A cup and a book

When it was light enough to see our thermometer hanging below the bird feeder the needle pointed at 20 below zero this morning. It wasn't much of a surprise – the TV weatherman said it would be cold – so I kinda' figured it would be an indoor day. Oh, I had some chores to do outside but it wasn't long before I settled into my chair with a book and a mug of coffee. I might be old-fashioned but I believe a good book is one of the finest, and under-rated pleasures a man can have. So while the sunlight cut the frigid air and warmed me through the window I settled in as comfortable as could be.

There have been a couple of books I've read cover to cover in one or two sittings but they weren't very long and they weren't very good. I'm mostly a slow reader and if it's something I enjoy I'll often stop at a sentence, paragraph, or passage just to turn away and think it over. I may have been reminded of something or somewhere I've been, something I'd like to do, or maybe something to learn. A good book takes me a long time to read and there can be a ting of disappointment when I'm on the final pages. The similarities to a fishing trip are obvious, sure, I need to finish it but I hate to see it end. A good book should be sipped, not gulped.

Bookmarks are handy and I make mine from birch bark. A couple layers of the thicker stuff under the white papery sheet, a bit of glue and maybe a little design added. A tail feather from a grouse works, too, as does about any scrap of paper but I enjoy making them and we all have our quirks. For awhile I was burning a bass figure on them and passing 'em out on our fishing trips. The thin bookmarks are more functional than the wooden things (I don't know what to call them) I make now, but the wood will likely last longer and my fishing friends like them. Capt Jack has a couple of the wooden ones hanging from his rear-view mirror that click together on rough roads, which can be either irritating or delightful, depending on your perspective.

So I sat in the morning sun and read a chapter on pike fishing. Up here they're called “northerns” by the locals and I've lately been thinking about fly fishing for them. Pike fishing is fun. They are wild and hit violently. There's an air of danger about them. They're toothy and hard on flies and leaders. Big ones are awesome impressive predators; two footers fight hard and taste good if you wanna' keep 'em. Little ones, the hammer handles... well, they're kind of a pain, but they miss your fly as often as they hit it. Like everything else, some folk just don't like pike. Suit yourself. 

Winter is just getting started so it'll be awhile before there's any fly fishing around here. The lake and rivers are frozen and there's about three feet of snow on the ground. It's cold out and I can't think of a better thing to do than relax with a cup of hot coffee and a book.

nowhere to go

Yesterday's TV news was focused on the weather: winter storms racing across the country. Here in Minnesota they showed cars and buses sliding out of control on paved roads covered with glare ice. Over 300 crashes reported in less the five hours, and still counting. Kids were ice skating on the streets and sidewalks. State Patrol banned tow trucks from going out. Dangerous stuff.

Up here the storm didn't hit until late last night. It was just starting to snow when I hit the sack. This morning the storm continues. I've nowhere to go and I'm happy about that. Our electric power is still on, but the generator in the garage is gassed up just in case.

I was sitting in my front room chair trying to read but was constantly distracted by the blowing snow outside. The strong wind is swirling around, one minute from west, then from the east. It's nearly 30 degrees and there's an icy sleet mixed in. From my corner of the cozy front room I listened to the sleet peppering against the windows. Our Christmas tree is still lit and all is quiet but for the wind.

Sitting at this keyboard I can look over at my beckoning fly tying vise and will likely put it to use later. The coffee is delicious, I can smell bacon frying, and I'm happy knowing the cupboards are stocked. I can, and probably will, stay here for days and go outside only to move snow, hike on snowshoes and ski.

Some folks have to travel on days like this. I used to, but these days I'm grateful for the peaceful pleasure of easing back and watching it snow. Stay safe and Happy New Year.

time for snowshoes

It seems like we were just wondering where the heck October went when we turned around to see November is gone, too. Deer season came with a little snow and we (Gabby and I, at least) were hopeful of getting into some of the local covers for grouse when deer season ended. More snow came, however, along with some rain that ended up putting an thin abrasive crust over 8 inches of snow and adding a layer of ice to our sidewalks here at home. Hard walking and harder on dog feet – I pretty much gave up on dog boots long ago – so we all but called it a season. I haven't yet put the shotgun away, but I have taken the extra hunting clothes and sleeping bag out of my truck.

Just after Thanksgiving came the storm that caused headaches across the country. It didn't bother us much though, a few hours moving snow and now it appears winter is here. Yesterday morning I woke to minus 10 degrees. I'm happy not to go anywhere, at least by automobile, though I went to town four days ago to get dog food and seed for the birds. Other than that my travel has been by foot, ski, and snowshoe.

One of the neat things about snow is all the life it reveals. Every morning we see new deer tracks crossing the yard and a short snowshoe hike out back shows where the weasel (now an ermine) has hunted for mice; a fox criss-crossed the meadow; a grouse marched behind the kennel; snowshoe hares and squirrels racing around; a couple of bucks rubs and deer beds.

Last spring I bought a pair of the new style metal framed snowshoes. The April crust of snow made woods travel easy, and on snowshoes you could explore almost anywhere on the basically flat smooth surface hardly leaving a track. Trouble came for me on the hills, however, as my good old wood and rawhide snowshoes could find no purchase on the harder layer of snow. Going uphill I could sometimes punch my toe into the snow to climb, but downhills felt like I had an out-of-control toboggan on each foot. The snow wouldn't hold my weight without snowshoes, but I didn't need the flotation of the near 5-foot long Alaskans.

After some research, I purchased a pair from a small local sports shop. I looked at cheaper models but the the ones I picked are made next door in Wisconsin by a company that employs folks living with some kind of disability. I like that.

My new shoes were just the ticket, light weight and shorter to maneuver through the woods, the crampons underneath bite the snow for great traction going up or down. They might be a little racy looking for my tastes, but at least if I'm looking for them they're easy to spot. I won't abandon my traditional snowshoes, not by a long shot, but when conditions are right I'll be wearing the new style. Another season is here. Enjoy!

 

Where'd October go?

It's always a bonus for a grouse hunter when you find a new good looking cover to explore, and if it's close to home it's even better. This fall I'd taken to driving down to the gun club on Sunday afternoons mostly to sit around with the folks in the clubhouse and talk about hunting, guns, dogs, fishing and most anything else that anyone brought up. There's always plenty of coffee and some kind of baked goods to munch on. Some of the guys show up without their gun, just for the company of like-minded friends. There'll be a few lady shooters, too, and some non-shooting gals with their spouses that bring the best of the eats. Now and then the outdoor grill is fired up and you don't wanna' be late for that. Sometime during the afternoon you go out and see what you can do about breaking some clay pigeons.

It was bird season, October, so I asked a few of the guys about some young aspen cutting just across the road from the club's entrance. It looked choice for woodcock to me. JW said he'd been in there a year or two before and found nothing but tough walking, though, he allowed, he didn't have a dog. The next week I brought Gabby along to hunt that cover before the club opened. In twenty minutes a limit of woodcock had fallen to my gun, and Gabs pointed several more before I could steer her back to the truck. A nice little honey hole. This across the road from where, once a week, a couple dozen wing-shooting enthusiasts gather. Not that I'd care to see that little cover shot out, but I sort of wondered why it hadn't been.

The gun club is 30 miles or so south of my home in a direction I seldom go except for the skeet shooting, but years ago I worked in a gravel pit operation near there and recalled exploring a narrow forest road that wound through the woods and connected two county gravel roads. I don't remember it being anything special then, but it seemed like a good idea to check it out again. Turns out we found a prime grouse covert.

Old logging roads are magnets for ATVs, though I was surprised at how little this trail into beautiful grouse cover was used – just enough traffic to knock the grass down but not enough to rut up the wet spots. Plus, there were no signs of birds being cleaned at the trailhead by thoughtless gunners leaving the remains scattered about, which I've seen too often. Gabby was spinning circles while I tried to calm her down to slip her bell collar on, and before I could get my gun out she'd darted into the cover and was on point fifty feet from the truck. A nice woodcock find that promised a good start. 

I've enjoyed many dogs over the years and I'm always impressed to see their enthusiasm and eagerness during the quest for game but, and perhaps it's age catching up with me, more than ever I appreciate the pure joy and delight a bird dog takes in it's mission. Sometimes I wonder if I hunt birds just to make a dog happy.

I like bird cover like this. Mostly flat on that soft autumn smelling soil under leaves we kick up. Absent are the ankle breaking rocky holes found in so many of the covers I hunt to the north. Other than the close growing aspen trunks the only real hazards are scattered rotting slash piles that are easily avoided. There's a sprinkling of birch and maple trees just 'cause they're pretty and a few runs of dark green balsam spread around to add some color and provide rainy day cover for the grouse. Leg grabbing hazel, dogwood, and buck brush add habitat. A focused gunner with a fast dog could cover most of this in an hour – as it was, Gabby and I took a little longer. A weekend morning later in October without a hint of any other hunters around. Perfect. We found a half dozen ruffs and 4 or 5 woodcock during that first visit. I didn't get shots at all of them but that's grouse hunting. You can bet this place is on my list!

There's that old saying, beware the man with only one gun. I'd probably be deadlier if I followed that advice and stuck to one gun, myself. I'm fortunate to have, in my opinion, two nice grouse guns. One is a 100-plus year old American made double gun. It came to me in a rare (for me) gun trade. I don't know it's history but somewhere along the lines I like to believe it was owned by a grouse hunter. It's tighter chokes were bored to throw the wider patterns we use in the grouse woods and I hope whoever used this gun before me was following a bird dog. When I carry it, it is indeed, my favorite.

I bought the other gun new, though that was quite a few years ago, now. A well known foreign made over/under with screw-in choke tubes. It's light and fast despite the 29 ½ inch barrels. I couldn't leave it alone so I stripped the finish and hand-rubbed many coats of oil into the stock and added a pad for length. When in my hands it is, of course, my favorite.

 Both guns shoot just slightly high of center like a bird gun should. If I handle them the way they should be handled there will be grouse on the grill. Ruffed grouse, bird dogs, and shotguns are why we wish October could last forever.

can't catch 'em all.

It seemed like a good plan: Do a little work around the house, take the dog for a quick hunt, and then head for the river. You didn't actually get much done at home, but you flushed a couple of grouse with your dog and missed the one shot you took. It was a fine autumn morning at any rate, and before long you'd be standing in a river.

You hear the weather forecast on the truck radio talk about the approaching cold front with possible frost and notice the sky filling with clouds, but you're prepared with warm clothes and raingear. You get to the river several hours before dark and hike into a favorite spot. Steelhead and lake-run browns were said to be in the river and you decided to test out a new sinktip line swinging streamers. A couple years ago you'd landed a big brown trout in this very hole, swinging a streamer and hoped to duplicate that success. After working upstream to the tail of a big bend pool you give up on the streamer and toss a little prince nymph into the current. It was almost a surprise when the line goes tight but the rainbow on the other end is even more surprised. The fish takes off downstream going airborne with five big shaking leaps. Once in the net you wondered how that tiny little fly stuck in the trout's top lip could manage such a fish. And the fly falls right out before you could unhook it!

It's time to head upstream for part two of the day's plan. A big wide spot in the river, they call it a lake, is rumored to hold large brown trout that feed at night and love big mouse patterns. You park the truck as close as you can and lift your canoe off. A rucksack is packed with PFD, canoe seat, net, and fly box. Two paddles are jammed into the bow and you pull your headlamp onto your hat before hoisting the works onto your shoulders. Then you reach for the rod tube leaning on the truck and set it up in the bow. The portage to the river is easy, thanks to the downhill trial and anticipation of over-sized trout.

You're on the water just before dark and pondering where those trout will be. No fish are rising but that could change any minute. Will they be in the weeds? Out in the channel? Or perhaps along the shoreline banks where you'd cast for bass on a different river. You tie on your deerhair mouse before it's too dark to see the tippet and start casting.

Maybe the fish are laying by those rocks. Nothing. Ease to the shoreline but be careful not to overshoot and hang your fly in the overhanging cedars and maples. The mouse lands with a light plop and you can see it riding high. Twitch it. Strip it. Darn, it grabbed some weeds.

It's full dark now. The only sound is the breeze and your sailing fly line. You turn on you light to change to a Morrish Mouse, one you tied for Alaskan rainbows, thinking a lower riding fly will help. Flip the light switch off and everything is black. Before your eyes can adjust, the canoe bumps a rock and your heart jumps. Alone in a canoe, it's pitch black and you can't see a thing. And there's no action from the fish. Trout season will close on this water in a couple of days and you'd like to end with a bang, but you're losing hope and without confidence you send your fly here and there and wonder what the heck is going on.

It's downright chilly by now. The breeze is bothersome, your back is sore, and there's a comfortable restaurant a few miles away. Paddling along the shoreline you flip the light on to find the landing and are startled by a lone angler standing in the water. Doing any good? Nope, you? Nope. Damn cold front.

Grouse Season.

It's Grouse Season. Gabby was spinning with excitement at the chance. The cover is still too thick with leaves to see much, but Autumn colors are popping and today was cool enough to enjoy the hike without the sweat dripping from my brow and down my back.

An English setter; a cheery dog bell; a comfortable old box-lock shotgun. During the next weeks it will only get better. Enjoy it!

The limit?

Most of the guys out at the skeet club know I'm a fly fisherman so when I show up I'm often asked “how's the fishing?” Sometimes I have something to say and sometimes not. There's one fellow out there named Red who is a fine outdoorsman and shows up with a collection of expensive Italian and Spanish side-by-side shotguns to shoot clay pigeons with. Fine bird guns for sure – some would call them fowling pieces – though the serious skeet shooters are more impressed with their florescent sighted, adjustable stocked over-unders and auto loaders. 

Red is also reputed to be intimately acquainted with every trout stream in the entire Arrowhead region. However, like so many folks around here, Red believes the primary purpose of angling is to secure a meal. Meat. Red is 70-some years old and in fine physical shape but told me he'd quit trout fishing back when the daily limit was lowered to five fish. Bringing home a measly five trout was hardly worth the effort.

Red knows I enjoy tying big bass bugs and streamers and will travel for hours to float rivers and cast for smallmouth bass – “Why? I wouldn't eat one!” They're fun to catch, Red, and we don't eat 'em, we release them, you know, catch and release. And good times with good friends. Red shakes his head. It's kinda' like skeet shooting, you'll shoot six boxes of shells out here today but take nothing home to eat. He just ignores me.

“How about trout?” Yeah, Red, I caught a couple little browns on a small streamer last week. “You'd do better with worms.” But that little fly stuck in the corner of their mouth makes it easy to release them.

Red walks away. You know, a ham sandwich tastes good, too. He's gone.

Brook Trout Morning

The owl I saw on the hike in seemed like a good omen, though I can't claim being clever enough to outsmart the few trout that were landed. Truth is I was just lucky. Again. The biggest accomplishment of the morning was just making it to the stream. After a fairly easy jaunt through the balsams and spruce I had to cross the old (mostly) dry beaver meadow through waist-deep swamp grasses hiding the many bone-breaking holes and tangles of sticks and logs of past beaver workings. Slow going for sure, but thankfully it was cool enough to wear a jacket and a welcome breeze helped ward off the mosquitoes.

There was no discernible hatch on the water, nothing to indicate a pattern to try, but I knew I'd start with a dry fly. A long time ago an old time brook trout specialist told me to add a little red to my trout flies, and so the Dark River was created. It's really nothing special but a pretty generic mayfly imitation with a bit of red floss added as a tail. It could be a purist's disdain, but it's caught many local brookies as well as browns and rainbows in Minnesota's driftless area. But it wasn't working this day.

I had seen a few grasshoppers on the way in, so a white post parachute hopper was given a chance. These little brookies are not tentative fish. They don't rise from the depths to look over a fly and, if satisfied, sip it in. No, these brave and unsophisticated fish rocket up from the bottom of the pool and hit with abandon if they like what's offered.

The hopper worked, with a blurry photo for proof, but let's see what else will, too. A western style #14 elk-hair caddis was next and brought a strong strike on the second cast! Another pretty brookie in the net. A couple more on the surface before the high sun had me sweating and I realized several hours had gone by. Several fine hours.