pass the bass, please...

So I had this hot tip about a bass lake from a fiddle player, of all people, and I was trying to figure out when and how to check it out. Now, a fishing tip from an old time fiddler can be handled several different ways, but I happen to know this guy and know he’s a fisherman, so I took him at his word. He even showed me a phone photo of a hefty smallmouth lying on top of a cooler. A good-looking fish, no matter how small the cooler was. That fiddler wasn’t fishing for bass, though, he was looking for walleyes and crappies – you know, eatin’ fish – but he caught so many accidental smallies that he thought of me and my flyrod. Last Tuesday seemed like a good day to check it out so I marked “gone fishing” on the calender at work and headed north with a canoe on the rack.

The lake is around 50 miles from my place, the last seven miles on a worn, partially flooded gravel road that gets narrower the farther you go. The kind of road that’s turning into a trail and feels good to drive in a four-wheel drive truck. If you meet another vehicle one of you pulls over as far as you dare and the other creeps by with nods and waves exchanged. I’d gotten a pretty good start and stopped only once just long enough to fill my coffee cup. Still, I’d had thoughts of being on the water at sunrise, which I wasn’t but it didn’t matter. It was a beauty of a morning with fog wafting across the lake and the warblers, thrushes, and whitethroats were singing and chirping. A mother loon with babies greeted me just off the landing and I felt the anticipation rise and the familiar haste in getting started before anyone else came along and saw what I was up to.

I have two canoes, and the one I use is determined mostly by the distance I have to carry it. One is sleek, narrow, fast and light. I’ve paddled and portaged it all over canoe country and love the darn thing, but it has it’s own personality and is only user-friendly to a degree. It’s kinda like sitting in the yard knowing there’s a hornet nest hanging fifty feet away. You probably won’t have any trouble, but if you do... It’s hard to get completely relaxed.

The other is a bit shorter, wider, more stable, and heavier. It's easy to get comfortable in, and you can sneak out of the seat to move forward to reach your rain-gear, or turn around to grab something behind you without feeling like you're going in the drink. Usually. Occasionally I'll even stand up in it to stretch a bit. Because I could drive right to the landing, I had number two. At the ramp I plopped it in the water, rigged my rod and pushed off.

Right from the start, the shallows along shore consisted of rocks varying in size from boulders to the softball sized rubble that means smallmouth bass! Here and there is a patch of sand or weeds, and there are many trees laying from the shoreline to add hiding locations for the fish and snagging places for the errant tossed lure. I started with a hard, froggy looking popper and hooked a bass on the third cast, hardly away from the boat ramp. I continued along the south shore, in the shade of the forested shoreline as the sun lit the rest of the calm lake. Easing the canoe with a slow stroke of the paddle, I’d rest it across my lap and cast five or six times, catching bass regularly as they boiled at the popper and hit with a splash.

Cruising into a large bay I was greeted by a pair of upset beavers that circled my canoe and dove with their tails cracking the water every few minutes. It was so quiet and still I could hear their breathing as they swam a hundred feet away. I’d have an eye on one as it zig-zagged in front, only to be startled by the loud splash of it’s partner behind me. The beavers didn’t exactly drive me from their bay, but I’d have no peace until I left it.

Thankfully, it was mostly calm all day. There was the infrequent casual breeze that would come along and nudge the Old Town and me into, or away from shore and I’d have to scull myself back into position for a quick cast, but it wasn’t enough to bother much. I'd mentioned before to my fiddle playing friend that he could paddle me around and guide me, but he showed no enthusiasm for that suggestion. I didn’t try to keep count of the fish I caught, and you don’t have to try until they start adding up. Sometime in the morning I actually did lose count and anytime that happens you’ve had a good day. I did keep an eye on the size, however, and though the fish I caught fought for all they were worth, all were well under anything considered a trophy. For no particular reason I changed flies once in awhile. I caught bass on hard poppers, deer hair divers, a big Madam X, Wooly Buggers, and Clouser Minnows. I was casting well enough, it was a gorgeous day, and I was having a ball!

Long about 10:30 a lone angler in a boat arrived on the lake and he stood in the front of his boat and worked the shoreline as I was doing, only with an electric trolling motor. I watched him a couple of times through my binocular and saw he was casting a crankbait and skittering it back with purpose. I saw him land two bass and hoped he dropped them back into the lake. He saw where I was and stayed well away, which I appreciated, and then motored to the other side of the lake. I was kind of surprised to see another guy targeting bass, but I know he was having fun. Next time I visit that lake I may use my boat as well, and let the motor do the work while I do the fishing!

At lunch time I paddled into deeper water, dropped anchor, and rigged a spinning rod with a worm rig and dropped it overboard for any walleye that might wanna have lunch, also. Then I slid off the seat to the bottom of the canoe, propped my life jacket behind me, and rested my feet up on the gunwhales. A cold hamburger and a beer from the cooler hit the spot and I sort of dozed off until I heard someone chatting across the lake. I turned to see five canoes going by heading for the portage down at the other end. Nice! I thought, and they reminded me of the many canoe camping trips I’ve been on and how I need to again. I know I’ve envied over some pretty fantastic looking fishing boats, but there’s something about a canoe that stirs me.

I like having a rod in my truck and a canoe on the roof, sometimes for a week or more, in case I get the chance, or the urge, or a whim to use them. There’s not much trouble to it: see some water, stop and check it out. You might find something good, or you just might find something great! And paddling warms and loosens muscles that hardly get used any other way so that’s not a bad thing, either. It’s quiet and peaceful, and... what the heck, canoes and fly rods cohabit the deep and artsy side of what a lot of folks think fly-fishing entails.

The motorboat had loaded and left an hour before, and it was closing in on suppertime when I eased my canoe back to the landing. I was pleased and tired in a way handling a canoe and flyrod all day makes a guy feel. It was easy to let that old, familiar satisfied relaxation come to me while I recounted the day on the way home.

Time flies like an arrow - Black flies like a fisherman

We’re eating walleyes, but we’re lookin’ at trout. At least I am. Fishing on the lakes opened last weekend and Dad and I were out there. It’s not much of a secret where we were. We just fished where everyone else did. There was a lot of pre-season wondering where the walleyes would be, given the early spring we encountered, and it wouldn’t be wrong to say they were everywhere. Or nowhere. When Sunday night rolled around and we pulled the boat out of the water we had fished shallow bays and deep holes, watched opening weekend madness on the lake and at the boat launch, rescued a woman who’d fallen in the lake, were pounded by whitecaps, and I lost a six-dollar Rapala ‘cause I was too foolish to use the net on a big smallmouth bass. But we had enough walleyes for a couple of breakfasts and lunches. If you’ve never had fresh walleye and eggs for breakfast... well, you’re missing something.

We caught ‘em 2 ½ feet deep and in twenty feet of water. It was not fast and furious. I caught the first two minutes on the lake. The next came almost two hours later. The best one was the first Dad caught. He was so excited he never stopped reeling. When the fish came to the surface I was ready with the net but it kept coming and was soon arching through the air as Dad reeled the fish up and I two-handed the net trying to keep it under the fish! When his jig hit the tip-top the walleye dropped off and, luckily, into the net! Funny – gotta love it! We laughed over that one as we ate giant ice-cream cones from the Y-Store on our way home.

The week before I was up at the beaver pond I've talked about. The first evening I had only a couple of hours to fish before dark and my dry fly, a Dark River, wasn’t working on the few fish that were rising. The couple of takes it drew where from tiny fish, likely rainbow chubs but I never hooked one to confirm it.  When the slightest breeze came up all surface action stopped so I tied on a size 12 Wooly Bugger wrapped with purple hackle, determined to catch something with the streamer. I worked my way around the dam, casting all the while and tangling in cattail tops when I let my backcast drop. I was wondering if it was all for naught when my line tightened and the rod throbbed when I set the hook. A wild 14 inch brook trout fought all the way and how I regretted forgetting the camera as I released it back into the pond. That is a fine fish for this water – one I hope survives to catch again. It was the only fish of the evening, but it made my day.

I was back a couple of days later, in a light rain, casting a bead-head Bugger in hopes of seeing the same trout again. I made my way to where a little water spills over the dam into the smallest of secondary dams and wondered if a trout could have trapped itself in that shallow spillway. If so it wouldn’t survive long once the summer heat came, that is if a mink or heron didn’t find it first, so I surveyed the situation for a try. There were high cattails all around and only one way for a backcast. It would need to be high and between a small spruce and a six foot red osier growing up on the main dam. I slid off the dam and down to the head of the pool. I fed line and roll cast some line out, picked it up and caught the brush behind me. Twice. Finally I found the hole for my backcast and laid a perfect cast (mostly luck) over the deepest part of the pool. Two strips of the Bugger and a fish was on! It was a small brookie, but as pretty as they come and I lifted it in my net to release in the main pond above. I couldn’t interest any more with the Bugger, from the little pool nor the main pond, but soon after I knotted a #14 orange scud to my tippet I landed two more little brook trout. I didn’t catch the 14 incher again, I hope it’s still there, but the three little jewels I did catch made me know I was exactly where I belonged.

It’s not quite summer yet, and the foliage has a ways to go before it’s in full bloom. The other night I bushwacked into a stream I haven’t visited in years. I thought I could hike in after work and enjoy some time, but the old trail was obliterated with blowdowns and brush and it was 7 o’clock when I finally found the water, and then to discover what I should have remembered, that my fly rod was nearly useless on this brush choked little creek. I dabbled around for awhile and lost a couple of flies to snags both under and above the water, knowing that my little spinning rod at home would have been far more effective, but at least I provided a meal for about a million hungry biting bugs. I left the creek early, with no desire to hike through the brush in the dark, and got back to my truck as the tiny blackflies gave way to the mosquitoes.

I suppose trout fishing around here will go on hold soon. I just got a hot tip on a bass lake I’ve never fished that I'd better get to -- and I’m eager to find and fight some pike on the fly rod, too. But those out-of-the-way trout spots are dear to me, always fun to visit, and easy to think of as mine. And just try to show me something prettier than a wild brook trout!

 

Spring Days

There’s still a bit of snow at the edges of the yard. The last two weekends we were the recipients of two snowstorms. The first left 10 inches on the ground, the second only a couple of inches. I have to believe it is the last, but there’s been a robin flying from the front yard birch tree to our living room window and seemingly tries to get in. When she’s unsuccessful she flies around to the back of the house and tries one of those windows. I wonder if she knows something we don’t? That’s not the only strange animal behavior lately, either. Yesterday P.J. reported a young deer circling around the kennels and teasing the dogs! The deer would approach the chain link and then jump back and trot around amused at the game. The dogs barked at first, but were soon whining and wagging at their new playmate. Of course I don’t know that this was the only time it’s happened. Maybe they do this regularly! At dawn the owls are hooting and the grouse are drumming all day, so that seems right, at least.

Stream trout season has been open for over a week. The weekend before opening day I made the trek to a beaver dam a few miles north of here that holds some brook trout. The water was clear and inviting, a lone Canada goose cruised the pond, and I was eager to get back with a rod. I’m not the only one who knows about it, unfortunately, but while I’ve seen sign of others who fish there (mainly discarded worm boxes), I’ve never actually been there when someone else was there, too. It’s not particularly easy to get to – I’ve walked there, mountain biked, and ATV’d to it. I usually take my favored 5 wt. trout rod, and sometimes some ultra-light spinning gear. When I get to about fifty yards from the pond I can just make it out through the balsams and spruce. It pays to sneak the final path in because you just might startle some ducks or geese, otter or mink, or even a moose.

The creek it’s on meanders through mostly swamp so when you’re fishing the pond that’s all you’re gonna fish. You don’t go upstream or down. You just kinda wobble your way out onto the dam, trying not to step in a hole or stumble, find a comfortable place that looks good and start fishing. There’s room to fly cast and that’s a plus, but sometimes I like to just sit and be as inconspicuous as possible. Beneath the water the bottom is a gray clay/silty material that you either slide on or get stuck in. No one wades in there. There’s also plenty of flooded timber to hide a fish and grab a lure. When it’s still I’ve had luck with dry flies, but I’ve done the best on breezy days drifting a nymph under an indicator. Not the classic way of nymph fishing, but I didn’t know that the first time I did it. Streamers or wet flies should work, and I’m waiting for the day they do.

Now, this beaver pond isn’t full of fish. It isn’t the kind of place I’d drive a long way to get to, but it’s trout water and close to home. Some good fishermen with bait could possible fish it out in a day. I haven’t kept a trout from there in years. The last time I fished there I drifted one of my beadhead gold marten nymphs on a breezy, drizzly summer evening. The indicator jerked once and I soon brought a little beauty of a brook trout to net. I looked at it for a moment and dipped it back into the water where it disappeared so fast I almost had to wonder if I caught it at all. When the breeze died the mosquitoes swarmed in like a nightmare and I made my escape with the aid of a flashlight. It was the only fish I caught that day. By the time I got home I may have remembered it as a few inches longer than it really was. Maybe that’s what it takes to make it worth going back.

I’d hoped to get into the pond on opening day but a broken truck had me dealing with tow-truck drivers and repair shops. On my way home from town in a loaner car I met a fellow I know as a trout fisherman coming from the direction of the pond. He waved and smiled as we passed, but I can’t say if it was the smile of a successful fishing trip or just being friendly. I don’t even know if he was at the pond. I do know he’s the kind of guy to leave no trace of his whereabouts, so if he fishes the same water before you, you won’t know he was there and think you’re the first. That’s not a bad thing, and one of the things I like about him.

The snow and rain has since brought the water levels to near flooding, but a few dry days should make them fishable again. And I’m eager to limber up a rod.

mid winter...

I could still be out trapping, I suppose, fox and coyote season is still open, but I guess I’m about through with that for another year. There was a day when trapping was not only fun, but could bring some real money, as well. Anymore I’m happy to pay my fishing, hunting, and trapping fees with fur money. Now days I set traps because I like keeping those skills alive. I like tracking animals and anticipating their behavior. I like out-witting elusive animals and taking them humanely. I’m pleased knowing how to skin and handle a furbearer, and thinking that, if it ever came to it, I may be able to feed and clothe myself with the primitive skills of old. I guess I’m not yet too old to play Jeremiah Johnson once in a while. Besides, fur garments are gorgeous and I lament the reasons people reject real fur for advertised faux fur. Life is short, let’s not fake anything. Our fisher and pine marten season is short, but my six mile trapline on foot was rewarding. The day I set traps I saw wolf tracks hours old. I watched a bobcat cross my route fifty yards away. I paused at the river and smiled at otters sliding across ice to open water at the old beaver pond. I regretted my camera in the truck, but perhaps not every neat sight is meant to be digitally recorded -- maybe some things are meant to be experienced first hand, you know, get out and see it for yourself sort of stuff.

February is winding down now, but today we are getting what may be the biggest snowstorm of the season. The weather folks say we could expect up to a foot of new snow. Add that to the eight inches already in the yard and it still amounts to a far cry from last year when it was waist deep. It’s kind of nice, actually. I can be happy not plowing, shoveling, and blowing snow. There might be enough for some decent cross-country skiing, and I’m eager to find out. All in all it’s been a mighty mild season, but winter is winter and it’s still pretty nice to enjoy the laziness of it in a warm house. I take the dogs out for a walk, toss a tennis ball for them to play with, hike through the field and maybe hide a pigeon for them to find, but it’s mostly a short term activity to ward off cabin fever. I might spend the better part of the day working on the firewood supply, but I’ve noticed I cut myself some slack in that department, also. I used to figure to cut and block a quantity of wood a weekend. Then it was burn two tanks of chainsaw gas and then split what I could. Now if I drop a good sized tree, and get it cut and split I reckon that’s pretty good for a weekend. It really only takes a couple of hours, but that seems plenty. Because of the nice winter I’ve gotten a head start on it and there are piles of split birch, maple, and popple around the edges of my yard that I’ll haul to the woodshed. When I get to it.

I don’t spend so much time working outside in the winter because there are good things to do inside. I finally cleaned my deer rifle and put it away. It had been leaning in a corner where I could take it up and handle it since deer season. It’s a great rifle, and it’s too bad I use it so little, so I never hurry to lock it up where I won’t see it for months. Later on, next month I suppose, I’ll take my rifle and shotgun out and wipe them down and reminisce over last fall. Yes, I like holding them, swinging them, and picturing what I’ve seen over them and have yet to see over them. Some guys equate their firearms as tools. Not me.

And I like catching up on my reading. I enjoy reading, always have, and while there are some who might call it time wasted, well... they’re just wrong. I have old and dear friends whom I see too seldom, anymore, who are some of the coolest and smartest people I know – and our standard greeting goes, “How ya doing, whatcha reading?” I like that, and I like reading things on paper. I recently had a look at my daughter’s Nook, or Kindle, or whatever it is, and I’m pretty impressed. Wouldn’t mind trying that route, but I’m such a slow reader I have to wonder if the batteries would hold out. I often stop at a phrase or sentence just to ponder it. I sometimes limit myself to a chapter a day just to make a good book last longer. I’m reading two books right now, and I finished a third last night. I recently finished a musician’s memoir that I’d spent a month on. I was going to pass it on to a friend but he’d gotten hold of another copy and finished it in a weekend. Hhhmmm. I know it’s a new age of electronics and it sometimes seems the norm of reading is clicking on the day’s instant b.s. that’s all too readily available from nearly everyone, but thankfully there are still talented writers and authors turning out quality material in book form.

Fly-tying is one of the best things I’ve ever learned to do, or more correctly, I’m learning to do. I know folks who tie flies that are pure art. I haven’t achieved that, but I can keep at it. I have some that catch fish and that’s cool. Years ago P.J. and I took a fly tying class at the local Environmental Center for a fun winter activity. She was new to it but I’d been tying for awhile and when the instructor was trying to get us to slide the thread off the end of our fingertips I failed and announce I used a tool for that procedure. He approached to show me the light but when he saw my rough and broken wintertime hands, he agreed a tool was appropriate. Anyway, this winter I have a new tying vise (thanks, Santa, there was nothing actually wrong with the old one, but this one is way better!) and have been putting trout flies and bass poppers through it and enjoying every delightful minute of it. One of the guys I work with was interested and when I explained the process of gluing, painting, clear-coating, and finally tying the fuzzy stuff to a bass lure, he quipped I have a hundred dollars into a fly. Of course that’s not true, but I’d be happy to sell them for half that.

So this winter I’m looking over some forest maps, looking at streams and lakes I’ve yet to explore and those that need revisiting. I've been out ice fishing a couple of times and I need to make some more venison jerky, but I’m also working up a plan to hike into unknown reaches of some local water this winter, on snowshoes if need be, to hopefully encounter pockets of brook trout water that few anglers will put the effort into finding. I’d like to come onto some spots that I wouldn’t try finding through summer foliage without knowing they were already there. If nothing else, I'll get a good winter hike out of the idea, and that’s not a bad thing, either. But I hope I find them ‘cause I’ve got some neat little flies I’d like to float over them come Spring.

not ice fishing yet...

Today was one of those day’s that sticks with a person. No, nothing spectacular happened. Nothing earthshaking or heartbreaking. Just a simple day filled with simple pleasures that make it easy to believe we’d be content if everyday was like it.

I woke this morning with the sun, naturally with no alarm. There was no reason to hurry, I had nothing pressing to do. Just live out the day. I slipped into insulated coveralls to take care of the outside dogs and was surprised at the mild temperature outside. There was fresh coffee in the kitchen, but I let Jack and Molly run around while I grabbed the maul and split the blocks of birch I’d cut up yesterday. A good way to work up a bit of an appetite for breakfast.

Indoors the Christmas tree lights glowed cheerily and I traded looks between the tree in the living room and the birds outside the dining room window. Breakfast was tasty, and the coffee was particularly delicious. There were some freshly painted bass poppers drying in the den, so I moseyed in and experimented with ways to add rubber legs and skirts to the foam bodies before I put the finishing touches on them. All the while I pictured casting to a rocky shoreline and whooping it up when the hog bass bashed the fly on the surface, and contemplated the colors to complete them.

Over the last several weeks it’s become my practice to spend Sunday afternoons watching at least part of the football game with Dad at his home in town. We usually get some food, have a beer, and generally reaffirm how glad we are not to be devoted fans. As often as not we end the game playing dominoes at his table. That was my plan for this afternoon, but it was a beautiful day and there was time for a quick hunt on the way to town.

I turned Jack and Molly loose on a powerline that I wouldn’t usually hunt earlier in the season. There was mostly old timber bordering the right-of-way and much of the way is through swampy terrain that will have you knee deep in water when it’s not frozen. But it is frozen now, and with a couple of inches of snow and today’s sun and 30 degree temps it made for a fantastic day to be out.

Jack bounded ahead and disappeared into the woods while Molly raced around in front always keeping an eye on me. I was just enjoying the movement when I heard Jacks bell fall silent off the south side. I caught a look at his orange collar from under the powerline and heeled Molly as we came up behind him. I told Molly to sit when we were close and I moved around in front of Jack, shotgun at ready. I spotted a running grouse trying to put some distance between us and stepped quickly to get a position. The grouse ducked behind a huge old popple and took wing. I fired when I saw it for a bit but never touched it. Molly broke at the shot and started another grouse, this one heading fast the other way. Seems most of my shooting is best done when I have no time to think, and that’s how this worked. I stood happy with my gun open as the dogs looked for the bird when a third grouse got up from the same vicinity and came flying right at me at about eye level. It banked left when it was about thirty feet away, flying as slow as it could and still stay up, zigged through some trees, rose up over the cover and hung for a second before going on out of sight. About as easy as they come, if your gun is loaded!

The birds were in groups, as I often find them this time of year. They were in big woods with lots of balsam cover, too. Jack pointed three more times as we made our loop, and he had grouse before him each time.  I couldn't locate him when he stopped the last time. I had an idea where he might be but the cover was so tight and thick I was hesitant to go looking in case he was still moving. I tooted my whistle and heard his bell clink a bit just as a few wingbeats started. He was close and it sounded like a grouse had jumped to a tree. I pushed in and spotted him right off and knew he had grouse. Molly sat while I moved in keeping an eye to the trees above. A grouse jumped and disappeared from a tall balsam thirty yards away. I had to smile, Jack had another good find but I just didn't have a chance. I turned back and saw Jack still pointing in my direction and Molly sitting a few yards behind him. It was a neat sight and I said out loud "Nice." That's when the grouse sitting over my head took off like a rocket from the branch above. The grouse wasn't as fast as my load of birdshot, however, and after a quick retrieve we hunted our way to the truck and headed for town. I didn't kill every bird I saw, but it's something special when it works. The dogs love it and I doubt I’d be out there without them. The swamps are frozen and allow access that can't be had early in the season. Today I found a little high-ground island in the midst of wetlands that held two grouse. A good little piece of cover that I'll visit again, but only if the way is froze. The weather can shut us down anytime, now. I hate to know the last hunt of the year is over, but it may be. Still, my shotgun is at the ready, the dogs are willing, and for another day like today, you know where I’ll be.
 
Sunday 18 Dec. 2011

Ole 'Ruff

A long time ago (actually, a long, long time ago – but I hate to believe so many years have passed) when I was hardly more than a lad I met a grouse not far from here that fooled me and my various dogs for years. I was shooting my old pump gun then, and was hunting with Tyler, the big liver springer spaniel and my first gundog and constant companion since I’d moved from my parents home. Tyler was a neat dog and I’m not kidding when I said constant companion. Everyone knew if I was to be invited anywhere, Tyler was coming too. It helped that he was awfully friendly and knew a bunch of parlor tricks like sitting up, playing dead, and rolling over on command. Come to think of it, I wonder now if Tyler was the reason I was invited anywhere.

Anyway, I was trying to learn how to hunt grouse in those days and one October afternoon I followed Tyler down a short two-track into a small, defunct gravel pit. We hiked the top ridge of the pit that was grown up in mostly big, dark balsam. Not really very good grouse cover but grouse are where you find them and besides, I didn’t really know good cover from bad in those days. But right on the top edge of the pit Tyler spun with bird scent and a big red-phased grouse blew up and into the balsams quick as lightning. Of course I shot, but my shot charge went where the bird was instead of where it was going. We worked our way around the pit and were done without moving another bird. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble had I crossed that spot off my list, but nope.

 I visited that pit several times that fall, determined to get the big red grouse that called it home. We moved the bird every time, and I took shots when I could but never cut a feather. The heavy balsams provided just too much escape cover for the bird, and my prowness with a gun was nothing to brag about, either. It sort of became personal, me versus ruffed grouse. I took Tyler in from every conceivable direction and because he was so well trained several times had him sit at one end of the cover until I circled around to the other side. The plan was for him to come at my whistle and push the bird towards my ambush. Tyler was totally into it and gave it his best, but the grouse always foiled our plan one way or another.


I could have brought in a gunning partner, I suppose. But I’d resolved to take this bird on my own, and I don’t think more guns would have helped, anyway. This grouse and I had something going on. And Tyler and I tried for him each year, when grouse were at high cycles and low, until Tyler took to the happy hunting grounds.

Pointing dogs didn’t help the odds much. My little setter Molly came closest, I suppose. She had the bird pointed on the far side and I saw it’s silhouette hop over a log and run down toward the wet alder swamp that bordered the small woods. I should have hurried to flush the bird, but Molly was very good at relocating and pinning grouse on the edge of their cover, so I let her go. She moved ahead cautiously, knowing this bird was no pushover. She worked her way through the tangle and stopped and stood tall ten yards from the swamp. I figured the bird would go out over the alders and offer a fairly open shot. But before I got to her she moved again this time out into the wet stuff and I heard her splashing as she followed the sneaky grouse into the swamp. I was about to call her off when she stopped and I could just see her rigid tail and head low like the bird was right there! Those alders are no place for people, but I fought my way close and was soaked to my knees when I heard the grouse flush and Molly gave a little jump but I never saw it. Molly’s grandson, Ty, locked up on the bird in about the same place years later. I wasn’t about to let the grouse run into the swamp again so I nearly ran down the hill hoping to get it in the air. But I couldn’t raise the bird. When I turned and started back up the hill the grouse took off from a branch and flew low right back over Ty’s head and I couldn’t shoot! If you can’t find some humor in this entire scenario you shouldn’t be hunting grouse, and this bird was really getting the best of me. Most times, however, the dog would point and the bird blast away before I could get a bead on it or flush in a swirl of leaves and put itself behind a tree just as I shot, or it would just flush wild and be gone when we entered the cover, apparently not in the mood to play our game.

Over the years I stopped at that pit once every season with a bird dog. Sometimes it was sunny, sometime rainy. Sometimes dry and sometimes snow. There was always just the one bird there, never more. I’ve tried for that bird with six worthy setters, one pointer, and four different shotguns. The trail is grown in now, barely discernable from the road, and the gravel pit has trees growing in it. It’s still not much of a cover and I wouldn’t hunt there if not for the effort of matching wits with that one particular bird. I can’t help but wonder if that grouse knows it’s still me. And does it appreciate the game of it as much as I do? Does Mister Ruff get a chuckle out of making me look the fool every time I chase it? Of course it’s unrealistic to think that same grouse has lived there all this time, but I can believe the bird I flush is a descendant, can’t I? After all, those times I do get one rare fleeting glimpse of him, when the sunlight penetrates the cover and he turns just right I can see the red color of his tail. Just like the first time I encountered him when I hunted in Levis jeans and Red Wing boots and carried an old Remington 870 that I bought used when I was in high school.

The hunting this year has been kind of spotty. Some good covers had no birds, others had some, and still others had plenty. The early season was terribly hot and very hard on dogs that had spent the summer mostly lying in the shade and chasing the occasional squirrel or tossed tennis ball. Then we hunted in rain – not enough to fill water holes in the woods, but enough to get soaked pushing through the brush. The later part of October was the turnaround for me. We found and killed grouse and woodcock, the weather was perfect and even though a few good days can make a season, and often does, I can’t help wishing October wasn’t so short.

Jack and I stopped at the old gravel pit on our way to some ‘good’ cover. Jack was fresh out of the truck and when I turned him loose he tore off down the faint trial and flew up and over the top of the old pit. I followed him up and was surprised to see how much of the old balsam woods had been blown down since my last time here. Jack was out ahead and I picked my way through fallen trees trying to keep up. Suddenly a grouse exploded from under standing balsams on my right and crossed into the tiniest opening over a couple of downed trees. I swung my Parker on instinct and the grouse dropped in a shower of feathers! I stood sort of slack-jawed and silent, but Jack came back at the shot, quickly found the grouse and delivered it to my hand. It was a beautiful, red phased cock grouse with gorgeous bronze neck ruffs. As pretty a bird as I’ve ever seen. The grouse I’d been after for thirty years was finally mine.


Dammit.

November camp

I was the first into camp Friday evening. The sun had not quite dropped below the horizon so I was able to load my cot and gear into the tent before dark. The white canvas tent had been set two weeks before, and other than one visit from me during the week, had sat undisturbed waiting to provide warmth and shelter for us hunters who have come to rely on it. I was just about to mix myself a birdshooter when headlights rounded the corner and John pulled his truck in next to mine. Tony and Jack wouldn’t get into camp until Sunday morning, so John and I had the place to ourselves for opening day. We spent a pleasant evening warm by the woodstove and talked about the hunting and fishing we’d enjoyed since last year, and the hunt we would partake in the morning. I don’t see him often, but John knows dogs, guns, and rods and uses them whenever he can. Like me. Outside, a bright moon cast shadows on the ground while an unseasonable wind buffeted the tent walls and shook the hissing lantern hanging from the ceiling. We’re there to hunt deer, I suppose, but where else do you find like-minded companions to spend the evening hours admiring rifles, comparing new ammo, analyzing backpacks and boots? We cooked brats, drank whiskey and told stories until I finally slipped into my bag and was soon sleeping.

I’ve spent time in a number of camps over the years. Some were pretty deluxe with private bedrooms, complete baths and showers, kitchens and living rooms. I spent a week in one camp, if you can call it that, complete with a caretaker and cook that had meals waiting when we were ready for them. I’ve also been at the other end of the spectrum – sleeping in a little nylon dome tent huddled deep in a thick sleeping bag only to crawl out in the morning, shivering myself warm enough to grab my rifle and trudge through snow in my quest for deer.


I suppose we all reach a time in our lives when we need and expect a certain level of personal comfort. Some might think camping in a tent, with no running water, keeping a fire stoked in the stove is roughing it. Well, I’ve had it a lot rougher. A good cot with a pad and warm sleeping bag makes a fine bed, and I’m happy to be lulled to slumber by the wind, the hooting owls, howling wolves, and other night sounds of the woods. In fact, come opening morning I remember how comfortable and cozy I was and how I would have liked to sleep longer had I not felt the need to be in the woods well before sunrise. The portability of a tent is neat, too. While we’ve all hunted basically the same area for years, we’ve moved camp to different locales for quicker access to some new cover, or easier access in case of deep snow, or maybe just a change of scenery. We drive our trucks right to camp, but I can imagine horse-backing into western mountains with this same outfit.

We do most of our cooking outside the tent, and I’d brought some of last years venison to grill over coals Saturday evening. John and I both enjoyed the tender slices of backstrap for a true hunter’s supper. As it turned out, we could have feasted on tenderloins from deer taken that morning, but you never know it will turn out like that. There are two camp tables in the tent, one for the two-burner propane stove, and one for the kitchen. Morning coffee and hearty breakfasts are cooked inside while we finalize hunting strategies and pull on wool pants and boots for the day.

I had a ways to go to get to the high oak ridge I hunt, so John filled my cup with strong coffee and I was off. Years before, I’d found my hunting spot by accident. I was still-hunting and exploring this high scrub-oak country and not seeing much deer sign. I sat on a fallen log and leaned against a pine to relax for a bit and figure out my next move. It was mid-morning and something stirred to my left. My heart pounded when I saw the antlers, and then I made out the legs. But I saw nothing else until the deer made me and disappeared. I sat stunned and wondered how I should have handled it differently. Good bucks are rare and I figured I blew my chance for the year. Maybe a half hour later I heard a snort and bent my head around the pine to see behind me. Another buck stood looking at me perhaps 40 yards away. A blowdown blocked it’s body, but it hardly mattered – he knew I was there and bolted before I had a chance. Wow, I thought! Two shooter bucks within an hour. I’ll probably never have chances like that again in my life! I was a ways back in the woods but I looked at that pine and determined to have an elevated stand leaning on it next year, though could I reasonably expect to see deer like that ever again? I leaned on the tree and munched my sandwich with a plan in mind.

I've hunted that ridge every season since. My stand is in place and even from that it’s hard to see far in that thick, brushy country. I scout just a bit before season, and never have seen much for deer sign there, but I have a superstitious feeling about the place and leave it alone as much as I can, other than leaning my stand on that same pine tree. Others have been there to complain about the lack of view and suggest some shooting lane cuttings but I know from experience when the deer come, they can be seen. I won’t risk messing the place up thinking I’m “improving” it.

John and I met at camp that afternoon and toasted our good fortunes. John took his buck in a newly discovered cutting closer to camp and spent the rest of the day scouting and placing stands for Jack and Tony. I scouted the day away looking for sign along the hilltops where I hunt. At camp that evening I fired the grill for supper and we spent a satisfied and relaxing evening telling our tales. The day outside had worked it’s magic and we cut the celebration short trying to keep our eyes open. With the promise of sleeping in and enjoying a big breakfast we hit the cots and listened to a light rain on the tent roof for minutes before drifting off.

Deer camp stories have been written and told for many more years than I’ve been around, and I know plenty of folks who find their deer hunting enjoyment from just being in camp. Some old timers, and not so old timers are happy to hunt little and hang around camp a lot keeping a fire stoked, a stew on the stove, and an ear open for rifle shots. Some guys just want to get away from routines for awhile and would no sooner forget the deck of cards as they would the rifles. I have to admit, deer camp is fun to be around, but for me, so far, there’s a valid and logical conclusion to it all. I’m lucky and thankful to take part.

Reduced to Possession?

Really? What a strange term – reduced to possession – and one that I’ve never liked. I know it generally describes the end result of killing a game animal, but I could never agree that the grouse in my hand has been reduced in any way. If anything it seems the bagged quarry is elevated somehow, for as much as we think of and talk of the beauty of the bird, don’t we really only become fully aware of genuine beauty when we have it close in hand. Of course, the bird might have a differing opinion of all this but it’s an unthoughtful and cold hearted gunner who doesn’t appreciate, at least for a moment, the dark neck ruffs and intricate markings of the feathers before smoothing them a bit before sliding the bird into the gamebag. I can’t say I’ve ever pouched a bird without fanning it’s tail open for a few seconds, at least. Maybe I was confirming the sex, or the size, but likely I was just looking at it because I wanted to. I can’t walk by a good work of art without doing the same. Sometimes I’m drawn to stopping and gazing at the view, a dog, or maybe my gun, for much the same unexplainable reasons. Sure, I know there are guys who swat birds and toss ‘em into a milk crate strapped to an ATV or into the back of a pickup with as much deliberation as they would dropping cans of beans into a shopping cart. I don’t get that and I don’t know what to think of it.

Nor have I ever harvested a grouse. I’ve harvested some tomatoes. Some potatoes, too. Quite a variety of vegetables now that I think of it. But I’m not a farmer – I don’t have the stuff it takes for that – I’m a hunter/gatherer. Grouse, like all the best of Nature are wild and natural. Have you ever heard anyone state they were out harvesting blueberries, or morels? Really? Even if they’re not wild, say we raise them, do we really harvest any animals? Does the stockman say he’s going to harvest some steers at slaughter time? We hunt grouse don’t we?... but we don’t “harvest” them.

I suppose it’s all just a way of describing the killing of game in an unassertive manner to avoid stirring the pot of the anti-hunting type of folks who are all so quick to proclaim what we do is wrong. I expect there are those of you who have to put up with that sort of thing more than I do. It’s easy for me to just avoid it. So, if you have to make your life easier by ending your hunting trip saying “I harvested a grouse, today,” well... I’m sorry. But believe me, you’ll feel better if you can boast, “Yep, I got me two grouse today” or “Yessir, I killed the biggest grouse I’ve ever seen. Took two shots, but I got ‘im. Just look at these tail feathers!"

I’ve shot birds with fellows who, when birds flushed, yelled “Kill it! Kill it!” That was always kinda disconcerting to me. It would have been far worse, though much funnier if they’d yelled “Harvest it! Harvest it!” Ha, that cracks me up just thinking about it!



While I’m on the subject of what I deem as incorrect lingo, the other day I was talking to a new hand in the sporting goods store about the right size scope cover for the optics on my deer rifle. He said I should bring the weapon in. God forbid I ever use it as a weapon.