Dark River

I’ve been seeing so many big fish photos posted on social media that I’m wondering if I’ll become de-sensitized to it all. You know, kind of the same way we ignore road work signs because they are all over the roads. The latest of a very nice smallmouth bass caught by a lady I know makes me think I’m not fishing enough. Now that gal lives a very interesting life, produces excellent programing for a popular PBS television station, is on top of the music scene, an outdoor adventurer, and one of the most pleasant people I’ve met. And I don’t even know her very well.

Anyway, maybe the bass she is holding looks so big because she is so small. At least compared to me, she is. I wonder if my posed fish pictures would look better if I possessed a smaller stature. I’m a pretty big guy and holding a twenty incher in front of myself doesn’t have the same effect as someone smaller posing with the same fish. On the other hand, if the fish I’m holding looks big, it is big.

It rained all night last night and was raining when I woke up this morning. It was a good day to take off from my project of adding yet another roof to my property. I’ve decided I need a better place to store the boat, thus an addition to the garage. When I say “yet another roof,” it’s only because I recently reviewed my property tax description and was somewhat surprised that everything about the place is included. Even the dimensions of my rough old woodshed -- and the broken down little garden shed. I’ve never been home when the tax assessor comes around, but obviously he carries a tape measure and isn’t afraid to wander around. Funny thing is he has the dimensions of my house wrong. Oh, well… what’s a couple of feet in a county this size? So I went fishing.

I hadn’t had my small steam rod out for a long time so today I took it over to the little trout stream not far from here. It’s a posted trout stream, all right, but pretty marginal water, I think, compared to some of the other streams I’ve fished. But it’s close. I usually fish what I call the north route, but today I thought I’d try the south end again, as I haven’t been there in a couple of years. It all depended, of course, on how bad the road was. I pulled on my waders here at home so I wouldn’t have to lean on the truck in the rain and mosquitoes when I got to the river.

The two-track road into the river was in good shape, better than the last time I was there and I surprised a badger when I rounded a curve, which surprised me as I don’t think much about badgers around here. Bears, wolves, fox, deer, marten and fishers, yes. But not badgers. I immediately thought about my companion for the day, an over-weight water spaniel named King who I am watching for a couple of weeks, but the river was nearly a mile away so I didn’t expect to see the badger again. It’s reasonable to think that King, being a water spaniel, would enjoy the chance to get into the woods and hunt a little, but he’s never shown any hunting ability or desire at all. And he doesn’t like water. Go figure. He doesn’t retrieve and won’t even chase a ball, though I felt like I should do something with him and assumed he’d make a good fishing dog so I brought him along. I was right about that. He stayed at my feet as we moved down the river and watched patiently from the bank when I stopped to fish. 

After all the rain we've been getting the river was just about how I thought it would be – high and muddy. Still, I had the day to fish and fishing is good. The shoreline cover was high and thick and the streamside path was little used and hard to make out in places. Pushing through the foliage made me realize that a short and tough rod was perhaps more important for the hiking part than the fishing part. Mountain ash lining the vague path added a festive look. There were trees down everywhere, balsams, spruce and big white pines – across the faint trail and across the river, but here and there I’d make my way to water’s edge and cast a weighted nymph into the murky waters. Short roll casts were the order of the day and all that was necessary. A doe and fawn were spotted and I watched them bound away while King wondered why I paused. Occasionally there was room to unfurl a cast and my little 7 foot, 9 inch rod felt just right.

I never caught a fish. I never moved a fish that I know of. I lost a few flies, broke off on underwater snags and I left the river thinking about a camping trip to some better trout water. I didn’t have to call the dog. He was right there.

Castin' around...

I’m not entirely sure what ALL the signs of growing old are, but if I ever wake up wondering, my shoulders and left knee will remind me in a hurry. Wasn’t it just yesterday – ok, the day before – when I’d fly down the winter ski hills hootin’ and hollerin’? No, not so much anymore. The last time I stuck the tips of my skis over the edge of a black diamond slope I was thinking if there weren’t so many people about I’d turn around. But down the hill I went carving hard turns so I wouldn’t build too much speed and made it to my laughing daughter waiting at the bottom.  There’s a reason the bar in the chalet is always crowded.

I don’t think white whiskers qualifies as blondes having more fun, and somewhere along the way my pants quit staying up and suspenders assumed a more important task than just trying to achieve the lumberjack look. I suppose there’s a physiological reason for that having to do with too much of one thing and too little of another, but then I’m no scientist.  I still get after it for the most part and there’s that old saw “I’m not in bad shape for the shape I’m in.”

I’m still getting more than my share of catalogs. I remember looking forward to them when they were all about fishing and nothing else. Rods, reels, and Rapalas. Now days they figure the fishing gear is only a prelude to the mountain of other stuff that is necessary. I mean, who could go fishing without a new 4-wheeler or side-by-side? Do you really want to be seen this spring with the same vehicle you were driving last year? Of course you don’t want your machines looking like everyone else’s so just take a look at the accessories available. Don’t forget the generator, you probably won’t use it but there’s nothing like the sound of one running all night to make you forget you’re away from civilization. And there are cell phone holders and video camera mounts for your boat, ATV, RV, tent, canoe, boat, bike, motorcycle, mower and snowblower. Yep, you can even buy a drone. All from the fishing catalog.

 

I think the fly fishing catalogs are better, though there are still things offered that would be a stretch to categorize as fly fishing gear. I haven’t received an Orvis catalog for a long time, I guess I wonder if they even put them out in this day of online everything. I used to spend hours gazing at the pages and I always liked how they used to name the models of their rods – there was the 4 wt. Brook Trout, the 5 wt. Far & Fine, the 7 wt. All Rounder, and so on. The monikers became modernized, a business decision I suppose, but Trident and Matrix seem a little too nascar sounding to me, though a good rod is a good rod no matter what they call it. Some of the new rod models have real space-age sounding names and those with alphabetical letter designations seem more suited to crotch-rocket motorcycles. But I could be jumping the gun I suppose, and it appears the rod makers are dialing back to a gentler time and I’m seeing models named after creeks and rivers and such. That’s better.

The trend toward fly fishing big fresh-water predator fish is hard to ignore and it’s become the hot thing to throw chicken-sized flies with heavy rods that were once only considered for the ocean. I love doing it myself, though I’ve never really gotten into the “rip their lips” machismo mode of it, and I’ve been lucky to have enjoyed some real good times doing it. Of course, they’re all good times and it’s about time to have some more.

Lookin' through the past...

Sometimes life gets in the way of living. I suppose we all know it and that’s pretty much how it’s been going for me of late. I’ve been missing some favored activities because I’ve been too tied up with tasks. And I know that I’m guilty when I’m accused of putting recreation ahead of everything else, but then, life is short, right? Even my dad once told me “you can’t go hunting and fishing all the time.” Coming from him that kind of threw me for a loop.

Well, Dad is living in an assisted living facility now and all his hunting and fishing take place only in his own mind. I’ve been working on getting his house in order and what a job it’s turned out to be. Thankfully PJ has been doing most of the indoor organizing and I can’t thank her enough. I’ve tackled the garage and it’s hard to believe the amount of stuff Dad held on to and accumulated. And while it’s a real time-eating chore there have been some interesting finds, as well. We’ve found some military records and discharge papers from both Dad and my grandfather dating back to 1917. I found Gramps’ WW1 pocket bible and a fine chrome hand warmer. There’s a front page newspaper article that tells of Chancellor Hitler sending troops to invade Poland under the fat headline “WAR BREAKS OUT!” dated 1939, and another from 1945 with the headline “JAPS SURRENDER.”

In the rafters of the garage I found old fishing rods made of steel, some telescoping and some rigid. I do remember seeing them before, but it’s been years. And a half dozen old level-wind reels, the reels I used to learn how to cast big Jitterbugs and Crazy Crawlers without backlashing. I found a few of my grandpa’s homemade decoys. Gramps used to painstakingly skin the heads of ducks and put the feathered skin on a carved and sanded wooden form, his own early method of flocking I guess, before adding it to a wooden, cork, or a coarse foam body. I remember seeing them at our duck camp when I was a kid and wondered if Gramps just chopped the heads off ducks and stuck them on a block. The one I found is still in pretty good shape and must be at least 60 years old.

The old photos are something, too. Gramps with stringers of fish, ducks, rabbits and squirrels. Him and Grandma in front of the barn with muskrats, mink, and skunks hanging from the wall.

It been time consuming and I skipped our annual spring Montana trip, plus the opener of walleye season here. But I heard the weather out west was bad and if Scotty says the weather was tough, then it was tough. Here, it snowed and blew so I guess if I had to miss some fishing, it wasn’t a bad weekend to clean Dad’s garage. I gotta say, the nostalgia can be pretty heavy stuff.

I have to make some time for the dogs, of course, and I know I'm behind on the training of my pup, Gabby, but it will come. The last couple of weeks my routine has been go to work for three days and take off two. On Thursday I get out of bed and out at the kennel 5 minutes later. I let the dogs out and give ‘em a little snack before I go in for breakfast. I might read a bit over coffee or see the news, then it’s outside again with the dogs. There might be some bird work or maybe a run through some hay fields, or perhaps some retrieving practice or we could end up just playing and chasing around with tennis balls. Then it’s to town and Dad’s house. Four days of that and back to work. It’s coming to an end and I’m eager to finish so I can go fishing!

april report

Many years ago my friend Rollie B. observed that I had some pretty expensive interests for a guy who always seemed to wonder where his next meal was coming from. We were at a field trial running top-notch English setters and talking about, among other things, travelling east to enter some of the big grouse trial championships and going west to hunt prairie grouse ‘till winter. And of those other subjects we spoke, fly fishing and its accoutrements were discussed. This was the time before internet so there were no Craiglists or Ebays to search for deals on anything. A fly rod was, to me, a high dollar investment but one I couldn’t ignore and I spent many a long evening paging through the Orvis and Dan Bailey catalogs.

Looking back at some of the old photos I guess I looked like someone more suited to following an old hound at night or sitting on a muddy river bank with canepole in hand and worm bucket near. Of course, there’s no wrong in hunting hounds and I remember some fine evenings chasing raccoons with my buddy’s black & tan Sam and bluetick Moses – and sure, watching a big red and white bobber above a gob of crawlers can be a pretty satisfying endeavor. Peaceful, you know, with no pretentions.

Well, my friend Rollie was a successful businessman at the time, and became more successful. I kinda’ lost track, but the last I heard anything about him he was shooting ducks and doves in South America. I landed a steady job and have been able to get a couple more rods without missing too many suppers but most of my outdoor efforts are going to take place pretty locally.

It’s been a tough spring, so far, and winter doesn’t want to give up. I stopped to take a look at the frozen Embarrass River this afternoon and wondered if it’s ever been iced over this late in the year. Pike River is open and could probably be floated in a canoe until you rounded that last bend and saw the frozen lake ahead. We’ve had a few comfortable sunny spring days and the grouse were drumming outside my door, but a week of snow and cold have put the birds on hold. Running Gabby we moved a couple of woodcock but the evenings have dropped well below freezing and I hope those woodcock found somewhere to feed. There’s hope ahead, I hear, and this week may see temps in the forties.

Spring grouse trials are in full swing and I hope to get to at least one before it’s over. Some of the best folks I know are dog folks and it’s always good to see old friends, and there are some fine dogs competing that I’d like to get a look at. Wild bird trials are at a premium, anymore, and those of us lucky enough to live near those venues really have something special. There are all sorts of competitive dog games to partake in, but wild bird trials date back to the beginning of it and though there’s a learning curve to understanding it all, once you develop an appreciation of what it takes to make the “show,” the tradition, and the dedicated people involved you’ll know it’s worth pulling your boots on for.

I’m getting reports from some of my friends who’ve been out west trout fishing and it looks awesome. My dad once told me I couldn’t hunt and fish every day because life will get in the way. Of course he was correct and I myself have had to grudgingly cancel my slot in this year’s annual Montana trip. Yep, that’s life.

Anyway, the snow is bound to melt, the rivers and lakes will open, and there will be fish to be caught. I can’t wait!

Happy Easter

It’s been hard to believe that the official start of Spring was a week ago. There’s still plenty of snow around here, and after we enjoyed a few warm, melting days it snowed again. But there are signs. I saw a robin in the front yard birch over a week ago, and Gabby and I found a lonely little woodcock in a narrow roadside treeline that had melted off and was free of snow until yesterday’s snowfall. The sun came out today, Easter Sunday, and things warmed up a bit this beautiful afternoon. Some of my friends have been working dogs on bare ground 100 miles south of here, finding grouse and woodcock in numbers but I haven’t been able to get south to join them. I’m reminded of some years back when I took time off from work and drove south until I found snow free cover to train dogs on. I slept in my truck or pitched a tent on cold ground and figured I was living pretty good. It may come to that again sometime, but not likely this year.

I was happy to hear a grouse drumming this afternoon east of the house. It’s the first I’ve heard this year and a sound no one ever tires of. Of course those grouse are a favorite, but they’re not the only birds around. Our bird feeders are always busy and this morning a hundred or more redpolls made quick work of a pan-full of seeds.

 It seems like I’m hitting the truck brakes every day to avoid deer crossing the roads, but I still like watching them in our front yard, where they visit nearly daily for the seeds under the feeder. They somehow show up without stirring up the dogs in the backyard kennel, munch a snack right outside our window and wander around the yard and over to the pond with little concern.

Kamloops trout have been running along Lake Superior shores and there should be some steelhead pushing into the rivers soon. It’s been an unusually busy winter for me at work, and spring looks to be the same but here’s hoping for some good dog work and fishing soon.

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.