tree talk

Last year on Valentine’s Day the temperature was around 15 below zero. It’s a little warmer than that today, but it was that cold yesterday morning when I sat inside sipping coffee and watching the usual hoard of pine grosbeaks, redpolls, and chickadees flit from the front yard birch tree to the feeder. Every now and then a trio of bully bluejays would drop in and boss everyone around until the red squirrel would make its long jump from the birch to the feeder. Then I’d wave my arm so the squirrel would spot me through the window and make its exit.

I’d planted that birch tree years ago after PJ and I spotted it growing by itself alongside the road a half-mile east of here. I’d had a number of failed attempts at transplanting birch trees in the yard but this one made it, probably happy in a location safe from the hazards of snowmobiles, ATVs, and snowplows. It’s was barely two feet tall and the little trunk was kind of twisted and forked at the base, not the kind of tree you’d pay money for at a nursery – more of a Charlie Brown looking sort of a tree.  Anyway, it was worth a try.

Our birch tree has grown into a beauty, and when it grew tall enough PJ hung a little bird house on a limb. I thought it was mostly decorative, but I’ve seen chickadees and wrens go in and out of the tiny entrance. And sitting here this morning watching the snow fall and birds hopping from limb to limb is downright pleasant. I wouldn’t try to recall the hours I’ve enjoyed just watching that tree and sometimes I feel a tinge of guilt for just sitting around, but what the heck.

I once worked with a fellow who declared birch trees “dirty.” Of course he was a persnickety town person with a postage-stamp sized manicured lawn that would have looked even better without the idiotic “KEEP OFF THE GRASS” sign. He hated the thought that his mailman might be cutting across his lawn while he was at work, and October leaves gave him fits. He also didn’t hunt or fish, so… there you go.

It’s true that my birch tree has a habit of dropping thin little branches on the ground, and sometimes I’ll pick them up but mostly I just run ‘em over with the mower. And I’ve had to lop off a branch now and then to keep them out of my face when I’m mowing, but the tree has done fine despite my unscientific prunings. There’s a lot to like about birch trees. I can’t think of better fire tinder than birch bark. This country was explored in birch bark canoes. Around here they’re one of the best firewood available and birch paneling is beautiful. The white trunks standout against green summer foliage, and the catkins provide some grouse food when times are tough. What’s Christmas without a birch yule log?

There are a few other birch trees in the woods surrounding our yard and I wish there were more. I’d like to fill the woodshed with it. Many of the big stands of birch have been cut for firewood and I know some loggers are selling jack pine and aspen to burn, something no one would consider buying a few years ago. But the front yard birch is safe from that fate and will keep the birds and me happy for years to come. Knock on wood.

A winter's day

Years ago, long before I had a steady job, I spent a good part of the winter making firewood. And because I didn't have a steady job I needed that wood to heat the place. I still get shivers thinking about my half-assed logging operation. I had an old tractor with a brush guard over the radiator to keep sticks out and I'd drive that old thing uphill and down through the woods pulling bigger loads than it ever should have. Many a time I'd be dragging a tree out and it would catch on a rock or stump and the tractor would stand up in a wheelie. Somehow I always managed to stomp the clutch down before it came all the way over, but there were some close calls. I recall a neighbor doing the same thing but wasn't so lucky. When his tractor came over the steering wheel crushed his chest into the ground.

When my friend Wesley showed up with an old Pettibone cable skidder we teamed up and bought a timber sale. Things were pretty cushy then. We felled the trees with chainsaws and Wes would pull them to the landing. We'd often take a break and brew a pot of coffee over an open fire and watch the deer wander into our cut, curious about the noise and eager to nibble the tender aspen tips. Grouse were common, too, and Wes would always say "dere's some partridge, where's dem dogs a'yours?"  I'd block and split the firewood at the landing and haul the processed firewood a half mile home in a trailer. Birch, ash and maple went for firewood and the aspen went to the mill. We had a liberal time frame to get the wood out so we worked that cut for a couple of years.

 No matter how large a pile of firewood you have, it doesn't last forever, and there came a time when I bought a couple of loads from a local logger. Blocking firewood from a neat pile of 100 inch sticks is almost gravy, but then the price of firewood kept climbing until it was comparable to buying propane.

We all have to grow up some time and a year-round job and new furnace meant I could take the firewood cutting a little less seriously. I still keep the wood stove stoked when I can and I have to believe it saves me some money, but I haven't bought any wood for years. The tractor is gone, the skidder is gone, and so is Wesley. I kinda like dropping a tree now and then during the winter and splitting it up for the wood shed. And I still like watching the deer and grouse come in. I hope I never become one of those folks sitting in front of a TV wondering how they can get more exercise.

It was 22 degrees below zero here this morning and I was in no hurry to get outside. But morning chores called so I booted up and pulled on a heavy coat figuring to make a quick trip to the kennel and loft and be back inside sipping coffee in no time.

We've had a pretty mild winter, so far, though yesterday things started cooling off. I had a halfway plan to open up the fly tying drawers and get busy tying to have a head start come spring, but I also know there is always firewood to cut and it seemed like a good day to get started. Just off the northwest corner of my house grows a red maple that I've had a sort of love/hate relationship with for many years. In the fall it is brilliant with it's beautiful crimson foliage, but as it's branches grow they reach out and rub the house. I've used ladders, pole saws, nippers and chainsaws trying to keep this tree in check, but last summer I realized I was going to have to do something drastic while I was standing on the edge of my roof with a fully extended gas-powered pole saw reaching as high as I could to trim overhanging branches. And like all red maples, they get only so big before the trunks start dying and they tip over. This tree is one of those three trunks from one stump and all three were leaning toward the house. Yesterday I cut it down. It took a ladder, a couple of chains and tow strap, a come-a-long and chainsaw, but now it's a pile of firewood. Of course it was a major project to make sure it fell away from the house, but I won't have to think about that one, anymore.

While I was out this morning I finished splitting the last of that maple. Those red maple get lots of branches and some twisted grain but the frozen blocks split pretty well. Then it was time for that coffee and breakfast. It felt pretty good.

a walk in the woods...

Around here the firearms deer season often marks the end of grouse hunting, too. There aren’t many of us will run bird dogs in the woods then, and when it’s all over it is often too cold and snowy to get much done. Still, if weather allows, I grab the dogs and gun and give it a try. There have been times when I gave up in short order after stopping every few minutes to clear hard snowballs from a dogs feet. And there have been other times I found grouse bunched in unusual numbers in unusual places that provided some exciting shooting. I remember one late hunt when my setter, Cully, pointed the edge of a slash pile along the border of a recent clearcut we were crossing. When I approached the grouse went up and there were 5 or 6 in the air at once. It was one of the two true grouse doubles I can claim, but it wasn’t really much of a feat with the grouse in the wide open sky trying hard for the cover. I have had some other good hunts in the snow, but a lot of the time it’s more exercise than anything else.

This weekend the days were overcast and threatened more snow but we enjoyed some warm temperatures that had the few inches of snow wet and melting. Rare weather for this time of year and it was hard to stay out of the woods. I took Jack and Gabby to a cover north of here that I hadn’t been at all season. It’s been a favorite and I’ve taken many a grouse and woodcock there, and with some ongoing logging it should be good for years to come. I turned Jack loose and we started off into a stiff south wind. It felt great to be out and Jack’s bell sounded Christmas cheery as he cast to the sides of the trail. In minutes we reached the heavy growth of spruce that often provides shelter for grouse in bad weather but Jack hunted it out without contact. Jack was happy to be out and hunted the cover like I wanted him to. I spotted a couple of older sets of grouse tracks and we went deeper into the woods, but after 30 minutes I was wondering if we would see any game. That’s when Jack’s bell fell silent far to the left.

I left the trail and pushed through some thick buck brush down into a gully and then back up the other side. The woods seemed open with the snow covering the ground, but there was still plenty of tight brush to slow you down and blow-downs to duck under. There were several short runs of balsam and spruce throughout the cover ahead and logical places for birds to be. Jack was a ways out and I activated the beeper to locate him. He was standing motionless pointing towards a stand of thick green balsam. I’ve been in that situation many times and know how tough it can be to get a shot and this time was the same. I actually moved quickly through the evergreens hoping to get a shot at a bird exiting the other side, but when I came out I heard the grouse flush behind me and made it’s escape behind the screen of balsams. Out-smarted again.

Ten minutes later Jack pointed again out to the right, and when I finally got to him I heard a grouse flushing far out front, unseen. Those late season birds are tough to get close to, and that’s ok. Every grouse that survives the winter could raise a brood for next year. An hour and a half later we were back at the truck with no other grouse contacts. Even though there was only two or three inches of snow on the ground, it was wet, heavy and slippery and Jack was pretty tired from running through it. And yeah, I was too.

I took Gabby up the trail the other way and it was the first time she’s had a bell on. She’s about 6 months old now and I’m happy to be able to get her into the cover. She ignored the bell and darted into the cover like she was on a mission. I’ve seen her get into grouse just about every time out, but today we found nothing. Even so, it was good training and I can’t think of anything better.  

Bloggin', BSin', and social media-in'

This blogging thing can be a kind of on-again, off-again thing for me. Sometimes I go for weeks (or is it months?) without adding a post and think I could forget the entire thing. Then there are other times when I believe I could add something every day, if I found the time to sit down to do it. I suppose those of us who do this experience the same thing -- it's not that we can't think of anything to write, heck, we have all sorts of things bouncing around in our noggins -- it's making the effort to post 'em in some fashion we think is sensible enough that someone else will read it. I have a few friends who've reminded me from time to time that I should add something to the page. I start out thinking everything I write will be noble and moving and end up hoping it's not just a bunch of blabbering drivel. Ah, what the hell.

Some years back I had another blog on the old social media site. It wasn't all hunting and fishing like this is. It was about music, puppies, bad drivers; everyday stuff. Maybe a little rant, maybe a little praise. I posted a couple of videos I'm still trying to figure out how to get back. Maybe when I've posted all the fish pics I'll broaden this blog and delve into other areas. Who knows? 

Days are short now. It seems like I get home from work, let the dogs out for a little exercise and feeding, and it's dark before supper time. The weather had been less than ideal, too, but now it's cold and the rain turned to snow so it's actually not too bad. If you don't mind snow and cold, that is. I built a bonfire the other night and stood near the heat wishin' I had a chair and a whiskey, but too lazy to get either one. Next time. 

And I've been discovering and enjoying some of the many other blogs out there. I'm not all that ready to give up fishing (anymore, when I say "fishing" I almost always mean "fly fishing") for winter, so I've been looking at some of the fishing stuff others are doing around the country. I've had a neat year of catching big fish and I'm hopeful for next season, but the nearest trout streams I fish are less than 5 miles away and home to pretty little brookies like those pictured in some of the other sites I visit. I've said it before, they're all trophies to me.

Though not all of the blogs I look at are about fly fishing, so far they are all centered around outdoor living. Hunting birds and waterfowl with dogs are favorites, and I've seen some cool recipes and read some about bee-keeping, mushrooms, natural off-the-grid type living, etc. There are far more out there than I could ever read, but it's fun to give some of it a look. And it's probably better than sitting around on FB.

Speaking of facebook, oh, oh. Years ago a gal from my high school sent an invitation to join fb. I didn't know much about it, but I gave it a try. A short try. Within five minutes of signing up I got spooked by what seemed like too much in your face part of it so I deactivated my account. Or so I thought. I like keeping up with the local music scene and have always been able to check band and business fb pages without an account. I guess fb didn't like that because they took away that access, too. Plus there is all manner of outdoor content that always seems to end with "check the rest out on FB" and the "get on fb so you know what's going on" comments from folks I know and like.

The last straw was when Scotty asked for a photo of one of my dogs to add to the grouse dog site. Ok, I'm in. I went to sign up and found my old account was still valid, and when I opened it up I found requests from friends in the music world and outdoor world both. Sooo... I've updated my page a bit and am going to kind of ease into it. I've always been comfortable with the ignorance-is-bliss mentality but maybe it's time. Let's give it another try.

It's deer season

I spent the day in the woods today. I drove up north to one of my deer hunting areas and for all purposes I was going deer hunting. Years ago I’d leaned a small ladder stand against a pine tree I’d found while I was still-hunting and exploring the area. I sat on a fallen log and leaned against that pine and in the next 90 minutes I saw three different bucks but was unable to get a decent shot at any of them in the heavy cover. I decided then to put a stand against that tree. I’ve shot several good bucks from that stand since.

The stand is kind of my headquarters when I’m in those woods. Sometimes I can sit there all or most of the day, others times I start wandering around after only a short time at the stand. I often find my way back to it for the day's end and once I find my stand, I know I can find the faint trail to my truck. Today was a wandering day.

It was oddly warm for this time of year and we’ve gotten no snow. A storm is predicted for tonight and I was hoping deer would be moving before it, along with what should be close to peak rutting time. I moved slowly, a step or two at a time. Here and there I came upon a small deer track pushed into the damp leaves, a lone fawn wondering where everyone is, but for the most part deer sign was sadly lacking.

Before long my deer hunt evolved into more of a bird watching nature walk. My compact binocular worked perfectly for watching the blue jays, whiskey jacks, chickadees, and pileated woodpeckers. The red squirrels were busy, too, and the longer you go without deer contact, the more that squirrel rustling sounds like whitetail footfalls. Occasionally a raven would fly over croaking and kawking and the honking of a high V of geese reminded me of waterfowl hunting.

It’s neat country I hunt up there near the Canadian border. The bare rock outcrops are ribboned with rough looking scrub oak that drop acorns all over to feed the deer and squirrels. There are huge white pines scattered about, along with birch and aspen stands, spruce and balsam and jackpine thickets. The rock gardens will turn an ankle or worse if you don’t watch were you’re going and in the midst of the thick forest you’ll come across huge rock boulders that leave you wondering how they ever got there, glaciers or not.

I came to the edge of a moss covered outcrop that overlooked a little stream. I sat back and leaned on my pack to enjoy a break and snack all the while keeping an eye on the creek bottom, visualizing that big buck sneaking along the waterway. At my feet wintergreen berries stood out with green leaves and red fruit. The deer didn't show and it was time to keep moving.

I lost direction on this cloudy day and used my compass to find the road. It was nearly dark and I had a mile hike to my truck, but it was easy going compared to the hours I'd just spent in rough cover.

Today I started out hunting deer, but ended up hunting deer sign. I found no rubs, no scrapes. I know where there is better cover that holds more deer, and I’ll likely hunt some of it before the season is over. But there are no secrets anymore and good habitat probably involved logging, and many hunters key in on logged areas for good reason. The hill country I hunt is wild, tough going, and beautifully interesting. In all the years I’ve wandered around up there I’ve never seen another person. I like that.

Muskellunge (Esox masquinongy)

Hope springs eternal, of course, and we never give up hope of getting in one more fishing trip before winter. The die-hard anglers know that fall fishing might be the best fishing and go after them, but for those of us who like to spend our autumns carrying shotguns and following bird dogs it’s a tough call to have to choose between fishing and hunting. I suppose if all is right with the world we’d get in so much fishing during the spring and summer that we’d be satisfied come fall and happy to stow the rods for the guns. How much fishing would that take? I can’t imagine.

After our great trip to Alaska, Scott and I made one float trip on a familiar river with less than spectacular results – a couple of smallish northern pike and I was kinda’ thinking that would be the last trip of the season. I’ve been in grouse hunting mode since, with thoughts of the approaching deer season but when Scott suggested one more try for muskies I couldn’t turn it down. Fish or no fish, a float down a backcountry autumn river is worth doing.

The days are getting short in late October so we picked a section of river neither of us had been on, but one we could easily finish before dark. I left my place well before sunup and drove through the rain dodging deer the entire way to the landing. It quit raining with the daylight and I flushed a flock of Canada geese when I pulled up to the river. Minutes later Scott showed and after shuttling the vehicles we slipped the Fishcat into the water and were on our way. As usual, Scott took the first shift at the oars of his boat and it turned out to be my lucky day. 

I like fly fishing for big fish and I'm lucky to have a group of friends who feel the same way. I like tying the big flies, though they take a while 'cause of all the material involved, and I like being able to attach the fly to the leader without a magnifying glass. And when that fly hits the water there's no doubt about where it is. Tossing big water-soaked flies can get tiring and a bit tough on the shoulder but it's the price we pay, and at the end of the day I've never heard any regrets from anyone. And when a big fish hits that fly, well...!

I was casting a deer hair diver, articulated red and black, a copy of the one I lost to a nice musky last fall and it was hard to decide where to cast in a river so full of good cover. There were rocks, logs, sweepers, deep holes and runs, and weed beds from shoreline to shoreline. The oars dipped the water and my line zinged through the air. The first fish was a small pike, nothing to brag about but got me on the board. Then we pulled through a couple of shallow riffles and came to a deep run on river-left. I made a cast under a bankside cedar tree and stripped it back just as I’d been doing since we’d started. The fish appeared from below the fly and sort of rubbed it against its back before disappearing into the deeper water again.

I can’t remember exactly what was said but it went something like: “Did you see that?!” “Oh yeah!” “It was huge!” All while Scott was back-rowing to keep me in position for another shot. I was hoping against hope the fish would show again and I took two, maybe three more casts when the big musky came up and nosed the fly, turned away for a second then turned back and grabbed it. Fish on – strip set, strip set, strip set!

 

There was some pretty excited chatter while Scott handled the boat and I played the fish. We’d get it close but when it wanted to it just swam away, bending my rod and peeling line. It seemed to be hooked well but I couldn’t help wondering about my knots and leader strength. The longer I fought it the more nervous I became, but I finally got it alongside enough for Scott to push the net under it and it was ours.  It's easily the biggest fish I’ve landed on a fly rod and my sigh of relief came with a happy smile.

We pulled to shore for photos and released the fish to swim away a little indignant at having been caught, but perhaps to be caught again.

 

It wasn’t the only musky we saw that day, another followed that same fly right to the boat but some clumsy rod handling on my part spooked the fish at the boat and it turned away for good. We ended the day landing plenty of smaller pike. I took the big fish award, but Scott caught the most. I’m not saying the fishing is over, but it’s almost November and I can’t think of a better way to end the season.

Fine October Days

I’ve been fortunate to have lived many fine days in the outdoors, and I’ll have to count the last two as a couple of the best. Jack was still favoring his front leg after coming up lame from a hunt earlier this week, so my plan was to head north with the dogs and give Jack a short run in cover before hiking up to check my deer stand with my new pup, Gabby. It was sunny and 35 degrees when I hit the road, the remaining fall color was brilliant and I can’t say I’ve seen a prettier October day. 

I took the backroads as much as I could, which is quite a bit, checking new cover and some of my good hunting spots along the way. Over the years I’ve lost some favored covers due to paper company leases, but I’ve heard many of those leases were being cancelled and the Nature Conservancy was involved in buying up some of that land. I need to find out more about that, but I when I drove by a cover I used to hunt I noticed all the lease signs were down. I nearly stopped to check it out, but I had another spot in mind for Jack.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and there were plenty of folks out hunting in the various methods they deploy – I saw a couple of pickup trucks stopped on the road with the doors still flung open and an orange-clad shotgun-toting body or two sneaking along trying to see the grouse on the ground. That’s one way: cruise along slowly ‘till you see a bird beside the road and, if you’re a sportsman, jump out to ground-swat ‘em. Lots of times the grouse goes sulking away, thus the hunters go creeping through the roadside cover hoping to get a look at the bird before it flies away. If you’re not so sporting you might take a shot out the window, but folks get arrested for that every year, and it seems to happen less and less. Then there’re all manner of ATV’s and UTV’s running around with uncased guns aboard, which is apparently legal these days. And, of course, there are plenty of foot hunters with or without canine help.

I turned off one gravel road onto a narrow dead end forest road with one particular cover in mind. There was a truck parked at the trailhead so I drove on to the next good place up the road. I wasn’t surprised to see it empty. It’s a short trail to a tiny clearing and that’s where the trail pretty much ends. If you know the way you can find remnants of logging trails from years past, but it’s not a place to go without a compass and/or GPS. Even if you know the way, it’s a thick, tight cover to hunt and move around in.

I stepped out of my truck and was looking at a grouse twenty feet away. It was alert and strutting around and offered a perfect opportunity to give Gabby a nose full of bird scent. She’s found several grouse so far and though I won’t shoot over her yet it’s fun to watch her rushing around in puppy fashion. It didn’t take long before she snapped to a stop for a moment before spotting the grouse moving away and the short chase was on. I took it as a good omen so I rounded her up and put her back in the truck. Jack was ready and waiting while I put on my vest and old hunting hat. A bell collar for Jack and I grabbed my gun and we were hunting.

In minutes I was at the clearing and Jack worked the thick stuff beyond. A second later his bell fell silent and I pushed in to find him. He wasn’t far and I got to him just as a grouse flushed and was fast leaving when my right barrel caught up and the bird dropped. Neat – one point, one shot, one retrieve. I pocketed the bird and we were off. Minutes later Jack was pointing again. The grouse flushed left and I thought I’d missed but instead of escaping into the cover, the grouse turned and gained altitude, spiraling higher and higher above the trees. I'd never seen anything like it and I stood watching, wondering if I should shoot again. Then the bird came down and hit the ground. I’d read of headshot grouse behaving that way but have never witnessed it. Until now.

I called Jack to retrieve the dead bird but he was pointing again. Another shot and another grouse. While I handled him to the retrieves another grouse got up in front of me, but I watched it go without raising the gun. That made five grouse we’d moved in less than a half hour. Nice. I figured that was enough and we headed back for the truck only a couple of hundred yards away. I could see the truck when Jack swung to the edge of an alder run and stopped again. That grouse went out of a tree and was the first miss of the day. Still, there was a satisfying heft to my game bag and our short hunt was a big success.  I sat on my tailgate eating the hot soup in my thermos and watched a couple of road hunters drive by. I’d heard only one other shot that morning.

I took Gabby up to the deer stand and she had fun tearing around looking for anything she could find. But we found nothing, not even any deer sign.

Speaking of sign, it seems there are a lot more road signs than there needs to be on the backroads. There’s a great big Forest Service sign at the entrance to Echo Lake Campground and that’s understandable, but the two signs down the road announcing the campground in 500 feet seems like overkill. And the metal street signs at the various woods roads take some of the feeling away from being in the woods. There was a big wooden sign erected on a logging road by the Ruffed Grouse Society claiming a management/hunting area, but it appears someone got tired of seeing it. Or maybe they just needed some firewood.

Today I was at Paul’s hunting camp. We’d made the plan to hunt his property with Scarlett and Jack, and I was happy to see Jack moving well after yesterday’s short outing. It was another gorgeous day, sunny and cool, the kind of October day any bird hunter longs for. Jack was still on his game, pointing one of the two grouse we found, and a half dozen or so woodcock. Add in Scarlett’s work and we had plenty of shooting.

It was a fine weekend for bird hunting, the kind classic stories were written about. It was a fine weekend to be outside doing anything. Gabby had her first whiff of dead birds; I was shooting well, though Paul credited that to my shotgun; we sat outside the shack sipping coffee and watched the pup chase around while the two old setters lay in the grass sleeping. All too soon it was time to call it a day and go home to clean birds. Thank you, yeah.

Alaska!

It was just light when I woke and I can't say when I’ve last slept so soundly in a tent. Chris, Scott and myself were camped on a gravel bar alongside a little stream that we didn’t know the name of, and even if we had it wouldn’t have mattered – about all we knew of our whereabouts was that we were in Alaska.

Our plans had changed after I’d already strapped myself into the front seat of the Beaver floatplane – the pilot offered us a different route on a different river, one that hadn’t been fished for a while. Apparently the water we’d planned to float had seen a few other anglers in the past weeks, as if we’d have noticed. But when you get suggestions from folks who make a living in that country and seem to have your interest at heart, well… the decision was unanimous and quick.

When someone talks about fishing in Alaska it can mean a lot of different things. Halibut in deep water comes to mind -- and you can drive to all sorts of rivers and lakes for salmon and trout, or you can hike or backpack to them. You can go into the bigger rivers with powerboats and you can fly into camps outfitted with jetboats. Or, as we did, you can be dropped off in remote country to fly fish and raft your way down towards the ocean.

This was an unguided, un-outfitted DIY trip and we had maps of our original route but all we knew about our new course was to go downstream. That choice added a new twist to the adventure. With the maps we’d have had at least an idea of where we were. Now every inch of the river was ours to discover. My old GPS would give us an idea of how far we’d travel in a day, but with no mapping feature it could only indicate our progress in straight lines. On the twisting river there was certainly some guessing to be done.

Rick landed his beautiful plane on a little lake and we unloaded our gear and the deflated raft. Then he gave me the coordinates of the pickup point and was gone. It didn’t take long to start pumping the raft, but we took a little time to realize that we were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere. If all went well we’d travel and fish some 60 to 70 river miles and see our pilot again in nine days.

We inflated the raft while spawning sockeye salmon splashed near. It was a sight to see, bright red fish by the hundreds, and a sight we’d soon become accustomed to. We pushed off and entered the stream, more of a creek than river, and were soon out of the raft pushing and pulling over shallow riffles. I think we walked as much as we floated those first couple of days, but the bankside runs were full of fish and when Scott landed the first large rainbow trout we knew we were in for something good. By the time we found our first campsite we’d already seen a huge racked caribou and our first bear. The bear was making his way up the river as we floated down and it took a minute of our yelling and waving for it to notice us. I tried for my camera when the bear stood up on its hind legs to better check us out, but dropped and ran off before I could get a photo. As we continued downriver we watched it meandering up the hill in the distance. More caribou near camp and fish for supper, Dolly Varden char, which are beautifully colored and the first “dollies” I’d ever seen.

We knew we had to travel a distance each day, but it was hard to pass up the runs and holes that harbored so many fish. We’d pull the loaded raft onto a gravel bar and wander downstream fly casting and catching rainbows, dollies, grayling, and an occasional red salmon.

The “reds” were far up from the ocean and mostly spawning or spawned and not about to take a fly, but a few were fresh enough to bite and put up a good fight. I’d only seen photos of the bright red salmon with hooked jaws on green heads until then and I could hardly comprehend standing in the river amongst them.
  

There were bear tracks everywhere along the shoreline and covering the gravel bars. It was nearly impossible to find a tent site that didn’t have bear prints on it, and before long we only took notice of the largest tracks. We didn’t see that many bears, actually, but enough for some neat photos. We had a bear gun, but it was mostly cased in the bottom of the raft or in Chris’s tent. The bears were more interested in the fish and really caused us no trouble, but you couldn’t forget about them and more than once I laid a reassuring hand on the bear spray hanging from my belt.

The farther downstream we travelled the bigger the fish became. On the third day we switched from our 6 weight rods to 9’s and 10’s. I’m not sure we ever took photos of the biggest fish. It’s hard to quit casting to mess with the camera but we tried to shoot what should be memorable catches. When we first started our float we kept in fairly close contact, always ready to net a fish for each other. As the days went on we would spread out quite a distance, often out of sight of each other or the raft, and when someone hooked a fish he was often on his own. And someone was always hooking a fish! I got pretty good at beaching big fish.

When we hit the silver salmon the game changed. We’d still hook dollies, rainbows and grayling, but the silvers got all our attention. They’d strike a fly and it was “game on” as they’d spin your reel and strip your fly line in seconds. They’d fly out of the river in heartstopping jumps, shaking violently to throw the hook before taking another long powerful run and all you could do was watch your line cut water. It was amazing!

Have you ever had a great dinner and said, “I could get used to this?” Well, we actually did get used to having a delicious salmon dinner, cooked over a driftwood fire, night after night. Gotta thank Chris for doing the cooking, as well as putting this outstanding trip together. This kind of thing requires some planning.

Our routine was pretty simple, we’d break camp after a hearty breakfast, add some air to the raft (yeah, it leaked a bit) load our gear and head downstream. Sometimes we’d get only a few yards before stopping to wade fish, sometimes we’d go farther. We began to realize there were times we’d have to pass good fishing to make some distance, and the wind became a factor, always blowing upriver from the ocean. Mid-day we’d stop for lunch and a rest. Then we’d float and fish until around 7, when we’d look for a camp. We’d find a bar with a few good tent sites, set up our tents, gather firewood, and get a supper cooking. One beer each, and a sip or two of bourbon around the fire. Next thing you knew it was 11 o’clock and getting dark. I’d fall asleep listening to the river flowing and salmon jumping.

This was not a leisurely vacation trip. In and out of the raft many times a day to pull through shallows or wade fish tires a guy out in the best way. Pitching and breaking camp daily along with camp chores in the open northern air makes for good sleep. Good gear is very important. Waterproof and warm. We pretty much lived in our waders all day. It often rained at night with a few showers during the day, just enough to keep rain gear on or handy. The weather was cool, the water cold. I packed my sleeping bag into a waterproof compression sack that went into a waterproof duffle. And while we each were having a great time with lots of laughing and joking, we all knew we were in serious country with one exit and little chance of quick rescue if needed. I believe the only casualty was one of my reels that a silver put the hurt to, destroying the drag and bearing.

The fishing was tremendous, I don’t know who caught the most but it wasn’t me. Still, I can’t remember all the fish I caught. I’d tied flies for what I hoped would cover every situation, and I only needed a few patterns, but it’s good to have the bases covered. I did try to use most of my “Alaska specific” flies for a few casts anyway, just ‘cause I had ‘em. And if I’d caught a nice fish on the wrong fly it would have been OK, too. We caught so many silvers on streamers that we started wogging them on the surface and just kept catching, in the most excited way. There’s nothing like seeing a big salmon waking behind a big pink deerhair pollywog being stripped in!

On the ninth day we found the pickup point near where our river converged with two others, creating a landing zone large enough and deep enough for a floatplane to land. We were there 90 minutes early and caught more salmon while we waited for Rick. Each of us agreed it would be hard to convey to the folks back home just what kind of adventure we’d experienced. Photos help, but you really had to be there. I’m glad I was. I can’t imagine seeing such vast country, or fishing opportunities, like that again. Except in Alaska.