d2Ec7x7eD-LZ0_bNvQWvN0DcD1hyH68Rw_LylIWJRfT8kMowtcMWXnzTAIkZEhqZQjD6XsS7eruie7lxwPkGRSospx1iuhlhpcL7ugBq8ahfO2va/s320/Parking%20lot.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Q7Fsv44OKVRiSRr5QBS-18gD4veFlRVHjMItn-CbbQc7a7MSAJofCzXOZ7ukEDYpXlrS0dPRH6EaQYFCAxstSRyM_7VqewsA5q94m61oVFW1d2lRSB5LKRVCxU1N-Urigs61apnKmJ8ShcSPr5ue9fumi-G-tIYj4lGLl4BIFsyXy9PfpgHeUC43HS3o/s1291/Boat%20launch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1291" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Q7Fsv44OKVRiSRr5QBS-18gD4veFlRVHjMItn-CbbQc7a7MSAJofCzXOZ7ukEDYpXlrS0dPRH6EaQYFCAxstSRyM_7VqewsA5q94m61oVFW1d2lRSB5LKRVCxU1N-Urigs61apnKmJ8ShcSPr5ue9fumi-G-tIYj4lGLl4BIFsyXy9PfpgHeUC43HS3o/s320/Boat%20launch.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />This time of year, even at the 4:30 hour the eastern sky is lighting and the birds are singing. Driving past the open hay fields of my neighbors, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should’ve already been on the lake. All I had to do that morning was back my truck up to the boat and hook it up, which was accomplished while the coffee was brewing. I downed an apple and a banana for breakfast on the road, and brought an apple and some cheese and crackers for a snack in the boat. The parking lot at the boat ramp was empty when I came over the hill, and I pushed the boat into the lake before 6 a.m. I was on a mission to try some new bass poppers. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A few years ago, my friends and I were standing around next to the drift boats discussing the days fishing when a fellow approached to have a look at the boats and announced that he worked for the Montana Fly Company. He gazed over the boats quickly but wanted us to know he was credited with developing the hot nymph at the time. I don’t recall if it was called the pink squirrel or purple haze, but it was popular on the Montana river we were floating and the local fly shops were well stocked with them. I must have bought a few, but I don’t remember them being any better than any of the other flies we were using. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve succumbed to the temptation of inventing my own flies, too. Mostly bass-bug type flies, but there are a couple trout flies that worked. A favorite dry fly is basically a cheap copy of the Adams. I’d be wrong to claim I invented it, or even developed it – I just tied it with materials I had on hand and added a touch of red to the tail on the advice of an old timer who knows every brook trout stream in the area. That bit of floss probably turns the fly into an attracter rather than a true mayfly imitation and a purist would scoff at it. Then there’s the nymph I tie entirely with the fur and hair of a pine marten I trapped, save for the gold bead and rib. It’s a generic looking thing that catches trout, like every fly does, when it works. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s the bass flies where I’ve done the most damage. In a category where just about anything goes, I’ve put together some flies that were truly mistakes. They failed on the water and looks; I regret that a few others have seem them – I can still hear the laughter. I have a pile of those rejects that I keep only to one day cut apart to save the hooks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I love catching bass on top-water offerings and I enjoy tying and using deer-hair poppers and divers. I have some that are years old and still tight and effective while others have faded and loosened from good use. Some folks coat their deer-hair with resins that gives them an almost plastic coating, but that’s not for me. Like everyone, I modify mine with colors, spots, and stripes to suit myself, though I’ve simplified the process – it takes a long enough to build a deer hair popper without all the fancy stuff – but I certainly didn’t invent the popper or Dahlberg Diver. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I did come up with something that works, however. I was thinking of a topwater fly that would be quick and easy to tie. You know, a “guide fly”. It only consists of a couple of materials, including a single piece of craft foam. Tied in three colors, so far, I’ve been testing them for a few days with good results. The rocky shorelines of the big lake are twenty miles from home and a favorite place of mine. After the early season rush of walleye anglers, it’s surprising how the activity slows down. There are multiple boat access ramps on the lake, and there are always some boats out there, but I fish the bays in solitude. It probably helps that I avoid it on weekends. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1tTNzbRaViZPTkSb6EnOA_V4OxAuVlINBEyDtOzQb75IC6MM5-Np8mkZknsvDCJyozylYnQhr8xo4nI9fAEUeH0py-o39RXsVmLSciFr_296B6T9ZRHP2DbvepEqCw3TWP-9FnVnmAU37GV6ltht2jBOcga4L7zdWIeHh6agu_sPAu9NhhQi6rkkTp3u/s1380/Armstrong%20June%2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="1380" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1tTNzbRaViZPTkSb6EnOA_V4OxAuVlINBEyDtOzQb75IC6MM5-Np8mkZknsvDCJyozylYnQhr8xo4nI9fAEUeH0py-o39RXsVmLSciFr_296B6T9ZRHP2DbvepEqCw3TWP-9FnVnmAU37GV6ltht2jBOcga4L7zdWIeHh6agu_sPAu9NhhQi6rkkTp3u/s320/Armstrong%20June%2020.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> I started with the yellow and hooked a bass on the third cast. These hard fighting chunky bass actually pull the boat around! They say the tug is the drug, and had I just been fishing I would have stayed with it. But in the interest of Research & Development I switched it up for the green one. That worked, too. And I’m happy to report I caught bass on the white popper, as well. I haven’t introduced them to the world yet, meaning a few of my fishing buddies, but look forward to answering when they ask what fly are you catching all those bass on? </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhzC72cVdx2MD7-QBD_t4YzR3Aysgk-RgeHblezGVhLuH0uKqMIbzi271Z2eV7Xm43BLtXpVVpoRsBXBOIz7snGOtxJ6Be_z1g18e12FWClh9ETaxxOjCTU77vctOsvvWTUyX4F-sBusqcTItcGAnwcYbiwDBszy88IXzi-uw2tXkiAKYpuJZAtN9Gpvh/s1395/June%2020%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1395" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhzC72cVdx2MD7-QBD_t4YzR3Aysgk-RgeHblezGVhLuH0uKqMIbzi271Z2eV7Xm43BLtXpVVpoRsBXBOIz7snGOtxJ6Be_z1g18e12FWClh9ETaxxOjCTU77vctOsvvWTUyX4F-sBusqcTItcGAnwcYbiwDBszy88IXzi-uw2tXkiAKYpuJZAtN9Gpvh/s320/June%2020%202023.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbEzosbK3BMrjNY51NWfRjzHLChu87EnCyH0nCZuJu_GRQfVrTWIOuCNgBMew6VyNCVqCM2DC4I47TCDJbpiMl2cAdW6cvPkE39F7VapgkEJHa5I3CaFmC-Cp_yFsTsx9IH8F8r5sMaZ9pu3eD5t2YCrZQe1YZA0Zwh8qjSzPuZ8Li0ueZgQ0wtu8qYbo/s794/vermilion%20june%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="794" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbEzosbK3BMrjNY51NWfRjzHLChu87EnCyH0nCZuJu_GRQfVrTWIOuCNgBMew6VyNCVqCM2DC4I47TCDJbpiMl2cAdW6cvPkE39F7VapgkEJHa5I3CaFmC-Cp_yFsTsx9IH8F8r5sMaZ9pu3eD5t2YCrZQe1YZA0Zwh8qjSzPuZ8Li0ueZgQ0wtu8qYbo/s320/vermilion%20june%202023.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;">Five hours of casting, catching, and maneuvering the boat, sometimes in a bothersome wind, seemed like enough. I’d be home for lunch. When I pulled the boat up the ramp there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot. Nice. </span><p></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-1288095177473599822023-01-31T15:21:00.001-06:002023-01-31T15:21:45.024-06:00The Gun Club<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpdoaSwuQOa04yX4DrReUr7Gvy2OftBj3kYb-TTjjizbc7B8Dh8utBVTIVEZYJqCM8URWM4kGS8_XjEHDgM401MKEU6GWqjZ5bmY4fSt-_yVv67mhAI0r2uhk8rJfmJC3soUG_20SFfBA4I0CZmy1cPV2lRsOWvmQiEckT1qzBFYl7qAhidak0-HqaA/s3264/20221211_144602_HDR%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpdoaSwuQOa04yX4DrReUr7Gvy2OftBj3kYb-TTjjizbc7B8Dh8utBVTIVEZYJqCM8URWM4kGS8_XjEHDgM401MKEU6GWqjZ5bmY4fSt-_yVv67mhAI0r2uhk8rJfmJC3soUG_20SFfBA4I0CZmy1cPV2lRsOWvmQiEckT1qzBFYl7qAhidak0-HqaA/s320/20221211_144602_HDR%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s a fun club – no competitive league scores, teams, or trophies. We use score sheets mainly to keep track of expenses and we keep those as low as possible. Just enough to keep operating. We have two skeet ranges and one 40-foot tower that’ll test your shooting skills. One of the skeet ranges is usually set up as a “wobble skeet” shoot, and I won’t try to explain the set-up here, but if you’re feeling good about your standard skeet score the wobble course will bring you down a notch or two. I love it, and seldom shoot regular skeet anymore. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhierPs38c0YHv-3UVgrY5vcUOrB3r0dgq2pcqesnKwv-b4naJ9osA2_nCVF-caJSFSDySbuV03K4VdanSkJ-WytcoUS4M2YLbmzmYURXAmi909GEu84JX18ytHQ63SEiDS-pbs8KhsM2_zWohhDI0OA3IVrOb1LICRdi_VT11c03oZLpoQ2e8UVHEm8w/s3264/20030427_123653%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhierPs38c0YHv-3UVgrY5vcUOrB3r0dgq2pcqesnKwv-b4naJ9osA2_nCVF-caJSFSDySbuV03K4VdanSkJ-WytcoUS4M2YLbmzmYURXAmi909GEu84JX18ytHQ63SEiDS-pbs8KhsM2_zWohhDI0OA3IVrOb1LICRdi_VT11c03oZLpoQ2e8UVHEm8w/s320/20030427_123653%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuICIEHjHAMPaLvLdjnqetEBXBTtBFFqH-AcgMG4lm08i2YeWCxpAv6eC4XRQtCGD_0DFarN4V4dv3LwfW8MU-v9PrsLfamLjhrNPi-eMlCuE3Cbhy9BdDAeNSdt1yQHgPZEPiQF-gTRxhk9UknuoZy8-q6kvGPn68uBDrVuw-fyuS4BtNXlom2Hshdw/s3264/20221211_130217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuICIEHjHAMPaLvLdjnqetEBXBTtBFFqH-AcgMG4lm08i2YeWCxpAv6eC4XRQtCGD_0DFarN4V4dv3LwfW8MU-v9PrsLfamLjhrNPi-eMlCuE3Cbhy9BdDAeNSdt1yQHgPZEPiQF-gTRxhk9UknuoZy8-q6kvGPn68uBDrVuw-fyuS4BtNXlom2Hshdw/s320/20221211_130217.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We have somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty paid members, men and women, though seldom see more than half that on any given day, especially during the winter, and we’re always open to the public. As might be expected, just before hunting seasons open, we see some new faces. And we put on a couple of events: a springtime wild game feed and a summer picnic. We host the local high school shooting team, as well. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uGXr5ENIbjnGevQNVOilIaeed4m-rugwqfo6p3P7Q6_1YsD870IcWn-tfe52KvHYw0gdGrXYw89olB7Y-T5Ae8qWH_7VMk5EcnXRn4QoXkUIo75s2ZWHzD3tkCt2VMWCfp_9rToUUCZr7jclqDxRg6A6UNELJ65AT0fHLBsimMAYAjYyeLMi-PmHrQ/s3264/20221211_123756_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uGXr5ENIbjnGevQNVOilIaeed4m-rugwqfo6p3P7Q6_1YsD870IcWn-tfe52KvHYw0gdGrXYw89olB7Y-T5Ae8qWH_7VMk5EcnXRn4QoXkUIo75s2ZWHzD3tkCt2VMWCfp_9rToUUCZr7jclqDxRg6A6UNELJ65AT0fHLBsimMAYAjYyeLMi-PmHrQ/s320/20221211_123756_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our members are made up of all kinds of folks. Some are serious shooters with dedicated target guns who shoot at clubs around the state and beyond. And some of us are bird hunters with our field guns just trying to keep our shooting eye straight a couple of times a month. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89JU_Jn2wCKEF0B5yxVeS-xU3LUxl6g82Eoc_GfRQGIXiHDxDe8OpUu_td2C3CXSg3PVsNL0DQI6oDu5IquDRfa97OFd2WKI8NqstvYkKuB3hjXlcyQwOP_zEqJOcbrm6e0hWdxvje8FM47kRd2NOo7ruoYyaArjCjUOFml8E-K1ILdeF0PNqHYgAOA/s2528/20221211_130530%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2528" data-original-width="2360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89JU_Jn2wCKEF0B5yxVeS-xU3LUxl6g82Eoc_GfRQGIXiHDxDe8OpUu_td2C3CXSg3PVsNL0DQI6oDu5IquDRfa97OFd2WKI8NqstvYkKuB3hjXlcyQwOP_zEqJOcbrm6e0hWdxvje8FM47kRd2NOo7ruoYyaArjCjUOFml8E-K1ILdeF0PNqHYgAOA/s320/20221211_130530%20(2).jpg" width="299" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We gather in the clubhouse, fill the woodstove and coffee pot, and sometimes tell stories more than we shoot -- dogs, ducks, grouse and fishing are favorite subjects. There's usually a crockpot filled with something delicious, and everyone pitches in with the snacks, especially around Christmas. It’s as enjoyable as can be. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> . <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8-4vO_4anZyV_vSTzyJ0PfJaTe6LEgzNZWVvcccOb1fUaNbe3X1xyF4eESOdL7Wav4t6am5eZZfkMfzkZdMdDJJKWKgofF_yfZLAWM4TEVlt9CTeXjHNK79mKMvJGtbySzJu3ZDeb4lfcwuH_QAe79hY-pyjtzH8QgLZUNOcGslMyqaa4JB_R08mfg/s2679/20221211_130121%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2679" data-original-width="2420" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8-4vO_4anZyV_vSTzyJ0PfJaTe6LEgzNZWVvcccOb1fUaNbe3X1xyF4eESOdL7Wav4t6am5eZZfkMfzkZdMdDJJKWKgofF_yfZLAWM4TEVlt9CTeXjHNK79mKMvJGtbySzJu3ZDeb4lfcwuH_QAe79hY-pyjtzH8QgLZUNOcGslMyqaa4JB_R08mfg/s320/20221211_130121%20(2).jpg" width="289" /></a><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRYCiMhUI-kQCFXOKjK2aSH5XJ7gb1jk7vEHmuHpXiG8V-h47Q6VaDOluHkiET3aPYlujWwUMG9Foy7yL2PWoqcFwFRabuYQX3HggvhV_lCxmXSGVK_Y_miUu3s3Agd127W__RNaX9jS5FHJt-bHnmULHGXrYlkcg_QVI6ekUMQyo-fOzADFRjqp1zA/s3264/20221218_134725_HDR%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRYCiMhUI-kQCFXOKjK2aSH5XJ7gb1jk7vEHmuHpXiG8V-h47Q6VaDOluHkiET3aPYlujWwUMG9Foy7yL2PWoqcFwFRabuYQX3HggvhV_lCxmXSGVK_Y_miUu3s3Agd127W__RNaX9jS5FHJt-bHnmULHGXrYlkcg_QVI6ekUMQyo-fOzADFRjqp1zA/s320/20221218_134725_HDR%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I lay pretty low in the winter, snowshoeing and skiing around home. mostly. But I do look forward to those afternoons at the gun club. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9E9gVwc-BC31D25BRfRdkq_sUThL5p_kqNak977HKAdI0afHHQgzSA46cehJ6yFT54_o6bnAMRkgpM3CeIso1mDpZSw2RfGw7m3Fi-Ako216gmLAqPweBiL0VjiXRDy10WUxqsUEfBvEHASniToeCWmrxbTtXNvh98YIoNqY2gfpse8YJzX7r3_7UA/s3264/20221211_123812_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9E9gVwc-BC31D25BRfRdkq_sUThL5p_kqNak977HKAdI0afHHQgzSA46cehJ6yFT54_o6bnAMRkgpM3CeIso1mDpZSw2RfGw7m3Fi-Ako216gmLAqPweBiL0VjiXRDy10WUxqsUEfBvEHASniToeCWmrxbTtXNvh98YIoNqY2gfpse8YJzX7r3_7UA/s320/20221211_123812_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-16337953689516643772022-11-22T15:01:00.000-06:002022-11-22T15:01:15.362-06:00Old Fashioned Donuts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1YNZKG4SBSypawUVK7OthOLSpZ5CCZn95rqjj4PTKbyeYjYNglbUrupCOLyAc6mNZ49TYnoHzJZDi5rblGAWmuqclM7LgtubM5ekuePZ7CXz9riz5UtZjTPobUjDctFpY_AaGY8SCfsaUXPO_CdBHb7gxATebsvnJcCcv1dc-d1Oxj6qJ7pQv_f_jw/s2780/20221122_142456_HDR%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2780" data-original-width="2254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1YNZKG4SBSypawUVK7OthOLSpZ5CCZn95rqjj4PTKbyeYjYNglbUrupCOLyAc6mNZ49TYnoHzJZDi5rblGAWmuqclM7LgtubM5ekuePZ7CXz9riz5UtZjTPobUjDctFpY_AaGY8SCfsaUXPO_CdBHb7gxATebsvnJcCcv1dc-d1Oxj6qJ7pQv_f_jw/s320/20221122_142456_HDR%20(2).jpg" width="259" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> The morning started with anticipation and a quick and favored breakfast of hot toasted English muffins melting a generous share of country butter and a healthy dripping of local honey. Add a handful of chilled blueberries for good measure. The sun would be up in less than an hour and we had a way to go to the desired cover. My slim Silver Pigeon was cased and ready. The shooting vest was hanging from the hook in my truck with a fistful of yellow Federal 7 1/2s in the pocket. Gabi was spinning at the door, eager to take her place on the front seat, knowing what was ahead. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The season started a little too warm and the cover a little too thick for good grouse hunting, as usual, but October’s chill straightened that out. There appeared to be plenty of birds around and social media sites were plastered with advice on where to find them and photos of dead grouse. Gabi and I were doing fine, and the first birds of the year fell to my grandfather’s 16 gauge – a gun I wanted to add my own experiences to the history of that old Remington. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8FDxXjvp1-Jfk5ouORUSDpoILMttOGjkoOBTvoN8oGqLwJiOtJIC_RazEx8ni0iJqLflxua39qMeXXkhruwmry1cT7yh1XkkAXUjyRDq5-ONy7sAR7MmIQppaU9e9YXo4tFyfUgBTGp7rDxUm2Qzy9mSbYsz1domg4COcsnzA_0y3dWYL7hJA0MsRWw/s3264/20220927_132141%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8FDxXjvp1-Jfk5ouORUSDpoILMttOGjkoOBTvoN8oGqLwJiOtJIC_RazEx8ni0iJqLflxua39qMeXXkhruwmry1cT7yh1XkkAXUjyRDq5-ONy7sAR7MmIQppaU9e9YXo4tFyfUgBTGp7rDxUm2Qzy9mSbYsz1domg4COcsnzA_0y3dWYL7hJA0MsRWw/s320/20220927_132141%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;">Sometime along the way I switched to the twenty, a gun I believe I shoot best and the gun I’d hunt out the season with. After a stop to refill my coffee, we drove to the cover. What used to be a logging road is overgrown to a single-file path trafficked by more wildlife than people. A quarter mile from the trailhead the beavers moved in and flooded the trail, leaving a narrow crossing on the dam itself. I’ve hunted this place for years and have seen it develop from prime grouse cover to the older woods it is now. But it’s a picturesque hike with a bird dog – a mix of aspen, birch and pine with several ponds along the way. Ducks, geese, and swans are often spotted, and we always find grouse. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gabi raced across the beaver dam well ahead of me and I heard her bell drop into the thick stuff left of the trail. I was climbing the grade from the pond when her bell fell silent. She was a good ways out and after a stumbling, ducking search I spotted her locked up at the edge of alders looking straight at me. The grouse blew up and pumped for altitude when my shot caught it. Ah, the smell of burnt power! Feeling good, I pushed back to the trail, keeping Gabi close. Five minutes later she was pointing again, a bit off the right side of the trail. Gun at the ready, I ducked low balsams branches when a grouse jumped from the tree and offered no shot. A second grouse was taken over her point a bit later and I was enjoying the beautiful day with a fine dog and the comfortable heft of two birds in the bag. Then I missed the next four birds, sending seven shots with no results. That was the start of my shooting slump. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhcc4qEOjyyvvs0xKQ8FqB4Esa-kj3yzd2K2jNQ-gBcL7jJm7nUMeLaPvpt_sX6zFI0JWT2VZ15WfXXWKdwu-GK0QxPaMzIrvmNDFuH1SEO_cCUBHcDV72whKbUjRHN-A2TcpHS15RGfv3UNqCt7ap3nBv5q650yJTwvqHXWtW9OMDCqH6cnioWjznA/s2078/20221010_133221_2%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2078" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhcc4qEOjyyvvs0xKQ8FqB4Esa-kj3yzd2K2jNQ-gBcL7jJm7nUMeLaPvpt_sX6zFI0JWT2VZ15WfXXWKdwu-GK0QxPaMzIrvmNDFuH1SEO_cCUBHcDV72whKbUjRHN-A2TcpHS15RGfv3UNqCt7ap3nBv5q650yJTwvqHXWtW9OMDCqH6cnioWjznA/s320/20221010_133221_2%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> My dictionary defines a slump as “an unaccountable decline in effectiveness.” Well, ok, it’s not like I’m a crack shot to begin with, so any decline is noticeable. I’m still haunted by a missed shot that I knew I would miss because of poor gun mounting: the grouse rose above the bare treetops and offered an easy left-right crossing shot. I rushed the shot and failed to raise the buttstock to my shoulder where it belongs. I thus didn’t get my cheek down on the stock and I knew I was off even as I pulled the trigger. Twice. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nash Buckingham wrote, “Swift, comfortable, accurate gun mounting that coordinates timing, forward allowance and barrel level (a trio not easily assembled) is a<i><b> must</b></i>.” You’d think by this stage of the game I’d have that down pat. Excuses are easy to come by and frustration can be tough to overcome, but the grouse win more often than not, so bid them farewell and hope they live to breed next spring. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some shooting friends and I were discussing the demise of little cafes that used to be around. You know the kind where you enter and take whatever is available, a chair at a table, a seat in a booth, or stool at the counter. The smell of bacon fills the room in the mornings, burgers in the afternoon. A waitress approaches carrying a pot of coffee. Pies are in the glass case. And there are donuts. Oh, those donuts! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Whenever I’m hunting or fishing in the area, a stop at Patten’s Cafe is called for. The usual cliental is made up of loggers, road workers, and sportsmen; those retired lead the storytelling. I always stop for two plain cake donuts. I assume they are fried in lard or Crisco, a little crunchy on the outside and soft, but dry inside. You’ll want coffee. Delicious! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-42940179308171014012022-06-30T18:30:00.007-05:002022-06-30T20:08:49.196-05:00Fine times <p><span style="font-size: large;"> There’s not a thing more peaceful than being on a still lake early in the morning. Nothing that I can think of, anyway. Other than the birds singing, the only sound is my fly line coursing through the air and the plopping popper being stripped back in. It won’t be long before the drone of an outboard motor out on the main lake will reach my ears, but for now the lake is mine.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nuSAXyw3-wHrFL3skyO-NP3e7z4EQ-6CpR9vk6mmrqyq3ynJeaXobEA5-ZwP71Kp5iuSazyxvJ1bKPW7NTkli3aSBIjVclQgPsEql8Rtybc8HpnKl6a3xlFo0SacS0bmZfb0GNWT6Ga2kU2LO1uCAYQOiXXHGrgoPMZhzL63Bs6XUvwBf4zsYKEt9A/s3361/Mattson%20bay%20(2).JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2753" data-original-width="3361" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nuSAXyw3-wHrFL3skyO-NP3e7z4EQ-6CpR9vk6mmrqyq3ynJeaXobEA5-ZwP71Kp5iuSazyxvJ1bKPW7NTkli3aSBIjVclQgPsEql8Rtybc8HpnKl6a3xlFo0SacS0bmZfb0GNWT6Ga2kU2LO1uCAYQOiXXHGrgoPMZhzL63Bs6XUvwBf4zsYKEt9A/s320/Mattson%20bay%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I could consider this lake my home waters, but there is plenty of the lake I have yet to explore. Partly because I tend to fish a few favored spots I’ve found and partly because this lake covers nearly 40,000 acres with over 300 miles of shoreline. Of course, there are many boat access landings on it, and I can be on one in less than twenty miles from my house. As the crow flies the southernmost bay is only ten miles away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There is plenty of development along the shores, more than a guy like me cares to see – everything from small, sagging cabins built by iron miners back when they could afford a chunk of lakeshore to the multi-million-dollar mansions of the wealthy, mostly absentee owners who are, well, mostly absent. Progress, I suppose.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Still, there are miles of undeveloped shoreline, rocky bays and islands where I go and spend hours casting poppers and streamers for bass, pike, and muskies. Some of the fish are big, some are not. Sometimes the bite is on. Sometimes it's just a boat ride. Pack a lunch. Sip some coffee. Look around and wish it was always like this.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhk2kf2_4vLf_crqi63PggNWPjNlBJc87-wpqeyi4NKTL6_lNlb3SwiaETtszbtUIQC07XUP_UUR7ePRIy8fW6l1n2HFHAYq2ivv_KvO600dWHC2wOCoggAYvoRA2DQlLUkh05T0LEAg6ib6HqyomQ7z0E9OMogZZkBEp7Q1-NdbMTuMl3g9VvG4fVg/s3728/Mattson%20bay%20bass%206-24-22%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2716" data-original-width="3728" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhk2kf2_4vLf_crqi63PggNWPjNlBJc87-wpqeyi4NKTL6_lNlb3SwiaETtszbtUIQC07XUP_UUR7ePRIy8fW6l1n2HFHAYq2ivv_KvO600dWHC2wOCoggAYvoRA2DQlLUkh05T0LEAg6ib6HqyomQ7z0E9OMogZZkBEp7Q1-NdbMTuMl3g9VvG4fVg/s320/Mattson%20bay%20bass%206-24-22%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was on the lake again the other day and pushed my boat off at a favorite landing. Early season madness was over, the walleye fishing had evened out and there was less rush to get on the water. Most folks were either still in the sack or having breakfast and thinking about mowing the lawn instead of fishing. I was glad that no one was around, because right from the launch I drop the electric trolling motor and start working the rocky shoreline. I can’t be the only bass angler that recognizes good habitat, but it seems people are eager to get away from the boat ramp and I’d sooner not advertise good fishing holes fifty feet from the dock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While it would be nice if it was fishing anytime, all the time, of course it’s not. There’s been some tough weather this season and though plenty of the country is seeing worse, the weathercasters continually warn of approaching severe storms. A few nights ago I stood at the bedroom window listening to a roaring wind and trees cracking, followed by buckets of rain. Luckily no buildings were damaged and the electricity was only out for a short time, but I’m still not finished cleaning up downed trees. But the trees aren’t going anywhere so tomorrow I’m going fishing.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN30KCC-yg5L1XZ0B9Ifw54TCOAIFaIldWcz4MZe-IuTw2tBB5bkl2xJR94AVbwbpHimWkytFjCyCgX44Ufi1ToAcmyzod-QCcZB7PhS4bINj3IKqoG4jAaR7XNIdAA0h_U1y-nB4uFpz2oYQjY6jDCeBDy11iNjDn3iLXF5WnZUM2zhPMG38-VNz_Vg/s1920/bent%20rod_Moment(3).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN30KCC-yg5L1XZ0B9Ifw54TCOAIFaIldWcz4MZe-IuTw2tBB5bkl2xJR94AVbwbpHimWkytFjCyCgX44Ufi1ToAcmyzod-QCcZB7PhS4bINj3IKqoG4jAaR7XNIdAA0h_U1y-nB4uFpz2oYQjY6jDCeBDy11iNjDn3iLXF5WnZUM2zhPMG38-VNz_Vg/s320/bent%20rod_Moment(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-62147514534802241632022-05-06T11:12:00.001-05:002022-05-06T15:55:28.716-05:00Slow morning drive<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> There’s no doubt that this Spring has been one of the latest in arriving. Here in northern Minnesota the official date of March 20 means little, and Groundhog’s Day means nothing. But this year winter really kept her grip on things. Fishing season opens in eight days and the lakes are still mostly ice covered. Shaded areas still support deep banks of snow. The grouse have just started drumming at my place last week. There are a few woodcock around and they’re looking for someplace high and dry to nest. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtwpm-ADXSxGafvyDlCKmNl-eBGs5lKTo032Hvtgjh1O2fduSkRoVdAUokPeqUKidYXxBd__LXpULYZQ3ZUHBzdm35v-LZJcGpijYkaBuMhZiXK8NSZSDInHA8QxYTYrKSczN4mC2rNES2vH9Alpzm_Qfa1UHgLf8T4GwvDoJBdbIZ8eQ2Bhi8tN6MMA/s2794/sun%20windshield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2794" data-original-width="2409" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtwpm-ADXSxGafvyDlCKmNl-eBGs5lKTo032Hvtgjh1O2fduSkRoVdAUokPeqUKidYXxBd__LXpULYZQ3ZUHBzdm35v-LZJcGpijYkaBuMhZiXK8NSZSDInHA8QxYTYrKSczN4mC2rNES2vH9Alpzm_Qfa1UHgLf8T4GwvDoJBdbIZ8eQ2Bhi8tN6MMA/s320/sun%20windshield.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning Gabi and I took a ride to check things out on the forest road near here. There’s nothing like driving east into the sun to notice how dirty the windshield is, but it didn’t seem to bother Gabi, always alert for activity. It was 29 degrees when I left the house, so the heater felt good. A big mug of coffee was delicious and morning public radio is usually pretty entertaining, sometimes enlightening. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnFmxSX1Ls_T5bjPNdJSBhRFfq9n7wXRmTCdTqIkLIMa0Q9D8Ocx3ARn5gsTo3K3WMeldNfJvOKHUY2AA6fMG11H3Hu2AFc5td__1p2EQXG70-s-v4_mXc4MB64rQ2iLPvotMciW2tSA1HqMiSXPnfH_YPORkhFMkrDXtRxB5nqJZkJaDsdmiIJaO5A/s3264/Sunlight%20Gabi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnFmxSX1Ls_T5bjPNdJSBhRFfq9n7wXRmTCdTqIkLIMa0Q9D8Ocx3ARn5gsTo3K3WMeldNfJvOKHUY2AA6fMG11H3Hu2AFc5td__1p2EQXG70-s-v4_mXc4MB64rQ2iLPvotMciW2tSA1HqMiSXPnfH_YPORkhFMkrDXtRxB5nqJZkJaDsdmiIJaO5A/s320/Sunlight%20Gabi.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The road took us to two lakes and approaching the first it didn’t seem like much was going on. There is some open water out from the shore but the main body is covered with rotting ice. Thanks to my 10x binocular I soon spotted a multitude of waterfowl. Mallards, ringnecks, blue-winged teal, Canada geese, ospreys, eagles, and the largest flock of trumpeter swans I’ve ever seen – probably 30 in one group. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQMua3JBGu2YB57jUb104X81v1ENDVrA74D0z-1ToKC7el77G_ytbUdd4XXPEuOKHaXdkiZlAQl1OEYSF3MA1mUCEe4k1eQIXlZp81wI5NFE6sTs0oCtg9i6IZhGUoaL2kFLRaKgv9iqSGdas1PBf87IV6tYaIN6gJkJNjkRaJv9zYZFbYbkMI8IA0w/s2448/binoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2273" data-original-width="2448" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQMua3JBGu2YB57jUb104X81v1ENDVrA74D0z-1ToKC7el77G_ytbUdd4XXPEuOKHaXdkiZlAQl1OEYSF3MA1mUCEe4k1eQIXlZp81wI5NFE6sTs0oCtg9i6IZhGUoaL2kFLRaKgv9iqSGdas1PBf87IV6tYaIN6gJkJNjkRaJv9zYZFbYbkMI8IA0w/s320/binoc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On the way to the second lake a couple of healthy-looking deer crossed ahead and a grouse was out picking gravel from the road. In some places patches of snow still covered the road. The second lake is smaller, but deeper and showed less open water then the first. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtblUkLGnSPYTVJVz3dk366J5M8n5awtaRSDaTANLqwoSP0rndELOWSoUCzhzwvDa8OwclTyi1y7FAlj3SEMB1l18k5MUUmkk1xcquJxWj-6CVFh-_oMV6Ey3qheuPFmQHER2w1o9auleqm4Q0TiedC-ouFX08Hm__aOfAKcPhamhyUmfcImDXOHCgxg/s2429/Big%20rice%20ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1655" data-original-width="2429" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtblUkLGnSPYTVJVz3dk366J5M8n5awtaRSDaTANLqwoSP0rndELOWSoUCzhzwvDa8OwclTyi1y7FAlj3SEMB1l18k5MUUmkk1xcquJxWj-6CVFh-_oMV6Ey3qheuPFmQHER2w1o9auleqm4Q0TiedC-ouFX08Hm__aOfAKcPhamhyUmfcImDXOHCgxg/s320/Big%20rice%20ice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, Spring is slow coming, but sure is welcome. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-76362022282101422882022-04-29T15:27:00.004-05:002022-04-29T15:36:53.364-05:00Granddad's gun<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> For an outdoor minded kid, our duck camp was a favorite place to be, particularly in the fall when it was gunning season. But there was more to it than that. The long narrow lane in was a good place to start teaching a youngster to drive a car -- that's when I was first allowed behind the wheel. In the summer there were fishing and swimming to be done and boat handling was learned by accident. The sandy river-bottom soil was home to a great watermelon patch, and the surrounding hardwoods were meant for exploring. Fox and raccoons to be seen; muskrats and mink and turtles and frogs along the river. A boy with a handful of traps could get some fine nature lessons. Still, those autumn flights of waterfowl remained the year’s foremost attraction. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFjTFhp-1FcSMkR1OEh6qnOGClNr6wWn-yZ0gU7QG8pAAXGiNyFrSCNfXBZwmtqtX60xgwhJlfxzeX5mm6iSc-OHmrflFGYwfb8irhDSOnNH-hpbJIaSKxueCU4poIZQ9am_rI6I4lVdhqojhY1Mr8nAuB1oJeX6CY9JB0aqgFUgHIhlYHXcSJaTkDA/s4320/IMG_0526.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFjTFhp-1FcSMkR1OEh6qnOGClNr6wWn-yZ0gU7QG8pAAXGiNyFrSCNfXBZwmtqtX60xgwhJlfxzeX5mm6iSc-OHmrflFGYwfb8irhDSOnNH-hpbJIaSKxueCU4poIZQ9am_rI6I4lVdhqojhY1Mr8nAuB1oJeX6CY9JB0aqgFUgHIhlYHXcSJaTkDA/s320/IMG_0526.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad used his old Remington Sportsman 16-gauge and knocked ducks from the air with little apparent effort. It was his gun and he knew how to use it. Being a youngster short on knowledge and experience, and unaware of what I was being taught, I assumed my shooting failures were attributed to being outgunned. So occasionally Dad would shoot with his beautiful little pump-action .410 just to show me it could be done, because in those early years I was using a .410 and not hurting the duck population much. Back in those days before non-toxic shot regulations a good man could wield that little sub-gauge effectively. Yet, as I grew older, I figured I’d pile ‘em up if only I had a 12 gauge. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I hit my teens I found some ways to earn a little money with various jobs and fur trapping and before long I’d saved enough to buy a used 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. I figured I was in high heaven then, while Dad stood beside me in the marsh and continued to wipe my eye with the old 16. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ln0JClfXgFLa-bUBULpVtdGCm3fxIpc9E7objOzlaazjBA4KnshcbIuCoUrjPtB4uBa63Q080dywB6s3x062_Z-hN3bW2nhb9CrVhK0eO8X0_ZB28ramXDTBhQDbL3lhdFLxEXbgguyf3eluAWliWsuGMh_KqCIX-X9E1c6RtYQsPxyUGSqUAtDqdQ/s2673/M%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2673" data-original-width="2292" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ln0JClfXgFLa-bUBULpVtdGCm3fxIpc9E7objOzlaazjBA4KnshcbIuCoUrjPtB4uBa63Q080dywB6s3x062_Z-hN3bW2nhb9CrVhK0eO8X0_ZB28ramXDTBhQDbL3lhdFLxEXbgguyf3eluAWliWsuGMh_KqCIX-X9E1c6RtYQsPxyUGSqUAtDqdQ/s320/M%2011.jpg" width="274" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I took that old Remington Sportsman out the other day just to have a look. It had been sitting, unused, since the mid 1970’s when Dad put it away for the new Browning I gave him one Christmas. And, oh, how he shot that Browning till the end of his shooting days! I decided the old Remington deserved a workout at the gun club, but first I had to do something about the ill-fitted, deteriorating recoil pad. I’ve refinished a few gunstocks and had a few used pads laying around, so I was happy to find one that looked like it would work. After I removed the old rubber pad, I found a slip of yellowed, brittle paper inside the hollow of the stock. On that paper was written my grandfather’s name, address, and the date: 7 Sept. 1940. That gun was not only my father’s, but my grandfather’s before him and the sentimental cool factor sudden raised by 100%. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56hTYV6-TKkavDUnA_kgNm6oMj03meYVWbWnqmAovcqIwZ0PC-6kVC2VB5svE76M3iO77xDMRtKTQir2fL-wtLBxbKRyvUcITGdhBCpRxAA3pfq5i6pxbNEL7Cwl04eP28G6rK3TTfnuWlNgAt2tKO9gPcWNuo44WwyZVhHJZ_XX9ZQxWN21MXC3Zzw/s4299/IMG_0524%20(2).JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2722" data-original-width="4299" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56hTYV6-TKkavDUnA_kgNm6oMj03meYVWbWnqmAovcqIwZ0PC-6kVC2VB5svE76M3iO77xDMRtKTQir2fL-wtLBxbKRyvUcITGdhBCpRxAA3pfq5i6pxbNEL7Cwl04eP28G6rK3TTfnuWlNgAt2tKO9gPcWNuo44WwyZVhHJZ_XX9ZQxWN21MXC3Zzw/w321-h203/IMG_0524%20(2).JPG" width="321" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The fixed full choke barrel was the norm for waterfowl before non-toxic shot became required, but it’s not very conducive to high scores on the skeet range. I was happy to hit more than I missed and am now pondering having the choke opened for a more useable grouse and woodcock gun. I can’t imagine how much game was brought to ground with the old shotgun and I’ll never match it, but perhaps I can add a bit of my own history gunning with it. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFy9jci6pJoBZf6rhiG4uOTl_GR3g0rbiHtanZp4KcHsxDCufOxIMcWKgDTYZtbEEV2VfjGDx1GhPnqcaeGQvSerEnPgvVkQ-jCwnc3yJnaWYpC7aFfh-Yq2N5Mor5Ocuc44crfyCo4WSdMRr4pGasZY1FORSxepZg-vYrDOZ6Xbp1Ya_-Io6wG7CBA/s2744/M%2011%20Rem%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2744" data-original-width="1073" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFy9jci6pJoBZf6rhiG4uOTl_GR3g0rbiHtanZp4KcHsxDCufOxIMcWKgDTYZtbEEV2VfjGDx1GhPnqcaeGQvSerEnPgvVkQ-jCwnc3yJnaWYpC7aFfh-Yq2N5Mor5Ocuc44crfyCo4WSdMRr4pGasZY1FORSxepZg-vYrDOZ6Xbp1Ya_-Io6wG7CBA/s320/M%2011%20Rem%20(2).jpg" width="125" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-13524450532749177252022-04-01T11:11:00.000-05:002022-04-01T11:11:23.854-05:00Spooling line tips... sort of.<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> One day old Bill, a gunsmith and skeet shooting buddy, came to me and said, "Hey, you're a fly fisher, take this," and handed me a big, mostly plastic reel that he assumed was a fly reel. I didn't know exactly what kind of reel it was. but it wasn't any kind of fly reel I'd ever seen. But I took it and found a use for it. I learned later the reel is called a mooching reel used for some type of salmon fishing, I'm guessing big, deep water 'cause it'll hold nearly a half mile of 14# test line. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I had two old broken spinning rods -- why I keep this stuff I'll never know -- but with a little cutting and epoxy they were fitted together and have made a handy tool for re-spooling lines and particularly for cleaning fly lines. The big reel works great for that and I've been using it for years. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbHz0DQzs24Jcxk8Ou_04wEn6jZ3B166eIMdABWAxEhsYGFNC-d-WVKMIj57UmRzbV5YDy8QBCSsdygSfkMAFs9TA3MaHZ-QBfpRKz4ryjPvO_MlBzjOlm4P7xy8awZUi5oSZrIeHfqnacMk6O-2YyEbrrGi82M_ESDuFoexDlSYrFZWgSMEPsLWL9Q/s4160/IMG_0502%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1978" data-original-width="4160" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbHz0DQzs24Jcxk8Ou_04wEn6jZ3B166eIMdABWAxEhsYGFNC-d-WVKMIj57UmRzbV5YDy8QBCSsdygSfkMAFs9TA3MaHZ-QBfpRKz4ryjPvO_MlBzjOlm4P7xy8awZUi5oSZrIeHfqnacMk6O-2YyEbrrGi82M_ESDuFoexDlSYrFZWgSMEPsLWL9Q/s320/IMG_0502%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, I decided to put a new line on my oldest trout reel. I've had the new line for a couple of months, purchased along with a couple of new shirts paid with Cabela's points. I figured it was due because the old one had been spooled for a long time, years, in fact. For some reason I decided to do the job from my easy chair, close to my coffee cup, and pulled the old line off and dropped it to the floor instead of getting my tool. I was surprised that that old line was in such good condition -- no cracks or noticeable wear at all -- and I knew then I would keep it as a spare and rewind it to the empty spool the new line came on. So, after the new line was on the fly reel, I started wrapping the old one and realized it was easier said than done. What a tangle! The spooling tool would have saved some frustration. Lesson learned. I should have known better, though seems fitting for April Fools Day.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGSB_OJYFwVZHN3EHAKa7cygfSqJIutThsGQVXb8KT8yukLLqgBWZirJBczjpnRj96FRa-9eeL9_k6mojYti_AbufWvVfK7SbQxQSBGEOHS6v85oPLW4YQ8CXnrbT4SMB-yhghdhmBiTns9CdAG2K_J1j1HmhM6G7hpI5TCqrRSqQGmUsbvE0FQgexQ/s3264/20220225_133256_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGSB_OJYFwVZHN3EHAKa7cygfSqJIutThsGQVXb8KT8yukLLqgBWZirJBczjpnRj96FRa-9eeL9_k6mojYti_AbufWvVfK7SbQxQSBGEOHS6v85oPLW4YQ8CXnrbT4SMB-yhghdhmBiTns9CdAG2K_J1j1HmhM6G7hpI5TCqrRSqQGmUsbvE0FQgexQ/s320/20220225_133256_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> Incidentally, I don't typically recommend or endorse any brand name or products to anyone. There are folks better at analyzing this stuff than I am, and my advice could be interpreted as the blind leading the blind, but I have a couple of the less pricey Cabela's lines on reels and they perform and last as well, for me, as some of my lines costing twice as much. Just saying. Good fishing! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-86561318392845107072022-03-19T11:46:00.000-05:002022-03-19T11:46:38.211-05:00Another fly box?<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Out in the garage there are five or six fly boxes loaded with trout flies. A shelf in the basement holds a couple more trout boxes. Considering how often they get used and how long that inventory will last, well, there is just no need to tie more trout flies. Except, of course, for extended body Hexagenia flies, because the current imitations leave something to be desired.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Surrounded by bass, pike, and muskie water -- so alongside those nifty trout boxes in the garage, crowding the wooden shelf, are the big fly boxes: the bass bugs and muskie streamers. There are no slots or tacky foam in those boxes, just empty space that could hold a fine luncheon if they weren't filled with an array of colorful bucktail, spun deer hair, animal fur, and synthetic fibers all wound on substantial hooks; some you could hang your coat on. A non-fisherman, a civilian, might lift the lid and jump back afraid of what may spring out and pounce on them.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two or three of those boxes go in the boat, the first with bass poppers and divers. Number two with the clousers and Murdich Minnows and such type streamers. Third box is piled with the big stuff -- articulated, 6/0's, bushy headed Bufords and the like -- the flies that get attached to wire bite tippet, always. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Might be best to go lighter in your buddy's boat. The owner is captain and likely has three large boxes of their own, along with rods and tools and all the other accoutrements that go with owning a boat. If it's all bass fishing maybe try to split one box with half top-water and half sub-surface. If muskies and pike are around, you'll have to bring that box, too. There's no other way. Everyone wants to use their own flies and you'll probably change flies three or four times during the day, so several dozen should be enough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">What about those coffee cans filled with rejects: handfuls of fur and feathers that, despite good intentions, looked too ridiculous to grace a leader. Or deer hair faded from use. Chewed by fish (happily, it happens) Or flies merely replaced to make room for something new. The idea is to strip the material off and re-use the hooks. Any day, now.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">But still tying more? Of course. There are new materials to try. Techniques to experiment with: can a dubbing loop really be loaded with that long flash and fake fur? What's with those wire spines, and heck yeah, you can make 'em yourself!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioY10q8rQnQ4HLe4_qygKc2mF5D2hUAhoA5IJBmJ6MDe84mFCvDF9LFGmek3ETi5KTlMQhZ0A-7CjTM0QcNHgZQFuqyHNQrSUv4zJe1xjuCkgWB5690enjKSCnmCzP7QDv7Kx-Wjpv4LvPSTUVgAx5x_JPOQLL31hHfAcyL5IuR05iohDwAaiSC9vULg=s4320" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioY10q8rQnQ4HLe4_qygKc2mF5D2hUAhoA5IJBmJ6MDe84mFCvDF9LFGmek3ETi5KTlMQhZ0A-7CjTM0QcNHgZQFuqyHNQrSUv4zJe1xjuCkgWB5690enjKSCnmCzP7QDv7Kx-Wjpv4LvPSTUVgAx5x_JPOQLL31hHfAcyL5IuR05iohDwAaiSC9vULg=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Lakes and rivers are still frozen here but fly fishing is on my mind. So I'm tying some more flies. There's an empty coffee can around here somewhere. </span></p><div><br /></div>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-69705628902588408622022-02-07T16:29:00.003-06:002022-02-08T10:19:52.958-06:00Bird Dogs... love 'em<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwWLCvAjLDtWouOdQM0p3O7uQbANCLIRAUo-Vj68a202PBB3XzOoWBtSTBy-3ARMg4wYCjD6EMlVgrE3Mf0aGOYDOXisro_XcnHEitWI6KEAV_UjekDNcJ8GNNhazRmScm0nSqMcxtqU8_5-_JyDj1T-s8k1lLSSb_-kKy7ZLzD-HkrOL2wh51EnPWqg=s3967" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2585" data-original-width="3967" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwWLCvAjLDtWouOdQM0p3O7uQbANCLIRAUo-Vj68a202PBB3XzOoWBtSTBy-3ARMg4wYCjD6EMlVgrE3Mf0aGOYDOXisro_XcnHEitWI6KEAV_UjekDNcJ8GNNhazRmScm0nSqMcxtqU8_5-_JyDj1T-s8k1lLSSb_-kKy7ZLzD-HkrOL2wh51EnPWqg=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;">Even though we’re in deep winter now and it’s time for snowshoes and skis, firewood cutting and fly tying on these days of below zero temps; I can’t help but think about the past hunting season, toting my scattergun behind Gabi for some grouse gunning.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I followed her across the beaver dam, that little setter of mine, and heard her break left and disappear into the thick along the edge of the flooded alder swamp. Once I gained some high ground I stopped and listened, but all was quiet. I was going to have to ease back along the edge of that tangle and try to find her, for I figured she was on point. It took long minutes of ducking, tripping, and pushing through brush and balsam while gazing ahead for Gabi's white coat or a glimpse of her orange collar. Tough going, for sure, and I wondered if I was the first man to ever stumble ever lower toward the impassable alder swamp -- for there is no reason for man to ever want to. Unless to find a pointing bird dog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And there she was! I looked hard to make sure it was Gabi and not some bit of downed birch bark or the reflection off some water that coursed through and pooled around the trunks and shoots of alders and willows. Yes, it was her all right, standing firm on the last bit of high ground before getting her feet wet. And thankfully looking towards me from fifty yards out. Sunlight filtered down through the trees and lit the forest floor in a beautiful scene. We had the grouse pinned between us and though the bird might have fled with a low flush behind screening cover, it chose altitude for escape. Another step sent the bird pumping for the treetops and arced to level out for distance but caught a charge of 7 1/2's from my 20 gauge. If only they were all like that. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gabi rushed to the fallen grouse, picked it up and looked at me, carried it a couple of feet and dropped it. There she stood as if to say, "here's your bird, come and get it so we can get moving!" Finding birds is one thing -- retrieving? Not for her. Gabi swore off retrieving long ago. It's not that she doesn't try -- but it's those dry loose feathers in her mouth... At home she'll fetch all manner of plastic and canvas dummies, Dokken's Dead Fowl dummies, and even wing-wrapped retrieving bucks. Of course, I've tried frozen pigeons with a bit of success but when it comes to freshly killed birds, nope. Nor does she point dead -- she races to the downed bird, lifts it to show me, then spits it out and shakes the feathers from her mouth. Gabi once pounced on a wing-tipped woodcock and held the live bird to ground with her front paws so I could come and get it. The woodcock never touched her lips and she was pleased with herself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One evening while Gabi was curled on my lap, I tried to explain the various methods of retriever training. She looked at me like I must be kidding. The subject was never brought up again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A setter's primary job is finding birds and I can't fault her in that department. Since puppyhood she's been a bird-finder, and as she developed, I was impressed by her abilities. Though sometimes I wondered about how she handled them. Gabi had some quirky ways about working scent and there were times when I heard grouse taking wing that I believed some of my previous dogs would have nailed. You can only judge what you can see, and she was right often enough to make me proud. But there were times when I heard her bell stop and a grouse flush, or was it a grouse flush and her bell stop? I'd push in to find her standing, looking over her shoulder at me and wagging her tail. Yeah, there was a grouse here, a nice one, too! You should have seen it! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This past season was different, however. And it took me awhile to realize it. We were at the tailgate getting ready to hit the cover and it occurred to me I was opening another box of shells when I looked at her and said, "Gabi, you're a heck of a bird dog!" She'd been finding and handling birds all season and I'd been enjoying the fine shooting she provided. Running grouse, tight woodcock, singles, multiples -- it was great, and one of the best seasons I've had for some time. Perhaps it was a good year for grouse -- we seemed to find them everywhere. Or maybe Gabi just figured it all out. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrLLtPtcAizV7nv3AvVINAgOJT05WCEKGfOWxdUFdL3biX4bl2K3Bi0fFgcu5-mNJLlGS55F0CIK_GcYSZ2daFVD-b3DlPySB6Zbt-qacIDjuxVqmSUznwJICS8bp2wbYxS2CTKwdcIWuIAXt-eORVaxFj3yUBu7kGvGBZoV1lQWO_j2-pWNzcFUADRQ=s2537" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1509" data-original-width="2537" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrLLtPtcAizV7nv3AvVINAgOJT05WCEKGfOWxdUFdL3biX4bl2K3Bi0fFgcu5-mNJLlGS55F0CIK_GcYSZ2daFVD-b3DlPySB6Zbt-qacIDjuxVqmSUznwJICS8bp2wbYxS2CTKwdcIWuIAXt-eORVaxFj3yUBu7kGvGBZoV1lQWO_j2-pWNzcFUADRQ=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Compared to some exceptional bird dogs I've shot over; I've doubted Gabi could match them and said so. I think it's time to eat those words. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-68239130242294791052021-11-01T12:19:00.004-05:002021-11-01T15:32:24.549-05:00October, where'd it go?<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A year ago there was snow on the ground here and there will be again, soon, if the snow buntings I spotted on Friday are any indication. Those pretty little white and grey birds don't stick around long, apparently migrating ahead of the snow storm that's soon to follow. I've never known them to be wrong and snow will start falling within two weeks of first sighting them. And it's often less than two weeks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Until then, however, the Northwoods autumn has been a fine one to enjoy. Tamarack trees have turned their winter golden/orange and it seems they soak in sunlight on bright days and emit a glow on cloudy days. Most of the leaves on the aspen and maples have dropped to a carpet of subdued color on the ground, and it's become cool enough to wear my favorite hunting coat while following Gabby in search of grouse. There's been a skim of ice on the water-filled ditch across Mattson's swamp each morning I pass on our way to the grouse coverts.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCCRB1Es-Bc/YX8iqsWaYPI/AAAAAAAACxo/VWzQ0-A-m5AC7fX2-jpnA6p0TCZUV2OWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0431%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCCRB1Es-Bc/YX8iqsWaYPI/AAAAAAAACxo/VWzQ0-A-m5AC7fX2-jpnA6p0TCZUV2OWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0431%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I've been behind bird dogs every fall for something like 40 years. Still, the sight of a white English</span><span> setter locked up like a statue among that umber-colored forest floor thrills me to this day. Pushing through the thick stuff to flush the bird is seldom easy and the explosive flush of ruffed grouse doesn't always offer the chance for a shot, but when it works and your aim is true the bird takes the shot, pauses in mid-air as if waiting for the echo of the gun to subside, crumples and falls. The result is a feeling close to elation. I hope that never changes.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ybJyX6CER_w/YX8kJUm9d6I/AAAAAAAACxw/ttu5G-a-oZg1jHaQp1zfW_FYxzL7x2bjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Beretta%2B%2526%2BGrouse%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ybJyX6CER_w/YX8kJUm9d6I/AAAAAAAACxw/ttu5G-a-oZg1jHaQp1zfW_FYxzL7x2bjwCLcBGAsYHQ/w241-h320/Beretta%2B%2526%2BGrouse%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="241" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg8BWr_Uh0E/YYAe-v74TWI/AAAAAAAACyo/IU80M2t-J5cR2fOIxGHuTQaOsHdEK063wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0433%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="2048" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg8BWr_Uh0E/YYAe-v74TWI/AAAAAAAACyo/IU80M2t-J5cR2fOIxGHuTQaOsHdEK063wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0433%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was a day when I hunted from light to dawn. I had a number of dogs and rotated them throughout the day. If the season was open I was hunting, rain or shine, with an exuberance only youth can provide. I made trips for western grouse, partridge, and pheasants. I shot, and missed, many birds. When I look through the early pages of my gunning journal the numbers sometimes surprise me. Some folks may have thought I'd have done better given the time I spent in the woods, while others may have declared me a greedy game hog. I'm not much of a score keeper and stopped recording the count long ago. Instead I keep track of incidents -- like twice last week when I took a shot at a fast departing grouse then opened my gun to reload when two more birds wasted no time climbing for altitude and leaving while I stood flat-footed with one hand in my pocket and the open gun in the crook of my arm. Or when I drove an hour to a favorite cover to find I only had four shells along. Once we surprised a pair of trumpeter swans on a beaver pond and their flapping wings and tumultuous voices resounded over the lowland as they clamored for the sky. Or when Gabby did a fine job of nailing a running bird after several re-locations and the comfortable heft of that grouse in my game pocket.</span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VDNK0KpSFIk/YX8pBJQkmrI/AAAAAAAACyg/bwZ91T_DcTosqAsjAmz7A3YMzbC7c5VVACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0426%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="2048" height="224" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VDNK0KpSFIk/YX8pBJQkmrI/AAAAAAAACyg/bwZ91T_DcTosqAsjAmz7A3YMzbC7c5VVACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0426%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are many memories to recall, many dogs past and present, many shots taken and the friends that were there. Many autumn sunrises and many evenings with my hand wrapped around a glass and a sleeping setter at my side. Almost too many memories to recall. Almost.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VRu-l3oGqOQ/YX8mMTu2WeI/AAAAAAAACyA/iQv1MN0YaSgdQJWajEcyc7AZobRUM2izACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/boots%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1820" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VRu-l3oGqOQ/YX8mMTu2WeI/AAAAAAAACyA/iQv1MN0YaSgdQJWajEcyc7AZobRUM2izACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/boots%2B2.jpg" width="284" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-37829376797078458092021-09-30T19:02:00.000-05:002021-09-30T19:02:09.764-05:00Autumn Brook Trout<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNz4dzBXsB8/YVZN5vmtf2I/AAAAAAAACw0/yAtCQzLyKUM4iJPJm-HRI3lO1f1bQ4wuACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0407%2B%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="2048" height="164" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNz4dzBXsB8/YVZN5vmtf2I/AAAAAAAACw0/yAtCQzLyKUM4iJPJm-HRI3lO1f1bQ4wuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0407%2B%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some folks live in parts of the country where fishing season never closes. I like the idea of fishing year-round, but I also understand the reason that stream trout season ends the last day of September. Here in northern MN the season closes to protect the Fall spawning brook trout. That makes sense because, well, you can never have too many brook trout. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For bird hunters like myself, it's hard to think of anything but grouse and woodcock now. Hunting season is open and my eager setter, Gabby, knows it and is ready to hit it. The foliage is still heavy, but turning to the reds, yellows, and oranges of Autumn and after all these years the beauty of it still strikes me. Although there have been some chilling mornings, lately the daytime temps have reached 80 degrees making it too hot for hunting. Hiking through the cover following a bird dog is warming enough -- add that climbing temperature and bright sun and each hunt finds me with a sweat-soaked shirt and exhausted dog. But if it's too hot to hunt, doesn't it make sense to go fishing? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EQx7WGfDkw0/YVZLrQQ_W9I/AAAAAAAACwU/G6Amqr6NotErI8xnSpxf3y21UTZpnKVCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Grouse%2Bhunt%2B9-25-2021%2B%25286%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="2048" height="183" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EQx7WGfDkw0/YVZLrQQ_W9I/AAAAAAAACwU/G6Amqr6NotErI8xnSpxf3y21UTZpnKVCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Grouse%2Bhunt%2B9-25-2021%2B%25286%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hung around home for most of the day after a short early hunt with Gabby, then loaded my gear and a cold one on the ATV and headed for the stream. I had my favorite trout rod along and looked forward to an enjoyable evening. The stream looked clear and inviting and I knew these brookies will often rise to a fly even when there's no discernable activity on the water. Relying on past experience, I tied a well-used #14 Madam X to my 6x leader and cast over a submerged brush pile, the remnants of an old beaver feed bed. A strike came immediately and I jerked and missed, but happy for the quick action. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XynL8FVTwg/YVZMKBqMBMI/AAAAAAAACwc/KagFoljTQUIwhn1lAUyiDnnc6D1DLJRXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0408%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--XynL8FVTwg/YVZMKBqMBMI/AAAAAAAACwc/KagFoljTQUIwhn1lAUyiDnnc6D1DLJRXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0408%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After a summer of casting mostly 8,9, and 10 weight rods, my little 3oz. 7'9" rod felt like air in my hand and I had look occasionally to see if I still had a hold of it. I missed a couple of strikes before hooking up to a beauty of a little brookie in full spawning color. I admired the fish with a photo and slipped it back into the water. For variety I changed to a #18 caddis and landed three more of those pretty trout. Catching those wild, backwoods brook trout on dry flies is about as good as it gets, but time passes quickly when you're fishing and when I noticed the sky had turned from blue to purple and looked at the dark forest surrounding me, I knew it was time to head home. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iy4jibY_mRQ/YVZNVX1_5nI/AAAAAAAACws/GNeUzi1GiXo0uBH03ZQ3dBObc3SvcMVcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Brook%2BTrout%2B%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iy4jibY_mRQ/YVZNVX1_5nI/AAAAAAAACws/GNeUzi1GiXo0uBH03ZQ3dBObc3SvcMVcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Brook%2BTrout%2B%25284%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-23489463081879741912021-09-24T14:18:00.001-05:002021-09-25T10:16:32.361-05:00Rain Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Zo1LTnWMiw/YU4j_Ynm_0I/AAAAAAAACv4/u5Ktd4wtlZw8HvuW0bVWkY7NSbSXrEY2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Rainy%2Bday%2B%252810%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1121" data-original-width="2048" height="175" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Zo1LTnWMiw/YU4j_Ynm_0I/AAAAAAAACv4/u5Ktd4wtlZw8HvuW0bVWkY7NSbSXrEY2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Rainy%2Bday%2B%252810%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> Sometimes you just have to enjoy a rainy day from indoors. Well, maybe not all day – but after a short jaunt in 50-degree, wet woods, it felt darn good to shed dripping raingear and heavy boots. But the rain is welcome after the record-breaking drought we went through this summer. While we weren't experiencing the huge wildfires like they are out west, here in northern MN we had more than usual. In May a wildfire burned woods just west of us and when it blew to within a quarter mile we were advised to evacuate. Well, we did pack up a few things but between the Forest Service and the local volunteer fire department the burn never reached our property. Nor did we ever leave, but instead sat outside and watched an impressive air show of fire-fighting planes and helicopters. The fire was pretty much knocked down the first day, but ground crews found hot spots two more days and the helicopters returned to dip water out of a pond across the road and quench what was left. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-leoddSrkxi0/YU4g7j1Xh3I/AAAAAAAACvU/ZkS390io_0w4xAzFjSkf0CK0L_t3JRPlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Fire%2Bplane.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2048" height="236" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-leoddSrkxi0/YU4g7j1Xh3I/AAAAAAAACvU/ZkS390io_0w4xAzFjSkf0CK0L_t3JRPlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fire%2Bplane.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_M5nOZ7Z4Dk/YU4iqwslzmI/AAAAAAAACvg/xagfjwz-xGESHU_jK3NCtPJ3L3JzmF7WwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Chopper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_M5nOZ7Z4Dk/YU4iqwslzmI/AAAAAAAACvg/xagfjwz-xGESHU_jK3NCtPJ3L3JzmF7WwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Chopper.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now that we're getting some rain it's easy to forget how hot and dry it was and the bigger fires north and east of us are under control. It’s time to enjoy the changing Autumn leaves and look forward to the Fall season. The beavers have finally backed up some water on the creek near here, but the rivers and lakes are still low and we'll need some good rainfall and winter snow to get them where we'd like to see them. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JDnIguYXPwE/YU4jGF-CcqI/AAAAAAAACvo/H6O1e_dhiiwWEsoZ6-vM1Yx3sjbVrmB-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Rainy%2Bday%2B%25287%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1577" data-original-width="2048" height="246" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JDnIguYXPwE/YU4jGF-CcqI/AAAAAAAACvo/H6O1e_dhiiwWEsoZ6-vM1Yx3sjbVrmB-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Rainy%2Bday%2B%25287%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Grouse hunting season has been open for almost a week and Gabby and I have been enjoying it. I can't say we've been all that productive, but it's still early and the best of the season is yet to come. There's some good Fall fishing ahead as well, but for the rest of today I believe we'll stay warm and dry inside. Happy Autumn! </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSLoGQGXuns/YU4jWSo5leI/AAAAAAAACvw/I3xXn81Y6BkSXrTlw6cnrN4aSlP-Qug0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Rainy%2Bday%2B%25289%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="2048" height="176" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSLoGQGXuns/YU4jWSo5leI/AAAAAAAACvw/I3xXn81Y6BkSXrTlw6cnrN4aSlP-Qug0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Rainy%2Bday%2B%25289%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-182945605945851502021-09-15T12:22:00.003-05:002021-09-15T13:38:58.045-05:00Routines<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Sometimes following a routine could be construed as being stuck in a rut. But it’s only a rut if you don’t like it. Depending on the time of year, the season, I guess you could say that I’m a man of routine. Almost every morning of this long, dry summer I would take a short ride on my bike with Gabby running alongside. We’d get out early, when the sun was still low and before the day’s heat set in. Sometimes we’d only go for a mile. Sometimes a bit over three. Our turnarounds were Lindgren’s barn, the RR tracks, Orpha’s corner, or the town hall. It was just enough to get a bit of exercise (mostly for Gabby) and to get a handle on the day. We often spotted deer along the way, and became familiar with the pair of sandhill cranes that trodded the open fields west of here. As August wore on Gabby would sometimes slam into a point just off the road and I’d have to stop and wade into the brush to flush a young brood of grouse. Of course, we always like finding birds, but that brush can be kind of tough when you’re wearing shorts and sandals. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Lately, the morning route has taken a different path. It’s close to bird hunting season and better than that: the days are cool. Morning temps in the low 40’s calls for real pants and boots while we hike a quarter-mile of hay field to the cover beyond. Though the hay was cut weeks ago, it’s hardy grown due to drought conditions and is only a few inches deep. Now, early morning dew makes us forget how dry the months have been and the wet grass shimmers in the light and looks like the frost which will be here soon. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-We5KGnw_vbg/YUIp5o_zwfI/AAAAAAAACuY/bfv_Cx7tRLIaYlCm6-fkzpuOIL1OEsR3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0365%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="2048" height="187" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-We5KGnw_vbg/YUIp5o_zwfI/AAAAAAAACuY/bfv_Cx7tRLIaYlCm6-fkzpuOIL1OEsR3QCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h187/IMG_0365%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><p><br /></p>Gabby runs ahead, of course, and I can’t help thinking about how many times I’ve enjoyed watching a bird dog racing across this field over the past four decades. And how many young dogs have I seen pointing the planted birds I hid in spots around this field. I get a little melancholy knowing there were more behind me than there will be ahead. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oVzwxfN3OIk/YUIqio9izzI/AAAAAAAACug/CYB6IhwOdKQj58ZkYY5gC-wZCXQfAY38wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0374%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oVzwxfN3OIk/YUIqio9izzI/AAAAAAAACug/CYB6IhwOdKQj58ZkYY5gC-wZCXQfAY38wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0374%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">That field has remained constant over the years but the woods surrounding it have changed. Once old and heavy with over-mature aspen and balsam, it was clearcut and created an open rolling landscape that new growth thrived in. Now, that new growth is getting older but has been a fine bird covert for years. Along with a little creek running through and the accompanying alder and willow runs and thickets my dogs have found countless woodcock and grouse in that cover. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sEp8cVQkfmQ/YUIqytkGAiI/AAAAAAAACuo/YlqlpOWHYOsyFQPzgykP9Iy60pTmYUjTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0381%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sEp8cVQkfmQ/YUIqytkGAiI/AAAAAAAACuo/YlqlpOWHYOsyFQPzgykP9Iy60pTmYUjTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0381%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It’s a short walk from my door and I can be found out there working a dog most springtime mornings and now, when summer seems to be surrendering to autumn. Just this morning I followed Gabby into the cover off the south edge of the field. The leaves are changing but the foliage is still summer thick and she wasn’t always easy to find when she pointed six woodcock and had two grouse finds, one single and the other a brood of five. I finally gathered her up and steered her for home – we hadn’t had breakfast, yet. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVx1MiJpLy4/YUIrAPwU5GI/AAAAAAAACus/PQiXaRoaKyEDz5A65vmfRyJxo5GVFgZegCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0383%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="192" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVx1MiJpLy4/YUIrAPwU5GI/AAAAAAAACus/PQiXaRoaKyEDz5A65vmfRyJxo5GVFgZegCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0383%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The road borders the north side of the field and we stopped there for a moment. I took another look back across the field and once again confirmed how fortunate I am... and what a good life it is. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-58298130034540602442021-09-09T11:15:00.000-05:002021-09-09T11:15:27.699-05:00Another day in God's country<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If there's a better way to get in touch with the spirit of the north than standing thigh deep in a remote backwoods river -- gripping a bent fly rod with an angry muskie on the end of the line -- I can't say what it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was wading my way downstream, thinking the water looked deeper that direction and maybe, just maybe, there'd be a muskie lurking about. Due to the ongoing drought the river level was lower than it's been in years, making it a tough float even for a canoe. It therefore made wade fishing possible and a way to learn the river like never before. What there was for current was slow and easy, only showing itself through narrow channels in and around shallow rocky sections and newly exposed islands. A gathering breeze sang its song rustling the heavily forested river banks.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hssDPn9gs6c/YTouUXZJlkI/AAAAAAAACtw/hIwuWgmX02YG_zPYp6IiPPlsUCLosJmRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/bigfork.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hssDPn9gs6c/YTouUXZJlkI/AAAAAAAACtw/hIwuWgmX02YG_zPYp6IiPPlsUCLosJmRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bigfork.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Wade fishing muskies is not the simplest thing I've done and nothing I've done a lot of, but I've learned some things when going boat-less. A small pack, one that can be slid around to your chest is handy to carry a box with a few favorite flies, leaders, and the couple of tools you probably won't need. Landing a fish may be easier if you keep one of those jaw grippers and spreaders hanging from your belt on the opposite side of your line stripping hand. Ideally, I won't use those tools but when the fish is ready and close enough, I'll take a good look at the silvery green-ness of that intriguing wild fish before reaching down to remove the barbless hook with forceps or fingers.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a9OmXuAXKjw/YTourD5gWWI/AAAAAAAACt4/7n4GBnlyqk0kL5xsmLezSb6JJQ-LGMaGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a9OmXuAXKjw/YTourD5gWWI/AAAAAAAACt4/7n4GBnlyqk0kL5xsmLezSb6JJQ-LGMaGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0369.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The water depth seldom reached higher than my thighs and I was able to stay mostly in mid-river, and from there cast to likely cover along each bank and ahead of me in the open river. Despite hopeful anticipation of hooking a big fish, the sounds and smells of nature couldn't be ignored and I felt like I belonged right where I was. Time passed faster than distance and I considered turning back to my truck for the lunch and coffee waiting, but a tempting looking outside bend a hundred yards down river convinced me to continue. Upon reaching it I tossed my big deer-hair fly towards a submerged weed bed. Stripping line, the wake behind came on the second cast and a series of short, jerky strips triggered the strike!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The thrill of watching a big fish come at your fly and then take it is indescribable. Like all game fish, muskies rip and yank and dart across the river trying to wrench free from the hook that's holding them. The tug and pull is excitement at a high level and in the back of your mind there's a split second of wondering about the strength of your knots, the integrity of the leader, and the stoutness of the rod. There's a lot that can go wrong, but when the fish was finally at my lap and looking me in the eye as I released it, it seemed too soon to be over. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After gulping lunch I drove to another section of the river to explore and try for another muskie. This is wild country if not exactly wilderness, a land of wolves and bears, eagles and ospreys. There have been occasional reports of cougars in the area. In these modern times wild country might be described as anywhere there's no cell phone service. You won't be calling anyone from your phone on this river. Carry a first aid kit in that pack, you know, for the little stuff.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As I waded upstream looking for likely places to cast to, I was hit by a strong wind and surprised by a crack of thunder. Suddenly the trees were swaying and a dark storm was fast approaching. I headed back for the truck and grew anxious when I found two trees had blown down over the trail I'd just hiked in on. Worried about the safety of my truck parked up in the woods, I hurried ahead and hopped behind the steering wheel just as the deluge hit. With windshield wipers at full speed I breathed a sigh of relief when I got to the main road.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The day turned dark and I drove towards home as rain pounded the roof of my truck and thunder announced piercing flashes of lightning. The paved road was covered with blown branches and leaves and several downed spruce trees covered parts of the driving lane. Safe and warm in my vehicle, I smiled at the thought of a wild river in wild country, the wild muskie that gave a tough battle and a fine memory, and the retreat from a wild storm. Quite a day -- I'm thankful for it.</span></p><div class="OutlineElement Ltr BCX8 SCXW39926399" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; user-select: text;"><p class="Paragraph SCXW39926399 BCX8" lang="EN-US" paraeid="{48f51890-8b42-4cb6-b75e-8c9d8e5d9d52}{145}" paraid="1624108819" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div><div class="OutlineElement Ltr BCX8 SCXW39926399" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; 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font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Paragraph SCXW39926399 BCX8" lang="EN-US" paraeid="{48f51890-8b42-4cb6-b75e-8c9d8e5d9d52}{180}" paraid="1491077264" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="EOP SCXW39926399 BCX8" data-ccp-props="{"201341983":0,"335559739":160,"335559740":259}" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; line-height: 26.9792px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; user-select: text;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p></div><div class="OutlineElement Ltr BCX8 SCXW39926399" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; user-select: text;"><p class="Paragraph SCXW39926399 BCX8" lang="EN-US" paraeid="{48f51890-8b42-4cb6-b75e-8c9d8e5d9d52}{187}" paraid="1853921792" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="Paragraph SCXW39926399 BCX8" lang="EN-US" paraeid="{48f51890-8b42-4cb6-b75e-8c9d8e5d9d52}{187}" paraid="1853921792" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="EOP SCXW39926399 BCX8" data-ccp-props="{"201341983":0,"335559739":160,"335559740":259}" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; line-height: 26.9792px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; user-select: text;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p></div><div class="OutlineElement Ltr BCX8 SCXW39926399" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; user-select: text;"><p class="Paragraph SCXW39926399 BCX8" lang="EN-US" paraeid="{48f51890-8b42-4cb6-b75e-8c9d8e5d9d52}{208}" paraid="815672881" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-kerning: none; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; user-select: text; vertical-align: baseline;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></p></div>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-9143903915616118782021-08-08T21:14:00.050-05:002021-08-09T07:53:52.812-05:00August Smallmouth<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They walked up while I was strapping the boat down for the drive home. Two enthusiastic fellows, not much younger than myself, with the eagerness one feels after driving to far away water full of hungry easy-to-catch big fish. Or something like that. They pulled a nice boat, newer than mine and equipped with some pretty fancy looking electronics, and probably believed this northern Minnesota lake was so full of walleyes they would have no problem filling their live well in short order. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They assumed I was a local, which I am, and despite the confidence they had in their own angling skills, it never hurts to get a bit of local knowledge. We exchanged the usual fishermen pleasantries and one of the guys leaned on the gunwale of my boat and spotted the rod strapped to the port side shelf. “You’re fly fishing?!" </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vrSB6VMQ1yg/YRCV9vX2CyI/AAAAAAAACs0/XSS8DdPtL-ssSoSPXfMAj1vqv3aibSr2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0303%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vrSB6VMQ1yg/YRCV9vX2CyI/AAAAAAAACs0/XSS8DdPtL-ssSoSPXfMAj1vqv3aibSr2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0303%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ve been asked that before and my short and vaguely descriptive answer is well practiced. Well, they said, that sounds like fun but what about the walleyes. What could I say? Yes, the lake is full of them, watch for the hazard buoys and you’ll do fine. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But I’m fly-fishing bass. I’ve been using a fly rod for a long time, and not just for bass. Trout fishing has long been known as fly rod territory. Then there’s a variety of panfish, and pike and muskies. And yep, I’ve caught walleyes on the fly, but it wouldn’t be my first choice if I was looking to secure the fixins’ for a fish fry. Of course, there are a lot of other finned critters to be caught but I can’t know everything. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TcQYvKGf1WY/YRCWOH_AaeI/AAAAAAAACs8/pGkR50V5uscoMOx4VOtJk4mHyR4U6MA-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0293%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1433" data-original-width="2048" height="224" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TcQYvKGf1WY/YRCWOH_AaeI/AAAAAAAACs8/pGkR50V5uscoMOx4VOtJk4mHyR4U6MA-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0293%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m a self-taught fly caster, never had a lesson in my life – I could have used a better teacher, though, ask anyone. I became good at the wrong things. I still practice a lot of them. I like to flip a loop around my reel once in a while, to add some challenge. And let’s not talk about stepping on the line. Occasionally, when my timing is just right, the line seems to shoot out on its own and it feels great. That’s when my fly gets stuck ten feet up in a tree. No telling how far that thing would have flown if not for the tree. The title of my book will be <i>By The Time I'm Good At This I'll Be Too Old To Do It. </i>But every now and then I get it right and my fly lands somewhere close to where it should. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There’s nothing like being on the water before the sun tops the trees and working a deer-hair diver or foam popper over a rocky shoreline. That’s what it takes on the lakes this late in the year, when the bass move off the shallow feeding areas into deep water as the day brightens and warms. A cup of coffee makes good company while the intermittent hum of the trolling motor gets drowned out by awaking song birds. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gL5ifu8dyX0/YRCWo6l31HI/AAAAAAAACtE/1NUDqAmBA9II6Km5QPo6ZbQtu2PXPOBbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Cable%2BBay%2B003%2B%25283%2529.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gL5ifu8dyX0/YRCWo6l31HI/AAAAAAAACtE/1NUDqAmBA9II6Km5QPo6ZbQtu2PXPOBbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Cable%2BBay%2B003%2B%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is a slow, lazy approach that matches my state of mind after crawling out of bed at 4 a.m. It differs from river fishing. There’s no current pushing downstream and the water is usually glassy smooth. Then the theory that the big bass respond to a fly sitting quietly on the water is hard to argue with – indeed, the first bass of the other morning hit my deer hair diver when it sat floating on the water for half a minute or so while I was sipping that coffee and having a look around. Pretty much hooked itself. That fish was also the biggest of the day, coming in a bit shy of the 21 incher I’m still waiting to catch. But that theory isn’t written in stone and the next bass hit just as the fly touched down with a splash. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAwbtCn-FpQ/YRCW46wjdTI/AAAAAAAACtM/ducoMmIuncktrvyI4b55NjIRBzGGbfdFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0291%2B%25283%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1270" data-original-width="2048" height="198" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAwbtCn-FpQ/YRCW46wjdTI/AAAAAAAACtM/ducoMmIuncktrvyI4b55NjIRBzGGbfdFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0291%2B%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As the sun rose higher it was colored by haze from wildfire smoke up north. By late morning a southerly breeze cleared the air and the temperature climbed. I’d netted some fish, including a couple of small pike and lost a nice fly to the slashing strike of a bigger pike I wish I’d landed. A few boats were buzzing around out on the big part of the lake, searching for walleyes I suppose, and a group of kayaks were exploring some nearby islands. It was another fine morning for me, and I’d be home for lunch. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-at8-dchgrPk/YRCXCtZvQ4I/AAAAAAAACtQ/ummOcLQJXoQd7Qpu90oZthuPuRQrQB1xwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0300%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1379" data-original-width="2048" height="215" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-at8-dchgrPk/YRCXCtZvQ4I/AAAAAAAACtQ/ummOcLQJXoQd7Qpu90oZthuPuRQrQB1xwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0300%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="OutlineElement Ltr BCX8 SCXW65404571" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative; user-select: text;"><p style="background-color: white;"></p></div>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-47530782648907788082021-02-10T12:33:00.001-06:002021-02-10T15:58:51.214-06:00Feb. 2021<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>When
it's as cold as it's been these last days it's easy to become an
armchair birdwatcher. Now, a real bona fide birder has a binocular
hanging from their neck, a waterproof notebook at hand, and a felt
fedora on their heads. But at these temps even the most dedicated are
tempted to do their watching through a window. Every morning waking
up to 25 to 30 below temperatures makes that hot coffee smell even
better while dampening the desire to get outside. My routine of late
is to go out and fill the birdfeeder while the eastern horizon is just getting light, return for a bit of breakfast, and then sit near
the window with coffee and a book. Before the sun breaks the tree
tops the chickadees and grosbeaks arrive and the feeder becomes the
busiest place for the day. On and off they'll be joined by
nuthatches, finches, blue jays, and several other species that are
common to northwoods winters. </span>
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-val5OxKHxGg/YCQktCuutUI/AAAAAAAACns/QUlMgaTUtwYKQIjw3YhxLBXYBAAtBEk9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0084.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-val5OxKHxGg/YCQktCuutUI/AAAAAAAACns/QUlMgaTUtwYKQIjw3YhxLBXYBAAtBEk9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0084.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Occasionally
a Pileated woodpecker will stop in the tree next to the feeder
wondering what the commotion is about. Downy woodpeckers and gray
jays fly in looking for suet. A few days ago I spotted a Northern
Shrike land close, probably hoping to spot a vole or mouse feeding on
spilled seeds. </span>
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Those
spilled seeds on the ground are wildlife attractant in their own
right. We've watched red foxes stalking the snow around the feeder
for the same little rodents the Shrike was hoping to find, and gray
foxes show up at night for the same. Then there are deer. Deer visit
daily and munch birdseed under the feeder fifteen feet from the
window. We've seen as many as seven crowding each other providing
countless photos and videos. A couple of deer are rearing up to help
themselves to the goods right off the feeder. </span>
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_2g59koWIw/YCQlKGMAyeI/AAAAAAAACn0/UzJ8G4ob1lk5Iy_m0662IKnrUpaZ8uQzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0062.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_2g59koWIw/YCQlKGMAyeI/AAAAAAAACn0/UzJ8G4ob1lk5Iy_m0662IKnrUpaZ8uQzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0062.JPG" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
like winter activities and am lucky to be able to enjoy them close
by. Skies and snowshoes are standard equipment. I like splitting
firewood when it's cold. This winter I've been riding a new fat bike
on packed trails that's either keeping me in shape or wearing me out.
There are woods to be wandered with a .22 rifle right out the door
and I have a mess of ice-fishing gear that I hardly use anymore, but
it's there and ready. Then there's gazing out the window – call it lazy it you
want, and it probably is, but the view is great.</span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-50568494676814945602020-11-15T16:28:00.004-06:002020-11-18T20:48:23.933-06:00Nothin' to prove...<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I guess you could call it
an Indian Summer, though it came on so quickly I think everyone just
went outside and basked in the sun without thinking to call it
anything but welcome. When it snows in mid-October, even here in
northern Minnesota, it catches us all unaware. Sure, it was predicted
but the temperatures had been hanging in at 35-40 degrees and we all
figured a bit of snow would melt quickly. But temps dropped with the
snow and here we were dealing with 20 degrees and six inches of snow.
In a few days the smaller lakes were ice covered and it looked like
winter had arrived.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJO5g0WGhOg/X7GnLblM2oI/AAAAAAAAClo/j-MxVazdFCg4dCnSx40bP83YgQ3NNUXvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/0AA66A15-FD62-46CC-B41D-C435BDDED760.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1133" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJO5g0WGhOg/X7GnLblM2oI/AAAAAAAAClo/j-MxVazdFCg4dCnSx40bP83YgQ3NNUXvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0AA66A15-FD62-46CC-B41D-C435BDDED760.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Low and behold, a couple
of days before the month ended we were treated to a warm spell. The
sun broke out and heated things up to 60 or a little better. The snow
melted, the roads (at least the country roads around my place) turned
to mud and suddenly every vehicle around wore the same brown coat. No
one was about to wash their car until things dried up.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'd pretty much stowed my
fishing stuff for the year and Gabby and I were happily content
hunting grouse, but sunny calm 60 degree days in November offered a
rare open water angling opportunity. I only had to decide where.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RQDUKe9pOc8/X7GmXq3ER9I/AAAAAAAAClg/6rYlFujt8WgFRI3iWSRUxBAUfooviHHrACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/blogged%2BNov%2B2020.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2020" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RQDUKe9pOc8/X7GmXq3ER9I/AAAAAAAAClg/6rYlFujt8WgFRI3iWSRUxBAUfooviHHrACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/blogged%2BNov%2B2020.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone knows that
muskies feed heavily in the fall to supposedly fatten up for winter.
Or so they say, though it could strain the definition of common
knowledge. I've fished for, and caught, muskie late in the season but
I'm still waiting to hit the feeding frenzy. I recently heard of a
guy who hooked 13 muskies in one day fly fishing, and landed nine of
them. He wasn't in this part of the country but still, I have a hard
time wrapping my head around that. I mean, just when you get to
feeling pretty savvy about your musky skills you hear something like
that.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I figured to slide my jon
boat down the bank into my favorite musky river, motor upstream for
an hour or so and float/fish my way back. That would eat up most of
the short autumn day and I'd still be off the water before dark. No
telling how many muskies I'd hook.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fEAE0k5B0qY/X7Gj3DAh8-I/AAAAAAAAClA/JTHV22nx0qo_5fXTJch1MCTRe6AVeD_jACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0625FB%2B%2526%2Bblog%25283%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fEAE0k5B0qY/X7Gj3DAh8-I/AAAAAAAAClA/JTHV22nx0qo_5fXTJch1MCTRe6AVeD_jACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0625FB%2B%2526%2Bblog%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The river was running a
little high and dirty, which I knew it would thanks to the melting
snow, meaning I could run my motor without too much worry of hitting
obstacles or bottom. Of course lower water concentrates the fish and
may mean easier fishing so there's always that trade-off. I've
paddled my canoe upstream during low water periods and enjoyed wading
to mid-river and casting to deep runs at outside bends but I've never
been as far up as I expected to with the jon boat. Part of this trip
was exploratory.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jOskDMHpIiI/X7GkL5dAh3I/AAAAAAAAClI/QdcMbPWMAF4dVx4J0cF7b4GiG1sAeEUwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/664-median539-mean672.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jOskDMHpIiI/X7GkL5dAh3I/AAAAAAAAClI/QdcMbPWMAF4dVx4J0cF7b4GiG1sAeEUwgCLcBGAsYHQ/w318-h240/664-median539-mean672.JPG" width="318" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">My little 2.5 horsepower
motor puttered me against the current at the comfortable rate. I slowed her down when I knew I was over
shallows and twisted the throttle when it seemed safe. I did hit a
rock in mid-river once – my homemade lower unit guard provided some
comfort but the unprotected prop took the brunt. It wasn't the first
time that motor tangled with rocks and though no real damage
occurred, the leading edges of that three bladed prop are looking
like chair legs the puppy has chewed.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The river itself is a
beauty no matter the time of year. There's a hunting shack near the
road and put-in, but from there upstream it's wild and undeveloped.
You'll have no cell phone service and it doesn't take long to realize
if you have trouble it could be real trouble, but I figured if I
didn't fall out of the boat I should be OK. The bare shoreline
hardwoods allowed a good view into the woods and I kept looking for
wildlife, which seemed missing that day.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stopped motoring at an
inlet stream that looked too good to pass. My small folding anchor
held while I stood and fan cast the area with a bright 6/0 streamer
on a 10wt intermediate line, to no avail. On the way up I'd seen a
boil of a big fish near the bank and it's wake out in midstream but
didn't stop to try for it, thinking I'd get it on the way back. So
after I poured some coffee and ate a sandwich I pulled anchor for the
float down.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Float fishing from a boat
by yourself is not the easiest thing to do, but the river was good to
me and I could drift and cast a decent way without grabbing an oar
for correction – there was no wind, which helped – although here
and there it seemed prudent to anchor and cast to a run or some kind
of cover be it a fallen tree or rocky shoreline. If anything, I
drifted too fast – my handheld GPS read the current 1 ½ mph –
giving me one shot, and one shot only, at some of the spots I wanted
to cast to. In much of the river you can float down the middle and
reach both banks with a good cast. Then you'll go around a bend and
the river spreads out and widens. If you're fishing the left bank
you'll be looking at the right side and wonder if you should move
over there.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't see the fish hit.
I'd been working the banksides for a couple of miles with no activity
and had pretty much given up the idea of any fish feeding binge.
Lulled into distraction, between gazing into the passing forest, a satisfying pastime in itself, and
watching for any downstream deadheads I was basically going
through the motions. I don't know if I first felt the tightening line
or saw the boil just under the surface from the corner of my eye, but
I do recall making one deliberate long and hard strip set before
losing some line to the musky torpedoing away.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fighting a big fish is
always fun, that's why we do it, but add the element of standing in a
narrow out-of-control jon boat being turned by a hard pulling fish on
collision course with a brush-lined riverbank and you have the
makings for a mild tragedy or hilarious comedy. Just before hitting
the bank I sat down to avoid being thrown off balance (I once drifted
into a submerged log that stopped the boat dead and I nearly pitched
backwards into the drink) and continued playing the fish.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ended up on my knees
one-handing the net under the fish and bracing the handle on the
gunwale as a fulcrum to lift. Somewhere along the way I tossed the
anchor and stopped the boat bouncing along the shoreline. The
barbless hook came out easily and I admired the fish still in the
net. Compared to the width of my boat this fish was probably 38,
maybe 40 inches of spotted silvery green firm muscled musky.
Awesome! It was a two-second decision to can the monkey-motion
it would take to get a decent photo, so the net was lowered and this
beauty of a fish swam away with a swish of it's tail. I'd have no
proof to show for the catch, but the experience was all mine and as
right as it could be. I smiled at the thought.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Getting the boat up the
take-out wasn't as simple as getting it down, but thanks to a stout
rope and long winch strap I was on the road for home as the sun went
down. A good adventure and a great memory to be thankful for.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqRd--8oGcg/X7Gk66O8oMI/AAAAAAAAClU/EdQjSGb5s_sw0hCpTmiooyx1WlP0sSpSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/FB%2B%2526%2Bblog%2B%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1474" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqRd--8oGcg/X7Gk66O8oMI/AAAAAAAAClU/EdQjSGb5s_sw0hCpTmiooyx1WlP0sSpSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/FB%2B%2526%2Bblog%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-64602806781389184912020-10-14T14:42:00.001-05:002020-10-14T14:43:09.617-05:00Grouse are flyin'<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9MiVIJuOp8/X4cqEuAW6UI/AAAAAAAACkA/qiHs7Qh204AnyYkjLlxwsVGfrV8cZI38QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/blogged.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9MiVIJuOp8/X4cqEuAW6UI/AAAAAAAACkA/qiHs7Qh204AnyYkjLlxwsVGfrV8cZI38QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/blogged.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">As bird dogs go, my Gabby
may not be the best I've ever seen but now on our sixth season we
know each other pretty well. She finds and points birds as best she
can and I try to shoot them as best I can. She hunts hard and I've
never seen a dog that takes more delight in the hunt. If she could I
believe she'd be laughing as she darts in and out of the cover. Now
days it's become common to buckle expensive GPS locating collars on
bird dogs, even those claimed to be grouse and woodcock dogs. No need
for that with Gabby because though she's not always working close,
I'm able to keep track of her with only the bell on her collar which
seems right for a grouse dog. If time could be backed up I think I
would have enjoyed developing a line of easy-handling English setters
for grouse hunters.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3PjLMUpEZfE/X4co_kxoRdI/AAAAAAAACj0/V9OIqcTmLpsmfb_9a6CxfA3HIFcJ7odkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Gabby%2Bwc.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3PjLMUpEZfE/X4co_kxoRdI/AAAAAAAACj0/V9OIqcTmLpsmfb_9a6CxfA3HIFcJ7odkwCLcBGAsYHQ/w312-h240/Gabby%2Bwc.jpg" width="312" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br />
</span></span><p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I recently re-read George
Bird Grinnell's article Woodcock Shooting. In it he describes the
ideal grouse and woodcock dog to be close ranging – never beyond a
gunshot – nor desirable to work at high speed – to know
thoroughly the best manner of working to the gun – as silently as
possible, though a small bell can be useful in thick cover. I like
the phrase “best manner of working to the gun” but I fear today's
gunners have no use for any of Grinnell's opinion. Of course when
that article was published in 1910 bird hunting was much different
than today and I have to believe grouse and woodcock were far more
plentiful as Grinnell recounts day's total kills that modern gunners
would be lucky to match in a lifetime.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grinnell would be
disappointed in my Gabby's range, within gunshot is a flushing dogs
job, but he might have appreciated her change in style when she's
working game. She'll often slow her pace and strike a point, then
move a bit, creeping forward or sometimes to the side until she is
convinced the bird is located. Two days ago I watched her work scent
from a distance and when she finally locked up I pushed ahead to
flush and kill one of the largest ruffed grouse I've ever seen. When
it works like that it's something to see. Then yesterday I saw her
skid to a point when she found scent and never twitched while I
flushed the grouse ahead of her. After that I stood and watched her
for a long minute as she stop-started a semi circle around a blowdown
that looked good for grouse but on my approach a woodcock surprised
me and offered an easy shot. You can never be sure of how it will
happen and I've come to appreciate Gabby's method of making game –
sometimes it's the best part of the sport.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QkkBy-btWW8/X4dS57ZM5zI/AAAAAAAACkM/9nrmqIKLRsQ_pri3wYH-IaZcXmETKKhkACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/Woodcock%2Bby%2BDean%2BPearson%2Bblogged.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QkkBy-btWW8/X4dS57ZM5zI/AAAAAAAACkM/9nrmqIKLRsQ_pri3wYH-IaZcXmETKKhkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Woodcock%2Bby%2BDean%2BPearson%2Bblogged.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I would have liked gunning in Grinnell's day. Today's gear is certainly more high-tech, maybe even more comfortable but </span>I like the idea of wool and canvas shooting clothes, and felt hats. A compass and paper map and brass bell worn by intelligent setters pointing more and running less, Give me a pair of high lace-up boots and a solid hand finished double gun. No need for electronics.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LOMDH8O7yRw/X4dTacvPSXI/AAAAAAAACkU/o9ZkmK_IL-UH7gQiE3JpBlmPCrhm2MSbACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0610%2B2%2Bblogged.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LOMDH8O7yRw/X4dTacvPSXI/AAAAAAAACkU/o9ZkmK_IL-UH7gQiE3JpBlmPCrhm2MSbACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0610%2B2%2Bblogged.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">A cold rain is falling
this morning and it looks to be an all-dayer. We'll not be in the
woods today but the rain is welcome in what's been a very dry Autumn.
We'll be at it again, soon. The grouse are flyin' and we're shootin'
pretty good!</span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-50122058634379647802020-08-14T15:50:00.001-05:002020-09-28T21:39:08.052-05:00It takes a boat<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pRYf63hL5q4/Xzb2Sxh_N9I/AAAAAAAACiY/4C9HabKYP5cQEYJq5jLodW9emgjfxdGSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/duck%2Bboat%2B005.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1586" data-original-width="2048" height="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pRYf63hL5q4/Xzb2Sxh_N9I/AAAAAAAACiY/4C9HabKYP5cQEYJq5jLodW9emgjfxdGSgCLcBGAsYHQ/w410-h318/duck%2Bboat%2B005.JPG" width="410" /></span></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't remember the
first time I was in a boat, but it was likely one of the little
wooden duck boats that Dad set me in before I was even old enough to
go to school. I can't say what Mother had to say about taking a
little kid out into a cold marsh in a tiny boat complete with wet
dogs and loud shotguns, but in those days people took that sort of
thing as normal. When we returned with ducks Mom would take out the
instamatic for photos before I'd watch my dad pluck and gut the
birds. The next night it was roast duck for dinner.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was a little older when
some of my fondest memories were of sliding those same boats across
frosty leaves down to the water before sunup. Flashlights,
retrievers, uncles and cousins. Even then the boat was tool: a transport, a means to get to were the fun would begin. Little
thought was given to how it looked, how it handled, or even how
comfortable it was. If it didn't leak and Dad could pile decoys, dog,
and me with space for him to stand in back with a push pole it was
all good.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All my life there's been a
boat of some kind around. Never anything fancy – no party barges or
ski-boats – just blue-collar craft to get us hunting or fishing. There was the 10 foot pram when I was learning to trap muskrats and turtles and miraculously never swamped with the gear I overloaded on it. And there's the shallow 14 foot aluminum job that was built in the
1960's. Bench seats, camo paint, and a small motor. It sits in my
yard today and doesn't see much use anymore. <span style="text-align: center;"> A handful of canoes taught a lot about wind, water, and manual propulsion. </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: center;"></span>Then the the present
fishing boat: 16 feet long, pedestal seats, storage, and an outboard
motor just big enough to get off a lake quickly if the weather turns
bad with an electric trolling motor up front.. Still nothing fancy or impressive – there are many nicer boats
out there – but a comfortable and simple way to get out and fish.
If these boat have anything in common, it's the fact that they have a
workman's purpose. Sometimes it's function over form. </span></p>Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-36489995544126909222020-07-21T15:50:00.001-05:002020-07-21T15:52:15.222-05:00Fish Camp<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TwGiKVVu1s0/XxdRsLMmo1I/AAAAAAAACg4/V2aObv6mFMsoRl4SuVHZjoKQC8IE_XwPACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/-2%2Bblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1456" data-original-width="1600" height="291" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TwGiKVVu1s0/XxdRsLMmo1I/AAAAAAAACg4/V2aObv6mFMsoRl4SuVHZjoKQC8IE_XwPACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/-2%2Bblog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There might be better
places to wake up than in a tent alongside a remote northwoods river,
but I couldn't think of one that morning. Camp was made after a day's
float on Scott's raft, flycasting for muskies. There's a small campsite at the canoe put-in where we finished our day, complete with a table and fire ring and easy to drive to. W</span><span style="font-size: large;">e'd enjoyed the early
summer sunshine and ducked under the hoods of rain jackets when
several thunderstorms passed over. Every hour or so we took our turn
at the oars and watched our partner cast. When we finally dragged the
raft up the takeout, we'd layed eyes on nine muskies and boated
three. I fell asleep recalling the events of the day and listening to
Barred Owls calling back and forth across the river.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wuHF8QCaZL8/XxdSMtMeTaI/AAAAAAAAChM/SUcu4cr5xDo7gqiGahH-tjvfLCw1w81QQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_3984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wuHF8QCaZL8/XxdSMtMeTaI/AAAAAAAAChM/SUcu4cr5xDo7gqiGahH-tjvfLCw1w81QQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_3984.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not sure how much a
big fish following your fly without touching it counts, but few are
the muskie anglers who don't count it for something. I should have
done something differently, I suppose, when a very large one stayed
right behind my streamer almost to the boat but turned away when I
started a figure-eight move. About the only thing we agreed I could
have done was plunge my rod deep into the river to make the fly dive.
That's fishing, of course, and there are more important things in my
life that I probably should have done differently.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My highlight of the day
was the 40+ incher that chased half-way to the boat and quit on it to
return to it's hiding spot. Scott pulled oars against current so I
cast back to the fish which broke a wake, a swirl and a take. I
can't say what my first-second reaction was but I do know I gave it a
couple of hard, arm length strip sets and the fish was hooked! Muskies
don't generally make long runs but there was some give and take with
this one. Like they say, the tug is the drug, and a pulsing deeply
bent 10wt rod in hand is a heck of a fine feeling. It took some doing
but ended up with me out of the raft standing in the shallows for a
quick pose with a nice muskie.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">It would have been nice to
linger in camp and let the rising sun dry morning dew from the tent,
but we'd planned to meet again 20 miles downstream for another day's
float, so I put the coffee to boil and packed up a wet tent.
Breakfast finished, I savored hot coffee, the smell of the outdoors,
the view of an early morning river and the promises it would bring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, I couldn't think of a
better place to be. I don't have the spring in my step that I used to
have. My beard is gray and eyeglasses are standard equipment. A sore
back is pretty much normal these days. But I've lived and hunted and
fished in these northwoods for a long time and I'll never tire of it.
Good Lord willing there'll be a long time ahead.
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<br />Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-68080742124203967662020-05-23T20:22:00.001-05:002020-06-02T21:33:10.650-05:00Wind from the east...<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The weatherman forecast an
east/southeasterly wind for all week. This could have been better
news because the water I wanted to try would be tough to fly-cast in
a strong east wind, not to mention that “fish bite the least”
thing. A few days before I was early on a lake and enjoying the
sunrise stillness but catching nothing along the shoreline I was
casting to. The surface temp of the water read a cold 47-48 degrees,
which I supposed kept the smallmouth down in the depths and mostly
inactive. All too soon the wind picked up enough to form whitecaps so
I put away the fly rod and moved the boat out to catch a few walleyes
for the pan with spinning gear. I've caught walleyes with the fly rod
before and I even tied a special streamer for them using a lock of my
daughter's blond hair. The circumstances were just right and not
something that can be counted on. Walleyes are typically a deeper
water proposition and when I'm doing it I always have a fly rod in
the boat and will aim for a shallow rocky shoreline when I see it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TCZbgY4Uk50/XsnCmtvXz9I/AAAAAAAACes/4ZnNTScH3KQ9VIwr9_KtGc_80MJ8kDenQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TCZbgY4Uk50/XsnCmtvXz9I/AAAAAAAACes/4ZnNTScH3KQ9VIwr9_KtGc_80MJ8kDenQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0453.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'd been looking at a
particular bay for years. It's called a bay because it's apparently
part of the larger lake it's connected to by a channel, but it would
appear to be a little lake in it's own right. A third of a mile wide
and a mile long, it lies near the end of a 15 mile twisted and hilly
dirt road that I was in charge of maintaining during my working days.
It always looked like pike water to me but I'd never fished it. There
is a decent boat ramp on the north side and talking to some locals I
heard it was, indeed, a shallow and weedy bay that was home to mostly
waterfowl, beavers, and northern pike. Sounded good to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was calm and the water
glass smooth when I pushed my boat off the trailer. The sun was just
breaking over the treetops and I figured I should have a couple of
hours before that predicted east wind showed up. My plan was to
target pike because John, a friend who guides south of here, has been posting photos of pike on social media and I figured to get in on the fun </span><span style="font-size: large;">– so</span><span style="font-size: large;"> my two rods were rigged with streamers at the end of
wire bite tippets. A foot-controlled trolling motor moved me along
the shoreline as I fired casts towards the bank. A hundred yards from
the landing, facing a sun that put a glare on the water even my
polarized lens couldn't handle, I made out a swirl in the weeds and
the fish had my fly! It wasn't the biggest pike I've ever seen but
full of fight before I reached overboard with pliers to release it. A
good start to a good day!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">An osprey didn't agree
with my method and showed me how it was done, hitting the water and
coming up with a fish like it was easy. For the osprey it probably
was. Three eagles put on an aerial show chasing each other around
with swooshing wings and that chircking sound they make. A beaver
slapped it's tail at me suggesting I go somewhere else. I turned to
see a big pike roll the surface and flip it's tail clear before
sliding under. Of course I fan-cast at it with no result. I hooked
some others but nothing all that large. I missed some strikes, too.
These pike know how to use their teeth and are hard on flies. About
halfway around the bay my chartreuse/white streamer was pretty ragged
looking with one eye missing and half the tail gone. The largest of
the fish I caught hit thirty inches, but I saw two much
bigger pike so I know they're in there. That last, and largest pike provided a neat take when I tossed a streamer to the outside
edge of a bed of lily pads. The pads parted eight feet away and the
wake to the fly nearly had me pulling it out of the water before the
fish got to it. The ensuing fight had me believing it was a much
larger fish than it turned out to be, taking line from the reel
several times (I have a line cut on my finger) in it's short but
powerful runs.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JyJHlfhwQ4Y/XsnCVmYZuKI/AAAAAAAACeg/cF011NE2iA8M5ZpGBzucjIjPobZlbEKnQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_0544wsg.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JyJHlfhwQ4Y/XsnCVmYZuKI/AAAAAAAACeg/cF011NE2iA8M5ZpGBzucjIjPobZlbEKnQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0544wsg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After I took the boat
around the bay I steered it into the half-mile channel leading to the
main lake. It was lunchtime by then and I was hungry. I'd earlier thought I'd fish a few hours and go home for lunch so I'd only brought my big insulated steel cup of coffee, which was long gone. But the day was too nice to stop then. Yes, I should know better by now. I can't remember all the times I've went out early for a couple hours fishing and ended up dodging deer in the twilight hours on the road home. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There's enough depth in the channel to run the outboard motor but the
ominous looking boulders just under the surface remind you to go slow
and keep your boat in the middle. The wind picked up when I entered
the lake but rather then coming out of the east, it was a west wind.
I aimed the boat at a promising looking bay and minutes after
starting the bow-mounted electric motor I was hooked up to a feisty
smallmouth bass. The water temperature was warmer at 58-64 degrees in
the rocky bay but only that one bass took the deerhair popper. The
bass seemed to hold just off the rocky shelf in deeper water. As much
as I prefer topwater bass fishing, my success increased when I
switched to a weighted crawfish pattern and intermediate line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kn_zZstogKI/XsnCH0nYiOI/AAAAAAAACec/b7G7Xk8hax4VEGdsGose5_W1pX20f8yiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_0452-wsg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kn_zZstogKI/XsnCH0nYiOI/AAAAAAAACec/b7G7Xk8hax4VEGdsGose5_W1pX20f8yiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0452-wsg.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The wind did switch around
to the east and after hours casting and controlling the boat it
became more of a chore than I wanted, so I just motored across the
lake to another promising looking bay out of the wind where another
nice bass was hooked minutes later. Perhaps it was my imagination
after a long winter but this fish, too, fought strongly and felt
bigger than it was. I also spotted a very nice campsite on the shore
with a sandy boat landing – another benefit of exploring this new
water, and a place to remember.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHmMmo0jjUQ/XsnB09Q_hhI/AAAAAAAACeU/7wv_g8wDWfQtcL1Hm7fdCNG5QPiNQk5CgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_0456-blog.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHmMmo0jjUQ/XsnB09Q_hhI/AAAAAAAACeU/7wv_g8wDWfQtcL1Hm7fdCNG5QPiNQk5CgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0456-blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This spring I've tied up a
number of deerhair poppers and some different style divers I'm eager
to try. This corona virus thing has everyone confused about where to
go, and when. There's a lot of water around here and local fishing is
easy to come by, but I have some favored fishing holes several hours
away. I've had to cancel one trip to Canada because of the closed
border. The Covid cases are rising here in MN and there's a few cases
reported not all that far from home, and these are younger folks. I
can't blame the Canadians closing the border. I'm lucky to live a
lifestyle where isolating is somewhat commonplace but still, it
doesn't hurt to be careful. Whatever you think about it, whatever you
believe, I hope you stay well. And good fishing!</span></div>
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<br />Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-2656340135499315752020-02-25T15:24:00.000-06:002020-02-25T15:24:46.538-06:00Winter grouse<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ruffed grouse are my
favorite game bird during hunting season and I love where and how they live throughout the year. I often see
their snow roosts during my snowshoe hikes and when I spotted this
one I had my camera at hand. The bird jumped in an explosion of snow
and I missed that shot, but was able to get a decent photo of it's
departure. I hope to hear him drumming before too long. Interesting stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Winter continues here, but
there's a promise of Spring in the air. The last three days have seen
melting temperatures and though it's too early to believe Winter
isn't going to give us another blast, we're all hoping it won't.</span></div>
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<br />Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3629531111974987527.post-79149092083428778572020-01-08T16:39:00.000-06:002020-01-08T16:39:47.535-06:00A cup and a book<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When it was light enough
to see our thermometer hanging below the bird feeder the needle
pointed at 20 below zero this morning. It wasn't much of a surprise –
the TV weatherman said it would be cold – so I kinda' figured it
would be an indoor day. Oh, I had some chores to do outside but it
wasn't long before I settled into my chair with a book and a mug of
coffee. I might be old-fashioned but I believe a good book is one of
the finest, and under-rated pleasures a man can have. So while the
sunlight cut the frigid air and warmed me through the window I
settled in as comfortable as could be.
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<span style="font-size: large;">There have been a couple
of books I've read cover to cover in one or two sittings but
they weren't very long and they weren't very good. I'm mostly a slow
reader and if it's something I enjoy I'll often stop at a sentence,
paragraph, or passage just to turn away and think it over. I may have
been reminded of something or somewhere I've been, something I'd like
to do, or maybe something to learn. A good book takes me a long time
to read and there can be a ting of disappointment when I'm on the
final pages. The similarities to a fishing trip are obvious, sure, I
need to finish it but I hate to see it end. A good book should be
sipped, not gulped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bookmarks are handy and I
make mine from birch bark. A couple layers of the thicker stuff under
the white papery sheet, a bit of glue and maybe a little design
added. A tail feather from a grouse works, too, as does about any
scrap of paper but I enjoy making them and we all have our quirks.
For awhile I was burning a bass figure on them and passing 'em out on
our fishing trips. The thin bookmarks are more functional than the wooden
things (I don't know what to call them) I make now, but the wood will
likely last longer and my fishing friends like them. Capt Jack has a
couple of the wooden ones hanging from his rear-view mirror that click
together on rough roads, which can be either irritating or
delightful, depending on your perspective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I sat in the morning
sun and read a chapter on pike fishing. Up here they're called
“northerns” by the locals and I've lately been thinking about fly
fishing for them. Pike fishing is fun. They are wild and hit violently. There's an air of danger about them. They're toothy and hard on flies and leaders. Big ones are awesome impressive predators; two footers fight hard and taste good if you wanna' keep 'em. Little ones, the hammer handles... well, they're kind of a pain, but they miss your fly as often as they hit it. Like everything else, some folk just don't like pike. Suit yourself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Winter is just getting
started so it'll be awhile before there's any fly fishing around here. The lake and rivers are frozen and there's about three feet
of snow on the ground. It's cold out and I can't think of a better
thing to do than relax with a cup of hot coffee and a book.
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<br />Al R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12812965911600857325noreply@blogger.com2