Fish pics for dummies

Yesterday I was in town to see my dentist and then visit the cool new coffee shop just opened by a musician friend of mine and her significant other. It’s a short walk from my dentist’s office to the coffee shop with a sporting goods store in between so I first stopped to see what was happening in there. I immediately ran into a fellow I know who, while checking out wool shirts, pointed out there are only five weeks left before the days start getting shorter. Thanks, man.

The coffee shop is run by neat folks that I’ve known for a couple of years now, but I didn’t realize their combined talents and visions in this coffee shop idea. They got hold of an old downtown clothing store situated perfectly on the corner of Chestnut & 3rd, remodeled and restored and exposed some of the finer architectural features like uncovering some of the original brick walls. Then built a massive stone and steel wood-fired oven in which they bake all manner of delicious pastries, breads, and pizzas with the help of a friendly and welcoming staff. With walls full of art and good music in the background I enjoyed a cup of real good coffee and a warm, mouthwatering blackberry muffin. If you pass through Virginia, Minnesota it’s easy to find and worth seeking out.

It took a while but spring finally did arrive and it’s been an interesting one at that. I couldn’t wait for the rivers to open so I crossed the border, nonresident license in one hand, fly rod in the other, and hiked through snowy woods to fish the fabled Brule before the spring melt turned it into a raging torrent. I dealt with numb hands and iced rod guides until the sun finally warmed the air some, but a beauty of a river through a snowy landscape and biting brown trout made for a memorable day.

I’m new to steelhead fishing and this spring I decided to learn. A good visit to a friendly Duluth fly shop set me on track and I left with a few recommended fly patterns and an idea of what to tie on my own. I was also temped by the newest in rods and reels, of course, but it turned out my rod works just fine. John, the owner, shared some tips and technics and made the bold statement, “I’ll guarantee you’ll catch a steelhead!” Brave words for a man who’s never seen me wield a fly rod – those that have wonder how I ever catch anything. Amazingly though, he was right. I tried to keep an eye on the North Shore stream reports, but my first attempt was a little too early with high, fast water that made for some tricky wading, if not downright dangerous. I did hook a couple of steelhead, however, from the pool I stood in while getting showered by spray from the rapids above. A DNR creel census guy saw my truck on the road and came in to find me, mentioning I was the only one on the river and reminded me there was no one around to help if I had troubles, so I ought be careful.

Walleye opener saw frozen lakes and high winds with snow squalls. There were white-out conditions at my place that I watched comfortably peering out the window with a cup of hot coffee in my hand. A few days later I paddled my canoe up a local river to try for some eaters below the rapids. It took forty-five minutes of paddling to get there flushing ducks, geese and swans along the way and listening to drumming grouse in the woods. At the hole I hoped would be full of walleyes, I caught one. No more. There are all kinds of ways to cook walleyes, but fried for breakfast is hard to beat when there’s only one.

Back on the Shore a couple of days ago. Same river, lower water. Better conditions and other anglers. Gorgeous day. On Minnesota’s North Shore all steelhead must be released. Now, I catch heck from some of my catch-and-eat friends wondering why I’d drive a couple of hours only to release fish, but I don’t generally care to try to explain my reasons for sport any more than I want to get into a gun control argument with, well… you know. But I do have a dilemma. I like photos and when I’m about to release a fish I’m always concerned about getting it back in the water healthy.

I recently read a fishing report that complained of anglers over playing and fighting steelhead to death, then kicking the fish onto the bank for a photo. That is wasteful and shameful, of course and I don’t get it, but it’s led me to re-examine my own methods of fish photography.  So far I believe I’m doing OK, because the trout I put back in the water take off under power. I managed to get a shot of one steelhead but it took some planning. I had hooked two from a pool I was fishing and believed I could get another so I had my camera out and set on a little pocket tripod, ready for action. That alone should have jinxed me but the Red Gods were smiling and I did indeed catch another. These steelhead are real fighters and I know why so many are attracted to the sport, and after the exciting battle I’d had him close enough to land by hand. It took one hand around the tail of the fish and one to press the camera button, then I lifted him out and tried to be in front of the camera when the shutter tripped. The fish nearly struggled out of my hands but I got the shot and lowered the fish to the river healthy and strong. I’ve actually used this shortcut before, having the camera out and waiting on the river bank. One day I’ll forget and leave it perched on a rock.

When I reviewed the photo later I see that I cut the fishes head from the photo, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve photographed the top of my hat, or my knees, or the trees, etc. trying to get a self-portrait ‘cause I’m usually alone when I try this stuff. I like photos of fish next to the bank alongside a net or reel for perspective, but this steelhead was too large for my trout net and would no way hold still for a photo in shallow water next to a reel. Sometimes it all works out and you have a photo where you didn’t cut your head off, it’s in focus, your eyes are open and you don’t look too dorky, and you can see at least most of the fish. That’s the kind you can look at years from now and recall the day fondly. That’s what it’s about. On the other hand you can save a lot of frustration by leaving the camera alone and purely enjoying the angling. Besides, a photo can ruin a good story, “Hey, that thing is nowhere near 30 inches!” and wreck your credibility for the whole year.

And while I’m on the subject of self-portraits this is my favorite story: I was sharing a deer camp with Tony and Rich some years ago and Rich killed a fine 10 pointer the first morning. He got it to his SUV but couldn’t get it on the tailgate until a couple of local guys came by and stopped to help him. They lifted the deer and held it while Rich tied it on with rope. Rich was returning to camp with his prize but decided to stop at a scenic clearing and take a photo of himself and his buck. He dropped the animal to the ground and posed himself in front of his camera. Satisfied with the shot he found himself once again in need of help loading the deer onto his tailgate. Of course the truck that stopped was manned by the same two guys who’d helped before, only this time they tied the buck on themselves.

In a week I’ll be heading for Montana rainbows and then a trip to canoe country looking for that big bass. Yep, spring is here.

Sat 18 May

april?

It was just getting light out when I woke this morning but I didn’t jump right out of bed, even though it was Saturday, because I knew the task of snow removal was ahead of me. The large bedroom window faces south and I woke to see a bright horizon that promised a welcome sunny day, something that has been sadly lacking of late.  If I stay in bed very long the sun will climb high enough to shine directly in my eyes and flood the room with light, a bright and bold reminder that OK, it’s really time to get up. But it would take a while for that to happen so I grabbed the book off the nightstand and read a good story about fly-fishing bass in Texas. Not a bad way to start a day.

It was a stark contrast from my fishing tale to the reality of fifteen degrees and the chore of clearing the latest storm’s dumping of snow from the yard and driveway. The fresh snow measured anywhere from 12 inches to nearly double that.  And here it is the 20^th of April! I got right to it figuring breakfast and coffee would be more appreciated and relaxing with the work behind me. It was.

I hear we’re setting some kind of record with all this April snow. That may be, but I’ve yet to run into the first person who is happy about such a record. I know some folks who are still taking ATVs and snowmobiles on the lakes to ice-fish for crappies, which would seem to be an outstanding idea but the fishing reports are less successful than you would think. The official opening of walleye season is twenty-one days away and everyone is wondering if there will be open water to fish in.

There’s no telling how the grouse and woodcock are going to fare, but there certainly won’t be any early hatch. I’ve read theories and conjectures that explain the delicate timetable comparing the relationships of when the predator species are born to when the prey species are born – or more to our interest, hatched – and it doesn’t seem like good news. I’m assuming this late spring will have little effect on the breeding cycles of the four-legged furbearers, most of which find young grouse tasty, so I can’t help being concerned about my favored game birds. Still, there are many reasons for late hatches, so let’s remain hopeful.

Last Sunday morning the temperature read 5 degrees at six in the morning.  There was about two inches of soft snow over a frozen snowpack of about two feet. It was a sunny morning that would give way to clouds and more snow that evening, but the unusual conditions made for some great skiing and I enjoyed gliding through the woods without the need of a broken trail. The soft snow on top revealed all manner of fresh wildlife tracks and reminded me these woods are alive at night. By noon the day warmed and softened the snow too much for travel so I am glad I took the opportunity when I could. Neat stuff.

There’s also some neat stuff ahead, with a trout fishing trip out west in the works and a canoe country bass trip days after. And if this weather straightens out I can hear some steelhead calling my name.

Earth Day

Despite the foot of heavy wet snow that landed on us Saturday, and 3 more inches last night, and the forecast for six more tomorrow, it is April and spring weather is bound to happen any day. Right?  Any woodcock brave enough to get this far will find over two feet of snow on their singing grounds so I hope they hold off for awhile.

Still, we are all hopeful so I sent off a few early Happy Earth Day messages from my phone today while I was supposed to be working. I couldn’t send out to everyone but I enjoyed the replies. There were a couple of references to hippies, one hallelujah, and even one sort of bah-humbuggy. Well, I’m not usually a humbug sort of guy and there’s not many who would see me and say “look at that hippie!” but I can yell “hoorah!” with the best of them. It’s hard not to like Earth Day because most all of us appreciate the planet we live on. No one has found a better place, yet. It’s easy to take it for granted but as far as I can tell we’d all have a hell of a time if we had to leave tomorrow.

Here on the Range it can be kind of tricky to endorse any kind of support for clean air, pure water, and healthy soil lest we be labeled “environmentalists.” It is, I've heard, the environmentalists who would eliminate our jobs and kick us all out so this part of Minnesota could become a park for the rich. Or something like that.

Forty-five years ago there were rivers in this country that would and actually did catch on fire. That’s about when the green movement started, though it wasn’t such a catch-phrase until recently. If some kind of movement hadn’t started where would we be now?

I’m not an extremist but I do get along with Mother Nature. She’s a fine and beautiful lady and many of the best parts of my life have taken place close to her. I’ll bet your’s have, too. So I took some time today and smiled at the clear sky and enjoyed a couple of deep, clean breaths of unfiltered air. I’m happy to be able. The official Earth Day is still a couple of weeks away, and I hope you enjoy it. It’s an easy day to celebrate, after all – you don’t have to buy gifts, dress up, or have relatives over. I know not everyone believes in watching out for the environment, but c’mon, it’s about the only thing we really do need. 

twenty-one

Twenty one. That was an important number when I was a teenager, for reasons that are a bit fuzzy now. It had something to do with the legalities of bellying up to a bar and ordering a beer like a natural born man. At least, that’s what I remember about it.

I’ve been on a long-time quest to catch a 21-inch smallmouth bass on my fly rod. It’s not something I’ve been obsessed with, or have pursued above all else, but I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to cross it off my list. Shouldn’t be all that hard to do – sounds absolutely simple, right?  But it’s eluded me, so far. I have caught some large bass that measured up, mostly while fishing for walleyes using jigs and bait or crankbaits. I caught one last spring on Lake Vermilion that was close, on a Rapala.  And I do also catch a good number of smallies each year fly-fishing, just haven’t gotten the 21.

I have marks on my canoe country maps where I’ve caught memorable fish. There were the lakers on the surface one June evening on Canadian Agnes… Couldn’t keep the walleyes off my fuzzy grubs on Crooked… Camped under the stars one night overlooking a shallow bay on Quetico Lake that I’d spent the final hours of daylight catching one after another 14-16 inch smallies gulping mayflies off the bronze surface… The Alworth Lake northern pike that grabbed my deer-hair popper and swam up to my canoe to give me the evil eye before diving and breaking me off effortlessly… Eating Shell Lake walleyes caught fly-casting a streamer pattern tied with locks of my daughter’s blonde hair. Now, where to try for the big bass?

I ran into an old friend and neighbor just this morning and I mentioned the quest to him. Now, Frank is a rough and tumble guy, part logger, part cowboy; truck driver and hog raiser. He’s an honest to goodness, tried and true Iron Ranger of Finnish descent. In his younger days he took off on his old panhead Harley to live in California for awhile so he could misbehave without his mother knowing about it. He tried to live the hippie lifestyle but kept getting into fights when he was drunk, so he wasn’t well accepted. He couldn’t quite embrace the “peace” part of it all. Anyway, his answer to me was, “Bass, eh? Whatcha do with ‘em, knock ‘em on the head and toss ‘em on the bank? That’s what I do.” Jeez. Around here there’s an old stigma against any gamefish other than walleye or lake trout.

I have another old neighbor six miles east of here that has a 42-pound Great Slave lake trout mounted on the wall of his living room. If you look through his big window when you drive by his house you can see it.  I don’t know him well, nor have I fished with him, but he is reputed to fish with a baseball bat in his boat to beat any northern pike off the hook before it gets in the boat. Those who know him claim he gets physically ill when he gets too close to a pike – can’t stand the smell, they say. This is perfectly reasonable thinking to many of the locals, but it does makes him the easy target of all sorts of practical jokes. It seems weird to me.

The trouble with being surrounded by weirdness is they all look at you as the weird one.

So I’ve been poring over my maps to plan my strategy for the 21-inch smallmouth. There is some criteria I’ve imposed: I must catch this fish in Minnesota. That rules out Chequamegon Bay and Canada, including Quetico. If someone will show me where the big fish live that’s fine, but no paid guides (nothing against guides, I just don’t wanna pay them.) I have to catch this fish using a fly rod with artificial flies. No bait, and of course I’ll try to take it on the surface, but clousers, buggers, and muddlers are OK, too. Northern MN would be nice – who wants to leave God’s Country? – but the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers are fair game (yes, there are a couple of WI rivers that temp me). I’m willing to camp – motels are iffy. Familiar Schtick: these are more guidelines than rules, subject to change at a moments notice. Right now I’m looking at some lakes in the Boundary Waters that I’ve either been to or heard about. I’m favoring a spot that might take two days to paddle to, if I go solo, which is likely but if anyone is interested in joining me I’ll sure consider it. Time-wise it should be late May – early June for the lakes. Rivers are less fussy.

So that’s what I’m thinking about on this cold, cold windy evening. I’ll keep you posted.

February...

Groundhog Day came and went but I can’t recall the resulting prediction. It can’t matter too much ‘cause us northern Minnesota folks put no stock into what a pen-raised Pennsylvania woodchuck has to say, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not putting down good old PA – I have some very good friends out there, I know there are some awesome bird dogs there and I’d love to fish some of those fabled trout streams. It’s just that I’m thinkin’ that brown fur ball with the unpronounceable name doesn’t have a clue how long my winter is gonna be. I sometimes wonder if the top-hatted mayor who hoists Punxstawney Phil into the air doesn’t maybe secret a pinch of fur into his pocket for later use at the fly vise. Wouldn’t blame him.

Then Valentine’s Day came. I think it was something like ten below zero that morning. No worries about melting chocolate hearts. That was days ago and winter lingers on. There are people steelhead fishing in Michigan. I’ve been reading about them and I envy them. It will be awhile before there’s open water around these parts so my outdoor gear has not been fly rods, but rather snowshoes and skis. That’s not bad, however, and I like to get out and survey the winter woods on those soft and quiet days.

This is also the time of year that I make a little firewood for next winter, so besides using the skis and snowshoes I also fire up the chainsaw. I was well into it, satisfied that I’d done some real work when I was overcome by the urge for a little recreation. A snowshoe hike seemed in order and a quiet patrol would be a welcome contrast to a buzzing chainsaw.

There are a couple of old abandoned homesteads within a half-hour hike from my place. Over the years I’ve watched the weather break them down further and further and the day is coming when there will be nothing left of them. I know only a bit of the history of them, but it’s obvious that turning out a hardscrabble living on rocky northern Minnesota farms was a tough proposition.

The buildings are broken and caved in, but springtime lilacs still bloom around what’s left of the house, and I put in the lilacs around my own yard and kennels from plantings I dug from the homestead over 20 years ago. I’ve trapped and hunted within sight of the old places and the overgrown fields have been important dog training grounds for me. Yesterday I was happy to find grouse roosts in the deep snow of what was once a front yard. I can still find the remnants of a log sauna and smokehouse with Finnish dovetailed corners that I’d bet hung as many deer as cattle and hogs.

These old homes are kind of mysterious, I suppose, and it’s hard to pass the impulse to explore them. You never know what there is to find; though anything of value had disappeared long before I ever set foot on the place. You hope you don’t stumble into an old well or startle some kind of critter from under fallen roof poles. If you’re in the mindset you may even wonder about any spirits still keeping tabs on their property. I’ve yet to run into any ghosts, but one of my trails goes through the woods right past the old house and I’ll admit it’s a little creepy at night.  Still, they’re compelling locales and I have to wonder what kind of faith and skills and toughness those men and women possessed who made their homes and lives there. Between the two places, on a wooded knoll surrounded by cut hayfields is a small little known private cemetery where some of the original homesteaders rest.

I hiked on home to a warm house and flipped on the basement light to hang my snowshoes to drip on the floor. It was a day to be outside so I grabbed the splitting maul to finish the tree I was working on. The fun part is dropping the trees. Blocking and splitting is… well, exercise. I wouldn’t freeze without firewood, however; my efficient propane furnace prevents that. But there are some trees around the place that need cutting, and every dollar worth of propane saved is a dollar’s worth of gas for a springtime fishing trip.  Or so I tell myself. Yep, it’s a good life.

It's wintertime!

If you don’t own or have access to a variety of outdoor gear you stand the risk of becoming handy around the house. I’m not talking about having a mere variety of fishing rods, however. I mean variety as in “diverse” – you know, gear for every season. On the other hand, being handy is not all bad and there’s a bit of Red Green in a lot of us, though I know people who seem to thrive on such things. I know one fellow who keeps several photos of his shingled roof pinned up in his office. I have to agree that it looks like a mighty fine job but to my untrained eye it looks very much like every other shingled roof I’ve seen. And after all, the guy performs building maintenance for a living so the fact that he did it himself isn’t all that astonishing. He’s a steady talker too, and kind of a busy-body anyway, so I take comfort in knowing that I won’t run into him out in the field ‘cause he’ll be at home wiring a new ceiling fan, or something. I guess we all belong somewhere.

Even if you are a talented do-it-yourselfer with a pending project or two, it seems something of a shame to, say, spend a weekend installing flooring while so much expensive outdoor gear sits waiting and wasting in the basement and garage. OK, so it’s the middle of winter and we’re through hunting, the boat’s long put away, the camp tarp has been waterproofed and to a casual observer it might seem as if there’s nothing much left to do. If we were meant to be outside recreating someone would have invented cold weather equipment, right? Like goose-down parkas, ice augers, insulated boots, snow pattern camouflage coveralls, snowshoes, and skis. You get the picture – I rest my case.

I knew it was warmer the instant I stepped outside. Warmer than yesterday, anyway. There was no sub-zero temperature to grab my breath and water my eyes. My porch deck didn’t creak and pop when I put my weight on it. My boots didn’t crunch in the snow on my way to the dogs. No, it wasn’t that cold – looked like a fine winter day. The dogs were glad to get out of the kennel and raced around happy and excited. Yesterday morning Jack danced gingerly in the cold, but this morning he was off and running, eager to catch Molly. Together they sprinted the familiar trails around the perimeter of their territory, ready to chase off any intruders that happened to wander in during the night. Jack and Molly met me at the loft (I keep a small loft of pigeons for dog training, supposedly, but now for my own enjoyment as much as anything) and waited impatiently as I fed and watered the birds. Then they jumped and whined in front of me as I made my way back to the house. I could nearly hear their plea “C’mon! Let’s do something!” before I went in for a cup of piping coffee and to decide what that “something” should be.

A week ago I took the dogs up for a ski on the Rice River.  Most of the river is hardly wider than a canoe is long and I’ve hunted, fished, and trapped the river often, but seldom venture on its unreliable ice in the winter. No one does. Many years ago I broke through its ice on a December morning that read minus 10 degrees when I'd left my house on foot. I went in to my waist and when I climbed out I quickly stripped and wrung out my wool pants, long johns and socks. Still, it was a cold and potentially dangerous three-mile hike over rough country home. Two winters ago I was working on an old wooden bridge on the same river but miles downstream. Working on bridges  (my day job) off the ice can be advantageous, but this time I broke through near the center pier pilings and went in to my neck. I grabbed some bracing on the piling and quickly clamored out while my partner on top of the bridge rushed to find a rope. He ran back to the railing to see only the hole in the ice where I’d been. I was on shore by then but you should have seen the look on his face!

We’ve had some real cold spells and the stretch of river looked so smooth and inviting that I couldn’t resist trying it. I figured my skis would distribute my weight and that would help. I turned Jack and Molly loose and proceeded behind them laying a set of tracks on snow that had seen nothing but deer, fox, and wolves all winter. I was still in sight of my truck when Molly took an outside bend near an old beaver house and broke through the ice.  She was out of the water before I knew it and playfully rolled in the snow to dry off – a process that I know works; though I’m not sure how. However it works, I don’t believe it would be for me. Now, I outweigh Molly by a couple hundred pounds and my agility is dramatically un-spaniel like, but I took it in stride and decided she’d found a weak spot from current near the beaver lodge. It was a beauty of a day and I kept going, warily when need be. The ice in mid-stream seemed hard and strong when I poked at it with my pole, but at the many old beaver dams we crossed I could hear water trickling under the ice. It’s like a friend said, “It’s not the good ice you have to watch out for.”

The skiing was awesome and fun. I glided easily down the river while the dogs raced and chased ahead. Ravens flew overhead, as well as an eagle. A Pileated Woodpecker went by and Molly chased it into the woods. Here and there a small dam would have to be crossed cautiously and it started to get creepy when Molly put a paw through the ice right in front of me. We were about an hour out when we came to a three-foot beaver dam that Molly went over and promptly busted through again. Thankfully she was able to get out on her own but I had had enough. Stopped, I heard running water all along the dam and decided I had pushed my luck far enough. Jack hadn’t gotten wet at all and I have to think he isn’t quite as reckless as the spaniel, picking his routes more carefully, but then I don’t think anything is as reckless as Molly.  So I gave her a call and turned around to follow Jack back to the truck, disappointed my new ski course hadn’t been all I’d hoped for. At least I was still dry.

Yesterday it was nearly 11 a.m. before the temperature climbed above zero. I spent most of the morning inside stoking the stove, sipping coffee, and listening to Charlie Parr on the stereo. I could hear Jack and Molly tumbling about on the deck in a wrestling match while Ty lay snoring next to my chair. I had a broken snowblower that needed fixing so I finally went out and tipped the machine on its nose to find the trouble. I removed the belly pan to find and replace a broken shearpin. Then I spent an hour widening the drive and pathways around the place. I was happy to drive it into the shed and turn it off and was enjoying the silence outside when I noticed an aspen tree leaning precariously over the driveway and another threatening the canoe shed. So it was another hour or so with chainsaw and splitting maul converting the troublesome trees into firewood. That was yesterday, but today there was little work on my schedule.

This morn I was on the skis, again. This time I clipped in at my door and skied the upland trails and breezy fields, high and dry, across the road. Jack and Molly loved it, of course, and I pushed through unbroken snow that sometimes piled at my ankles. It was slow going for awhile and I broke into a sweat, bit it was welcomed exercise and felt good to be moving – under my own power and silently. I was surprised at the absence of animal sign. I found one grouse snow roost and a few deer tracks and several weasel prints were all to see. There are some nice backwoods trails winding up and downhill, along an old beaver pond and in through old growth balsam woods before going into young aspen stands that were logged off a few years ago. I used to drag a track-setter behind an old snowmobile to make a more polished trail but I quit that a few years ago. If the snow gets too deep and soft for skiing I will pound a trail on snowshoes. When I want the speed and ease of groomed trails, there is a great Forest Service trail system only a couple of miles away.

Cross-country skiing is a great way to some wintertime exercise, but it’s more than that. There’s nothing much better than easing through the beauty of a silent winter landscape. Crisp clean air is good for the body, good for the head and this is the time to do it. Breaking trail on skis is an easy way to get more than enough exercise for one day and I’ll likely feel it tomorrow, but I’ll remember it much longer. Relaxing now I can already feel the tenderness in the back of my thighs. Muscles well used – it’s not a bad feeling. And while I never seem to do it enough, I can’t wait to do it again.

27 Jan. 2013

settlin' in...

I was sitting in a duck blind last October with my partner, Fledge, quietly chatting about dogs. He figures it’s time to get a new pup. We also talked about guns and boats and some of the other things guys talk about when they’re gazing at the sky waiting for shooting time and trying not to drink all their coffee too early in the day. In gathering light the decoys came into focus and when one of us said, “we’re legal,” all chat stopped. Moments later the ducks came low and fast right out front. Shotguns blaze and blast and old gray-whiskered Mac, my favorite Labrador, gets his chance to do what he loves most – retrieve ducks.


Fledge, Mac, and I shared quite a few blinds last fall. The places we hunted varied, but there was a certain unchanged routine to it all. We’d boat out and set dozens of decoys in the dark and then sit and try to get comfortable in the blind, pulling our collars up against the wind that was, hopefully, at our backs. The shooting was usually good first thing and we’d bag some ducks every time out. Long about 9 o’clock things would slow down. We’d start talking again and be surprised when a trio of woodies passed right over our heads, or a high pair of mallards that would look down at us and say, “Hey look! That guy is shooting an old A5. Haven’t seen one of those in years!” or “That fellow could use some help with that duck call.”

Sometimes the geese would come just when we thought it was over. And they came often enough to keep us in the blind for another hour or so, but sooner or later one of us would say, “well, whaddya think?” That meant we’d give it another half-hour. I don’t recall, right now, the last time we said that but we ended in cold, snow and ice.

It’s a New Year and most of the hunting is over for another season. Sure, we can still go out and chase rabbits or take predator calls for fox and coyotes. We can set traps until spring, and go ice fishing, too. Those are the things that keep us from cabin fever and going stir-crazy, but Jim Harrison once implied that we accept “the months when no suitable sport is available.”

I’m looking at my fly-tying desk as I write this. I’ve got an idea for some new bass bugs I’ll be eager to show the boys, come spring. For now I guess it’s time to settle in for winter. It’s about time to wrap it up.

Ol' Dennis

Things in camp were moving along pretty well, maybe a little better for Tony than the rest of us because he’d shot a nice little 3 pointer a week before while the rest of us were still waiting. John had hunted opening weekend and couldn’t return, but Tony came back with Jack, so there were again three of us in camp. I’d had some opportunities – I’d let three small bucks pass the first two days of the season including a six-point that I bleated back twice hoping to see it’s rack was somehow bigger than it really was through my binocular and scope. I know it would have provided some tasty meat, but for the last years I’d been scoring on some nicer-racked bucks that seemed to get bigger each year. I can’t say I’m a trophy hunter, but my photos of past hunts and the antlers hanging on my canoe shed allow me to recall and relive those hunts far after the taste of tenderloins and jerky is forgotten. Anyway, it was early in the season and I reckoned I could wait it out for a bigger deer.

The second Saturday it rained. It really rained. I’d seen one deer that morning that disappeared before I had much of a look, and returned to camp about noon to dry out and warm up. Tony and Jack were already cozy in the wall tent, had the stove stoked and their clothes hung to dry. Tony was the hunter again that morning. He’d killed a good-looking eight point buck before the rain got to him. With my gear hanging to dry it seemed like a good day to sit in the tent and hear Tony’s story while rain pounded the canvas. Jack was already in his sleeping bag.

So we sat around sipping coffee and talking. Tony told how the buck came out of the cutting 70 yards from his stand and he took him broadside, and maybe he’d have a head mount done by a taxidermist friend. I was considering how I was going to fill my smoker with venison that I hadn’t killed yet. Outside the rain had turned to a kind of slushy sleety mix and it was mighty comfortable in the warm tent. We were in the middle of discussing the merits of an enclosed heated deer stand when there was a knock on the canvas door – or what passes for a knock on canvas. Tony unzipped the tent and invited in our visitor, a thin old timer who stepped in and said, “Boys, I’ve got one down and could use a little help.” He was wearing an old red wool coat with some blaze orange sewed to the shoulders, a red wool hat, wool pants, and a pair of those knee-high rubber boots that I’ve always known as “mean greenies”.
 

If you’re one who spends much time in wild country, you know the time may come when you might need some help in one way or another. So when someone can use a hand there is only one answer. While Tony and I were getting ready to go, the old fellow introduced himself as Dennis and spotted my rifle propped against my cot. “Model 700?” he asked. When I affirmed it was he allowed, “Yeah, that’s a good rifle, shoot one myself.” And just before we all stepped out of the tent Dennis looked at me and asked, “You don’t happen to have a camera, do you? It’s not a bad buck.” No problem, I assured him and slung my camera around my neck.


We followed Dennis several miles up a forest road to his hunting spot. Then we kept up as he marched in at a pace that far belied his 73 years. After a short walk he stopped at a mark he’d kicked in the dirt and turned to describe the circumstance. He’d hunted his way down to a little lake and was working his way back. “Oh, I was soaked, soaked to the skin!” Two bucks, he said, had chased a doe across a trail before him and stopped, “eighteen steps away, right by that tree,” and he paced it off for us. “I shot the bigger of the two,” he explained with a satisfied grin, “and it ran back in there and dropped.” Dennis had his deer dressed and covered with balsam boughs to keep it hidden from the birds, and anything bigger that might have taken an interest before he got back to it. He tossed the boughs aside and revealed a huge, beauty of a mature ten-point buck. Tony and I both said Wow and admired the buck, each of us instantly wishing we’d had a chance at a deer like that. I got Dennis to pose with his deer for some photos and he seemed amazed when he told me his son had a phone that could send pictures “anywhere in the country!”

Before long we had the buck pulled up to the road and loaded in our truck to haul up to Dennis’ camp. Hanging from the front of his camper was a collection of deer and moose sheds that serious shed hunters might take years to find. He’d picked them up during one week of deer hunting. And he had a dozen wire muskrat stretchers along. He was camped for the entire season, might as well do a little fur trapping, too. Once safely hung in a tree, we admired that deer until Dennis invited us to rest in his warm camper. Over his wife’s homemade pie (“Oh, you’ll enjoy this!”) we listened to Dennis tell his stories of hunting that country for almost fifty years. He spoke with a hint of an accent (Midwest Scandinavian, I’d say) that’s easy to listen to – with a simple truthfulness that comes from over seventy years of honest country living.

After making sure we were comfortable and had plenty of whipped cream on our pumpkin pie, Dennis produced a photo of the largest buck he’d taken. In it he was posed next to a massive 300+ pound heavy antlered twelve pointer he’d killed many years ago. In trying to pick his brain it soon became evident that this man was a hunter. A real hunter. He’d camp off the forest road for the entire deer season. His companions couldn’t hunt the season like he could and he would be on his own until the last weekend when his son would return to break camp. Each day he would be out in the woods exploring. He’d find deer and moose sign, see fishers and pine marten and spot a wolf now and then. He knew who was camped where and their various hunting grounds. I saw his compass but I doubt he used a GPS. “When you’re out in the bush and your shadow is fourteen feet long, you’d better take long steps to get out before nightfall,” and “The thing about deer hunting is you never know what will happen in the next half-hour.” Quaint and obvious advise, I suppose, though I had to feel a little embarrassed about contemplating the enclosed deer-stand when he related how he’d taken all but one of his many deer and thirteen elk “with my feet on the ground.”

Differences in hunting technique can be too subtle to be noticed. Or they can be so diverse and contrasting that one wonders how it can all be covered under the one heading “deer hunting.” For years I tried to perfect the still-hunting method – sneaking slowly and quietly, stopping often trying to see the deer before it saw me. It can be an excruciating and frustrating exercise in patience, but it is also a fulfilling way to get in touch with the land and nature and that is important for, well …good reasons. And when it goes well it is the most rewarding, at least to me, way of deer hunting possible. The best buck I’ve ever taken was by this method, but for the last four or five years most of my deer hunting has taken place sitting in a tree waiting for the deer to come to me. The “hunting” part was mostly pre-season hunting through my basement in search of my gear. I’m not sure if still-hunting is an art or craft. I’m kinda hoping it is something that can be learned, then perhaps I can get better at it, but I get the feeling that some folks, such as Dennis, have some kind of aura or karma about them that grants consistent success in their pursuit. You know how it is, some people catch all the fish doing nothing noticeably different than anyone else in the boat – and they do it effortlessly.

It was too late to hunt that evening after our visit, but it was worth every minute. Dennis doesn’t know or care much about cell phones and computers, but he can tell you when the deer will move by how the clouds cross the sky. I don’t know how many guys know how to hunt, know the country, and know woodcraft like old Dennis, but there can’t be many. I’ve been hunting the same country as Dennis for quite a few years now, but when he described some hills and valleys, swamps and ledges and rivers that he thought I would know I had to admit I hadn’t been there. And I wonder why. I didn’t sit on my stand the rest of the season. I was again inspired to hunt the traditional way. I wanted, once again, to hunt a nice buck like a woodsman, with my feet on the ground. Later that week I was able to drop off copies of the photos I took, but of course he wasn’t at his camper – it was daylight, after all – old Dennis was somewhere in the woods.