taking time for trout...

I woke to a light rain drumming my tent, but it wasn’t enough to keep the wild turkeys from announcing the beginning of another day. I’d slept the night through and was happy and peaceful camped there in Trout Valley. I was in southeast MN trout stream country and had enjoyed catching and releasing brown trout on my hand-tied flies the day before. Cold, spring fed water lapped around my light waders and kept me feeling cool on the hot, sunny day. Even my casting was going well, and I was thinking I was doing exactly what I was meant to do.

I grew up fishing those very streams with an old bamboo rod of my grandfather’s until I could put together enough muskrat trapping money for the ultra-light spinning outfit that appeared so deadly. In my younger days I suppose it was more important for me to catch fish by whatever method seemed easiest, and the more and bigger the better. But it wasn’t long away from those crystal clear spring-fed creeks and rivers before I missed the activity and satisfaction of casting a tiny fly from a decent fly rod. I’ve visited those streams sparingly over the years, mostly during the winter catch & release season, but I hadn’t camped in that country since I was in high school.

I still remember the day when the river called louder than the school bell so I drove my old ’54 Ford pickup down into the Whitewater valley and spent the day in the company of hardwood trees and sunshine and trout rather than teachers and the walls of a building. On my drive home I noticed a familiar looking car on the side of the road but forgot it quickly, trying to come up with a story of how I came from school with a creel full of trout that Mom might believe. The next morning a shop teacher pulled me aside as I entered his class and told me to grab a floor jack and air tank and go and fetch his car. Seems it had a flat and the spare was also without air. I asked where I might find his car and he exclaimed, “You know darn well where my car is because I took the day off to go fishing and when I finished I saw your truck down on the south branch!” He was on to me. “You must have driven past it on your way home! Take one of your buddies with you,” he added. So Ken Stock and I spent our class that day retrieving a teacher’s car. You’d think a shop instructor would have his vehicle in good repair. Anyway, I doubt there are many teachers like that, anymore. That’s too bad.

The rain was letting up while my coffee was boiling and I pulled on my waders and rain jacket for the morning fishing. A quick breakfast and I headed to the south branch, that same water I was caught playing hooky on those years back. On the stream I was casting a small dry fly into riffles, mimicking the technique I was successful with the evening before, when I spotted a rising fish in a slick pool just upstream. After a careful stalk I cast to lay my line just short of the fish, hoping not to spook it yet getting the drift just right to tempt the trout. The fourth cast worked and I had the fish on! It was the biggest of the trip and a great way to cap the morning. I posed the fish for a moment lying in the net and took photos to add to the other beautiful shots I taken of the trout, turkeys, and river valley scenes that I’d missed for so long. Then I bent to remove the hook from the trout’s lip and dropped my camera into the river. It was swept away in an instant. I splashed downstream hoping against hope to see it tumbling in the current, but to no avail. I stood bemoaning my misfortune when my net and rod came shooting by! A quick lunge and I saved them, at least.

After a couple of days of feeling like an accomplished, sophisticated fly angler who knows what he’s doing -- dropping my camera made me realize those hours fishing and camping were a gift I’d be wise to accept with humility, because I can still be just a clumsy, bumbling fool.

Grouse are hatched & hatching...

This is the time of year to be thinking more about fishing than working, or mowing the lawn, or household chores, or just about anything, I suppose. I even take a break from thinking about hunting … well, just a little, I guess.

Yesterday I sat in the yard in the sunlight and read a book and sipped a cold beer while the girls did the same. It was Memorial Day and though we didn’t drive to town to take part in any of the official celebration we are well aware and grateful for the freedoms we have. And sitting in the warm sun yesterday enjoying the beautiful weather made it easy to appreciate how lucky we are.

Jack lay at my side so I could rest my hand on his haunch while I read, but every now or then he would hear a squirrel or chipmunk and tear off into the woods to secure my safety. When he gave up the quest he would trot back in all setter regality and again rest in the soft grass. He’s a well built dog and I’d admire how dignified he looked until he’d jump up and chase dragonflies and their shadows. Jack is no pup, anymore, but I doubt he’ll ever grow up. Ty, the senior member of Team Bird Dog, watched from the shade of the birch tree, refusing any part of such antics.

Grouse had been drumming since March and I’ve heard them steadily up until about a week ago. But I haven’t forgotten them and after a while I hopped on my mountain bike to check a couple of nests I came upon last week. I left the setters home but took a camera in hopes of getting some decent photos, and was happy my little digital camera worked OK. The last time I took any quality wildlife photos I was using my expensive film shooting SLR with telephoto lens, and I’ve yet to replace it with a digital model.

I knew where the hens were sitting, but it took some time to locate them in their perfect camouflage. Actually, I found only one hen still nesting, the other had left with her brood of eight in tow, leaving only egg shells to mark the spot. I know the survival rate of baby grouse isn’t all that good, but it’s almost surprising any survive at all. I wonder how many predators passed the sitting hen as she watched motionless, exuding little scent thanks to Nature’s defense system. I saw coyote tracks within a stone’s throw of her nest and I’ve seen plenty of fox in the area. It’s a mystery how the sharp eyes of hawks and owls miss her during the weeks she incubates the eggs.

Since early spring I’ve searched out and found the drummers on their logs, then listened to their drumming efforts to coax a mate. It’s neat to see the effort was successful with the hens on nests, and finally the hatched eggs. Now I can hit the lakes and streams with fishing rod in hand and only have to worry about the grouse through the summer months until autumn, when, of course, they’ll worry about me.

spring has sprung...

It’s hard to complain when Spring comes early. We’re all eager to enjoy some sunshine and open the windows for some new and fresh air. Robins are hopping around the yard, and ducks and geese are finding the open water. There is still some ice on a few lakes, but the four or five rivers I crossed today are flowing free. There are those who will worry over fire danger, and I suppose there’s truth in that, but I’m going to enjoy things while I can.

I’m going to be out in these spring woods with a couple of bird dogs who know their business better than I do. As a matter of fact, the setters don’t really need me for much, except I think they take some pride in finding and pointing grouse for me. Someone has to be there to give them a bit of praise, a pat on the head, and a ride home for supper -- and I sure enjoy watching them work so I might as well be the guy following them.

Even in the leafless woods the dogs can be hard to keep track of. Nowadays there are all kinds of electronic devices for the sole purpose of locating bird dogs. There are even GPS units you can buckle on your pup and watch his progress on a handheld screen. I don’t have much of that stuff; partly because I don’t trust batteries, I’m technologically inept, and that stuff costs real money. I do hang a bell from their collars and sometimes have a beeper that will sound off when they stop to point a bird, and that seems enough for me.


I like working dogs in the spring. After a winter’s worth of snow and cold it feels good to walk on good old Mother Earth. The white dogs flashing back and forth in the grey and brown cover are exciting, and when they find a grouse I fire my training pistol over their points. I suppose the dogs just chalk it up as another miss, just like hunting season. Oh, I love the smell of burnt powder, even if it’s from a blank gun!

Woodcock are a sure sign of the season and a couple of days ago Ty found the first of the year for us. We don’t find as many as we used to; the little russet fellows are having a harder time surviving these days, so we don’t shoot as many either. But they’re sure fun to work a dog on and, as an indicator species, I’d be right worried if there were none. That same evening I drove to a woods meadow I know of hoping to hear and see a woodcock or two performing their annual mating sky dance. I sat quietly and waited while dusk approached, and heard the high pitched hooting of a saw-whet owl and the snipes “woo-woo-woo” until 7:50 when I heard the unmistakable “PEENT!” Then again, and several more times before the male woodcock took wing and rose up over the meadow and into the clear sky. It was a classic scene under a nearly full rising moon – I watched the bird spiral higher until it was out of sight. Then I heard its twittering chuckle and suddenly the bird shot across before me and settled on the ground to quickly start peenting again. I watched the display several times before deciding all was right with the world, and headed home.

So if you're out exploring some backroad and see a tall, kind of ragged fellow leaning on his truck at a woods clearing with a couple of tired setters in the back, don't be afraid to say hello -- it's just me watching for woodcock.

only thing to do...

Dad and I were sitting in the ice house trying for trout the other morning and not having much success catching them. We were, however, enjoying the morning warm near the heater and sipping coffee and munching sandwiches. His little spaniel, Molly, was begging for attention and now and then I’d step out to throw the retrieving dummy for her. All in all, it was a pleasing way to spend a winter’s morn, fish or no fish.

I guess no one was catching much because of the half dozen others we shared the lake with, four of them made their way over to see how we were doing. We chatted about the fishing for awhile and one of the guys remarked that he fished because there was nothing else to do. Hhmmm…

This is the time of year I start getting withdrawal symptoms from the hunting season. The holiday madness and getting accustomed to dealing with the first snowfalls keeps me busy and occupied, but by February things have usually settled down and I get to wishing I was following a dog with a gun, or casting a fly to trout or smallmouth. Cold nights are good for tying a few flies and thinking about rising fish and warm camps. I have a few favorite patterns I’ll stock up on to replace what I lost last summer. I wish I could say those flies were lost on big fish, but just as likely they are still hanging from some high tree branch or rusting on the submerged logs they were impaled on. I get kind of crazy with the bass flies, and I like to believe my clown-colored wine-cork poppers are more attractive than they are. I know I’ll tie up some lead-head Clousers after catching nice smallmouth bass in the BWCA last June.

For a few years I traveled to Tennessee to run dogs on bobwhite quail field trials about this time of year. Once I went to Georgia and gunned quail on a friend’s plantation. Those trips aren’t as easy to pull off right now, so I practice mounting my shotgun in the house, re-living the hits and misses of last Fall, vowing to be a better shot next year -- and reading the best shooting writing I can find. A glass of whiskey on a quiet night with a good book is a real pleasure to me, and just as good is hot coffee on a cold morning letting the day dawn reading that same book. It’s inspiring, and I’m keen to get the dogs out for a run when they beg at my knee, even if it’s trudging through the snow. Jack and I took a long trek yesterday and found one deer shed and all kinds of wildlife tracks. Of course, grouse tracks in the snow are among my favorite and get my heart beating a bit faster.

I don’t burn as much wood to heat my house as I once did, but I still burn some. I live on a little patch of ground surrounded by mostly aspen, some of which are over-mature and in need of cutting. There are some that might make good lumber but I have no interesting in any kind of logging venture. I just walk around and drop what I have enough ambition to split into firewood. I know there is better firewood than popple, and sometimes I take some birch and maple when it’s convenient, but a stove full of dry popple heats the house nicely and the thermostat can’t tell what kind of wood is burning. I knock the trees over and block and split where they fall. My old snowmachine pulls a little sled-full of wood over to the shed where I unload and stack it when there’s room under the roof. It’s a small scale, leisurely run outfit that suits me fine.

There are four pairs of skis in my basement ready to go, and I still have to re-lace my snowshoes. The band I play music with seems to get busier and busier and we've spent some weekends out of the area, which has been nothing but fun. Don’t forget about those home projects that can’t get done in the summer because, well… it’s summer. Hunting seasons are far too short for anything but hunting so if anything is going to get done around the house it’ll have to be during the winter.

I wish ice fishing was the only thing to do.

Yes, it's winter...

There’s enough snow now to make a difference. It’s truly winter, now. It snowed Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, the day after and was still snowing lightly today. For about a week now I’ve been doing little but lying around, visiting folks and family and eating and eating all sorts of holiday goodies. The holiday festivities have sort of calmed by now and when I woke this morning and saw that snow drifting down I just had to get outside for some activity.

I figured I could get out for a hike before breakfast while everyone was still asleep but when I stepped into my snowshoes I saw the rawhide was broken on one of the shoes right where the binding attached. Damn! Not ready to give up, though, I went back inside to dig through the pile of snowshoes for another that would suffice. I’m not sure why I’ve kept those old shoes, all made of wood and rawhide, especially the ones with broken frames, but I was happy to find one Ojibwa style that was in good shape and had a binding on it. So I would have my hike after all, with an Ojibwa snowshoe on my left foot and an Alaskan on my right.


My planned route had two purposes; I would get some much needed exercise, and I would get a start at tramping down a ski trail. The scenery and possible wildlife sightings were important bonuses. Jack the setter was eager for the chance so he came along. It only took minutes after entering the woods to feel enveloped in the landscape. Fresh snow clung to every stem of the hazel brush, every limb of the aspen, and every bough of the balsam. The snowshoes pushed muffled into the snow and even Jack busting ahead coursed forward in silence.


I can’t believe there was a better thing to do this morning. Here and there I crossed a deer track, some likely moved by Jack. My route was mostly north over and down the first hill that always is tricky when skied. It’s surprising how fast the brush grows to choke a trail, and some trees where down since the last time I followed this route. I found a new way across a thick creek bottom and when I climbed out the other side I heard a grouse flush. A few yards later I found a snow roost in a bit of a clearing. I might have thought there wasn’t enough snow for the grouse to shelter in, but I learned otherwise this morning. I’m always on the lookout for predator tracks, but the fresh layer of snow revealed nothing of that yet. However, in a day or so I’ll find fox and coyote tracks, fisher and marten, and maybe some wolf tracks.

I stopped on the last high ridge before the country descends into the swampy bottomland south of Big Rice Lake. On many days the lake is visible three quarters of a mile away, but today the light snow obscured the view. On the way back to the house I widened the trail on the hills hopefully to make for easier skiing. Halfway home I saw a grouse had walked out from under thick balsams and into my own tracks, but I never saw or heard the bird. Home and coffee, the usual morning bustle and readying JP for her trip back to school, the early hours were mine – a fine start to the day, and I guess it’s time to learn to fix snowshoes.

coming winter...

Autumn is finally giving way, surrendering to the icy grip of Winter. There are several inches of snow on the ground and today’s temp might have reached 20 degrees. I spent several hours hiking in the woods today looking at tracks, traps, trees, and the overall beauty of the new winter landscape. My favorite boots provided sure-footedness and comfort as long as I kept moving but it’s close to time to break out some heavier insulated footwear. I’m kind of old-school as far as trapping goes. I know the fastest way to take most furbearers is from the truck, running and gunning and putting lots of miles and plenty of steel on the ground. I’ve done it and reaped the benefits. You pull up to a place, jump out and grab a pail with trap and bait and run in and make the set. Then back to the truck and off to the next place. But I know a couple of places where I can swing my packbasket on and spent the best part of the day in the forest and never see another soul. I don’t cover as much ground but I like feeling my load get lighter with every trap I set. And it’s even more satisfying when checking the line and the pack gets heavier with fur as I make my rounds. It doesn’t always happen like that, but it’s neat when it does.

I like going on foot. I’ve spent some time on different machines traveling backwoods trails and roads, and probably will some more, but to my way of thinking it’s difficult to beat a non-motorized trek to really enjoy the experience I seek. Some think of horse-power, tires, and track length. I think about snowshoes, skis, and boots. I have to wonder if I hunt because I enjoy seeking the quarry or just hiking around the woods. I spent just about every day of October following bird dogs searching grouse and woodcock. I walked off nearly ten pounds despite the hunter’s feasts I took pleasure in. That’s not a bad thing.

Deer season came on warm and pleasant, at least for most of us. Sure, the die-hards worried over tracking snow and cooling their game, but I think whenever we get agreeable weather in November we should take advantage of it. I wore a pack and carried a map and compass because it seemed I felt more like exploring new ground than killing a deer. Twice I paddled my canoe to new country I’ve never hunted before. There’re not many seasons that allow canoeing during deer season around here. I rambled around the woods far from my usual haunts and discovered lakes, ponds, rocky outcrops and ridges I’ve never seen before. Some of them I may find again, others maybe not. I saw deer. Not many, but enough. I have to believe I hunt not so much to take game as to enjoy the places it takes me. I had some fine days overlooking wooded valleys I’ve never been to and enjoying lunches sitting on sun-warmed rocks. There’s real pleasure to be had in good outdoor gear and having the confidence in it to really get out there.

When deer season was over there was yet no snow so I loaded dogs in the truck and shells in the gun and hunted grouse some more. The later season birds sat tight and offered some pretty good shooting, surprisingly, after eluding hunters and critters for two months. And it’s not over yet. As Christmas approaches there are only those few inches of snow on the ground. I found plenty of grouse tracks this morning and I believe I know a couple of setters who would love a romp in the snow.

Cool Stuff...

All outdoor folks have some cool stuff that holds some kind of meaning to them. These things are likely not all that valuable, at least in terms of dollars and cents, but might offer a worth that money can’t measure up to. Over the years people are bound to hang on to some tangible bit of wood, metal, material or whatever that they’ve used or collected for some obscure reasons known only to themselves. I know a man who doesn’t hunt anymore but keeps an old Faulk’s duck call on his end table. The call is split up the side and doesn’t work anymore and he’s lucky to have a wife who understands. At first glance most folks would wonder why it hadn’t found the trashcan long ago. The old guy hardly ever notices it himself, but when he does it means something.

I have an old military issue mirror that was my Grandfather’s. He gave it to my Dad and he passed it on to me. I’ve used it camping in the BWCA and elsewhere when I or someone with me thought a mirror would be useful. It’s made from a rectangle of very high quality stainless steel and is of a size that just covers my hand. There is a hole punched in one end for hanging and is kept in its own canvas case. I wonder if such quality steel is available anymore – this piece of steel reflects true distortion-free images from either side. I can picture Gramps using it to shave from tent or trench, maintaining military discipline, before grabbing his Springfield for battle in Europe.

Years ago there was a fellow named Charlie S. who handmade a few dog bells for his setters to wear on their collars when he hunted grouse with them. I’ve seen a lot of bells in my time but his were unique in sound and style. I know of two men Charlie gave one of his bells to. I am one of them. My setter, Molly, was wearing it when she won the Minnesota Grouse Dog Championship. I’ve had some good dogs since, but none that have lived up to wearing her bell.

The Buck Folding Hunter is probably the best known Buck Knife ever made. When they first came out I wanted one badly, but could never seem to find the money to purchase one. When my sister presented me one for Christmas I didn’t know what to say. Susan was just a teen with a part-time job and to buy me such a gift was a real sacrifice for her. I was thankful, sure, but she deserved far more than she ever got from me. I cut my initials into it and carried that knife on my belt daily for years before finally reserving it for hunting only. Every deer I’ve ever killed or helped others with has been dressed, skinned, and cut with that old Buck Knife. I’ll never use another for deer hunting. Shortly after she gave me that knife, my sister died in a vehicle accident. Every year I handle that knife; open and close it; pull it over the whetstone; pass it from hand to hand, I wonder what kind of woman Susan would have become. And I treasure that knife.

It's about over...

I was in the fleet store this evening looking at deer hunting gear and gadgets when I ran into an old friend doing the same. He told me he’d just went back to work after taking the most of October off for hunting and fishing. He couldn’t believe how quickly that time passed. I know the feeling.

I spent most of October hunting, also, and though it was a tough month weather-wise, I hated to see it end. I can’t remember such a wet bird hunting season. I know it’s not over yet, and there may be good grouse hunting in Nov, and December, but it’s a chancy bet with the snow that will likely be here. As a matter of fact I often find grouse bunched up near clear cuts late in the season and the shooting can be awesome. But it’s not the kind of day-in, day-out hunting I enjoy when the leaves are turning.

I hunted a lot in raingear this year. It wasn’t easy to find a dry log to sit on and enjoy a sandwich while my setter lay in dry leaves next to me hoping for a bite. My evening routine consisted of hanging clothes to dry, sticking boots on the boot dryer, break down the shotgun for an oily rag, supper, drink, bed.

My hunting was interrupted only by the field trials I had been asked to judge. During them I connected with long time friends, saw some great dogs work many grouse and woodcock, and had a fine time in general. Hunting or trialing, I walked hours a day, and I ate bigger meals than usual but lost nearly ten pounds in October. It was nice to do a little duck hunting when I could watch the morning break sitting in a boat or canoe. I might be in better shape than I was the first of the month, I know my dogs are, but after weeks of following bird dogs through tight and heavy cover, I feel kind of worn out. But not wore enough not to do more if the opportunity presents itself.

On our last hunt in October I was treated to maybe the prettiest grouse find I’ve ever seen. My setter Ty hunted forward on the edge of a cutting, when his bell fell silent. I climbed out of a draw to come into a little meadow where I saw Ty pointing on the other side just at woods edge. He was facing right and stood tall and still, poker straight tail at twelve o’clock. I approached in the wide open of the meadow when three grouse exploded simultaneously in front of the dog. Two went for the woods and the third came across the meadow. You seldom get offered shots like that and I’ll remember that scene for a long time.

Saturday morning I’ll watch night turn to day in a quiet deerstand. A few days of that peaceful pursuit will be welcome. But it won’t take long before I’ll miss the action and sound of dog bells, fast flushing birds, and smooth swinging shotguns. The best of bird season is coming to an end. It felt like summer when it started, and it’ll be winter when it’s finally over. It will be too soon for me.