Andrew Marshall Wayment's Blog, page 13

A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH

For those who hunt, they understand that hunting is a matter of life or death for the quarry we pursue. However, the hunter is rarely on the receiving end of a life-threatening risk. On Monday, September 1, 2014, Labor Day, I experienced a hunt where my life was truly endangered.

I hunted alone that morning with my Brittanies, Sunny and Misty. I had asked a few friends to come along, but—for one reason or another—none of them could make it.  I do not mind hunting alone with my dogs as I truly enjoy their company. We had a great morning of finding birds in The Outhouse Covert, but Misty was a bit keyed up and bumped many blue grouse without giving me any great shots. I jokingly named this special covert, “The Outhouse” because that is where you go when you want to shoot like crap. Admittedly, my shooting that morning lived up to this covert’s name.

Misty cools off in a guzzler in the Outhouse Covert.

 For our last hunt, I decided to hunt Grouseketeer Ridge, which has been my best blue grouse covert since 2006. In my experience, this covert really shines between 9:00 a.m. and 10:30 a.m. as the birds are actively moving about and feeding during this time frame. Over the years I have hunted this covert, I have never experienced anything that I would consider as dangerous or life-threatening. In fact, the thought had never even crossed my mind before this morning.

The dogs and I headed up the old logging road to where I have found grouse repeatedly over the years. As if on cue, a large covey of ruffed grouse started flushing off the downhill side of the logging road. The dogs and I pursued. I missed one bird that flew behind a tree and shot at another one that I thought I might have hit. As we went downhill, however, I spotted the grouse sitting in the tree and realized that I had missed. I will not shoot a sitting grouse, but I’m not above pitching sticks to get the bird to fly. This is a tough shot for one who is both the thrower and the shooter.

I picked up a stick and threw it into the tree and the next thing I knew, I heard this loud buzzing cloud all around my head and upper body. I instantly realized that I was being attacked by a swarm of hornets and they repeatedly stung me on my neck, head, face and back. I ran back uphill as fast as I could, screaming in pain and panic. I must have been stung 10 to 20 times. As I reached a little switchback that leads up to the main logging road, one final hornet stung me on my arm and I quickly brushed it away. To my relief, the rest of the swarm was gone.

While I was still in pain from the stings, I did not think that I would have any allergic reaction as I have been stung by hornets before with no complications. So I decided to shake it off and keep hunting. The dogs and I walked another fifty yards up the logging road and Misty suddenly became birdy near the uphill embankment—again at another place where the dogs have regularly found birds over the years. There was no question in my mind that Misty was working a bird and I readied myself for the shot as she climbed up the steep embankment.  

Shortly thereafter, Misty flushed the blue grouse across the logging road in my direction. I missed the crossing shot, but caught the bird as it dove down the hill. I hiked downhill and Sunny—who is now 12—located the bird under a thick tree and made a nice, but slow, retrieve.

Sunny doing what she was born to do.

By the time I made it back up to the logging road, my feet began to itch uncontrollably. I quickly realized that I was having an allergic reaction to the hornet stings. I stopped and took a few pictures of the bird hoping this unpleasant itch would go away. Soon, however, my hands started to itch and then my whole body started to itch with a vengeance.

Ruger Red Label Over and Under an a big blue grouse.

 At that point, I realized that I was in trouble and I started to panic. Fortunately, I had cell service and I called my wife, Kristin and informed her, “I just got stung by 20 hornets. . . . I’m having an allergic reaction. . . . I need you to get me some Benadryl. . . . I’m coming home right now.” I was having a hard time speaking because I was hyperventilating.

A beautiful male blue grouse.

The dogs and I hustled back to the Honda CRV. In that 100 yard walk, my symptoms went from bad to worse and I began to feel lightheaded and had chest pains. I called Kristin again and asked her to start driving toward me with some Benadryl. My speech was even more strained during this second call. I shakily loaded the dogs and started driving down the steep canyon road.

In my dire circumstances, I offered up a quick, simple prayer: “Please help me Heavenly Father, don’t let me die now! Please help me to drive safely and get some help. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

I managed to stay conscious and keep the car on the road, although with some difficulty. Fortunately, there were no other cars on the lonely canyon road. To my consternation, I felt and watched my face swelling in the rear view mirror as I traveled.

I soon hit pavement and drove another two to three miles down the road when a first response medic passed me with his sirens on. Somehow, I knew that Kristin had called 911 and that he had come to help me. I pulled over and he asked me, “Are you the guy who got stung by the hornets?”

“I am. Man, am I glad to see you!” I responded.

He asked me to pull my car over to get out of the way of oncoming traffic and had me sit on the ground while he checked my vitals. As he did so, I started to blackout and I said, “I’m not feeling so good. I need to lay down,” which he encouraged me to do.   

My wife Kristin and our oldest daughter, Emma, soon showed up and, when Kristin saw me laying helpless on the shoulder of the road, she cried. She handed me a bottle of Benadryl and I lifted my head, took a swig, and laid back down.  The medic also gave me some oxygen through a nose tube.   

The medic then checked my blood pressure and found it was extremely low. I told the medic that I thought I could sit up again and he said, “Stay put. I don’t think you are doing as well as you think you are doing. You are going into anaphylactic shock.” Looking back, I can see that the timing of his arrival in comparison to my worsening condition could not have been more providential.

An ambulance soon showed up with two other paramedics and they gave me a shot of Benadryl and a shot of Epinephrine.   One paramedic commented that I was exhibiting the text book signs for an allergic reaction to hornet stings just like he learned about in school. They encouraged me ride in the ambulance to the hospital, which I agreed. Kristin and Emma then took my car and the dogs home and told me they would meet me at the hospital.

The ambulance drive was surreal as I watched out the back window the beautiful country surroundings we passed through. I thought to myself: I never expected to see things out of the back of an ambulance!

As we traveled, one of the paramedics commented that he was worried about me when he saw the swelling in my face. He told me about one of his wife’s family members who recently died from an allergic reaction to a hornet sting he received in the mountains and the fact that he was too far away from medical help to save him.  This unfortunate individual did not even know he was allergic before this fateful day. To my relief, the paramedic told me that the Benadryl and Epinephrine were working and the swelling in my face had already subsided. Likewise, the itching was gone. I somehow knew I was going to be okay.

My stay at the emergency room was short-lived and my wife and kids soon came to the hospital to take me home. My kids had made me some get-well cards, which were touching. I was truly relieved to see them all. More than once, I stated out loud how grateful I was to be alive.

I’m a firm believer in the Boy Scout Motto: “Be prepared.” I am happy to report that from now on, I will carry Benadryl and EpiPens with me when I am hunting. Likewise, there’s much to be said about hunting with a good hunting companion who can help you when you are in a bind. Also, I now see the importance of letting your spouse know exactly where you are hunting in case you run into trouble.  

In addition to these safeguards—and even more important—I can honestly attest after this harrowing experience that I will never forget the power of prayer. I truly believe that God heard and answered my prayers. Throughout this whole ordeal, I know I had heavenly help from the other side.   

My happy place.  I am so grateful that I live to hunt another day with my Brits.

 

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

For those who have followed Upland Ways, you have probably come to realize that the Wayment Brothers love to bird hunt and fly fish.  For Shawn and I, bird hunting and fly fishing are really two sides of the same coin.  They are both crucial parts of our upland way of life.  We realize, however, that some of you might be involved in only one of these great sporting endeavors and may not understand the interrelation between the two.  For this reason, I wanted to share some of my thoughts on why bird hunting and fly fishing go hand in hand. 

Fly Fishing and Bird Hunting are the Height of Outdoor Sports. 

Please understand that I mean to take nothing from other forms of fishing and hunting.  As a kid, my family fished with bait for catfish, carp, trout, perch and bass.  We later got into fishing with lures and jigs.  We hunted everything from squirrels to deer, elk and antelope.  I loved the outdoors as a kid and hunting and fishing were a huge part of my enjoyment.  I did not begin fly fishing until after I married my wife in 1995.  Learning to fly fish took a lot time and patience, but once I figured it out, I realized that fly fishing was different from other forms of fishing; it was both challenging and fun.  For me, there is nothing more aesthetically pleasing than seeing a nice fish rise to a dry fly.  Likewise, when I shot my first pheasant on the wing during law school, I realized that wing shooting over pointing dogs was the very height of hunting.  Like Havilah Babcock, a diehard quail hunter from the South, I can now honestly say that “I don’t want to shoot an elephant.”  There’s no hunting quite as fun and challenging as bird hunting.  

The good ol’ days are right now.

Reading Cover and Reading Water. 

 There’s a saying both in fishing and hunting that I have read numerous times.  In fishing, the statement is that “90% of the fish are in 10% of the water.”  In bird hunting the statement is that “The nature of any kind of game is to be scarce.”  In other words, birds and fish are not just anywhere you look.  To be successful, a bird hunter must learn how to read the cover to find the most likely places for game birds to hide.  The same is true for an angler.  In order to find fish, you have to be able to read the water and find the most likely lies for fish to hold.  In both fishing and hunting, one of the most fun things is to spy a piece of water or cover and think to yourself: That looks like a good spot.  And then when you try it out, you find out you were right.  Just hope that you can cast or shoot straight when the moment of truth arrives!  

Sunny Girl points a ruffed grouse in The Grouse Fortress, a place that just screamed of ruffed grouse.

Both Sports Take you to the Most Beautiful Places on Earth. 

One of the draws of fly fishing is that it takes you to some of the most beautiful, pristine places on earth.  The familiar rivers, streams and lakes are a fly fisherman’s sanctuary and we miss them when the snows come.  Likewise, a bird hunter’s secret coverts are just as beautiful and sacred.  Some of my favorite coverts are in close proximity to some of my favorite creeks and rivers.  When I am fishing, I am looking for new places to bird hunt.  When I am bird hunting, I am looking for new places to fish.  Often while I am bird hunting, I’ll drop a fly in the creek or river for a minute before I head home. Many days I have salved my battered ego from missing birds with catching a trout or two.

My heaven on earth.

Bird Hunters Tie Flies with the Feathers of the Birds they Hunt. 

Many anglers take up the art of fly-tying, which brings a whole new level of enjoyment to the sport.  Catching a fish on someone else’s fly is fun, but catching them on your own is truly gratifying. Of course, one of the traditional materials for fly tying is bird feathers. Bird hunters often save the feathers from the birds they hunt and use them in the flies they tie.  This resourcefulness celebrates the grandeur and beauty of the birds we hunt.  

Dad tying flies on the banks of Birch Creek Memorial Day Weekend 2013. This is one of my all-time favorite pictures of Dad. Go big or go home was his motto!

The Sporting Literature for Fly Fishing and Bird Hunting Overlaps.

As a lover of outdoor literature, I can attest that there is a huge overlap of bird hunting and fly fishing literature.  I’ve read bird hunting stories from John Gierach, the famed Trout Bum author.  E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. writes about bird hunting and fly fishing, sometimes in the same book.  Burton Spiller, the Poet Laureate of Grouse Hunting, wrote books on both grouse hunting and fly fishing.  Dana Lamb wrote very well about fly fishing and grouse hunting. In all five of his excellent books, Mark Jeffrey Volk wrote about both bird hunting with his setters and also fly fishing the Appalachian Mountains.  Other writers who wrote on both subjects include the great Corey Ford, Bill Tapply, Dan Holland, and the list goes on and on.  In my humble opinion, some of the best books ever written on any subject fall within these genres. 

Smoke on the Wind by Doug Deats includes stories about bird hunting and fly fishing.

Bird Dogs as Fishing Companions

After having bird dogs now for sixteen years, I can attest that the hunting seasons are pretty short.  That means that the bulk of a bird dog’s life takes place during the non-hunting season.  To alleviate bird-dog boredom, I often take my Brittanys fishing with me.  My old dog, Sunny is a pretty good fishing companion, but Misty can be a water-wrecking imbecile.  Oh well, she has fun and if I catch a trout, then that’s a bonus. The point is that my bird dogs are my friends and they enjoy fishing just as much as I do.      

No sense to come out of the rain. Fishing with Sunny Girl. She’s been my favorite fishing companion for twelve years now.

The Change of Seasons.

I truly enjoy fishing in the Spring and Summer. In fact, I don’t think about bird hunting very much during these kindlier seasons. My focus is entirely on fishing and I fish as much as my profession and my wife will allow. However, when the fall comes, the leaves start changing colors, and there is a cool twinge in the air, my focus shifts entirely to bird hunting with my dogs. For me, the shift is as natural as the change in the seasons. At one time in my life, I would have said, “I am a fisherman first and foremost and a bird hunter second.” But I can’t say that any longer. They are both such an essential part of my life. In their given seasons, I love them both equally.

Misty pointing on the Royal Macnab in all its fall glory

The Rush of Wings and the Tug of a Big Fish

Not many things on this earth get the adrenalin flowing and the heart pumping like the rush of wings or the tug of a big fish. When I first started both of these sports, I was like Jo Jo the Idiot Circus Boy every time a bird got up or a big fish was on the end of the line. Of course, I missed a lot of birds and lost a lot of fish. However, while I have learned to control this excitement to the point where I sometimes succeed, the thrill still remains. The day I no longer experience this will be the day I don’t have a pulse.

Dad and Benny fight a nice fish at the Mini-Madison. The tug is the drug!

Mexican Food after a Good Day of Fishing or Bird Hunting is Just Plain Heavenly (I know, I know, this is a stretch, but work with me people!)

The Wayment Brothers love Mexican Food with the same passion we have for bird hunting and fly fishing. We could eat it every day for every meal. I can honestly say that nothing caps off a good day of fishing or hunting better than a Mexican feast, and if we are lucky it will be at our favorite taqueria in Southern Idaho. I hope there’s Mexican Food in Heaven!

The best tacos on earth are especially delicious after a day of hunting and fishing.

To sum it up, bird hunting and fly fishing truly go hand in hand. Those of you who only participate in one of these endeavors are missing out. They really are two sides of the same coin.   

THE MAGIC WAND

I have this secret place that I love to fish.  I call it, “The Mini-Madison” because when I first fished it, it reminded me of my favorite river, the Madison, except instead of being “the fifty-mile riffle” like its namesake, this area is only 50 yards of excellent holding water containing exposed boulders, plunge pools, nice runs, and big brown trout.  This special place has been my favorite fishing spot for over ten years now and I have caught some of the best trout in my life in its hallowed waters.

Train up a child. A beautiful brownie from the Mini-Madison

However, the last few years, I have really struggled to catch fish at the Mini-Madison.  For a while, I thought the fish, which are mostly beefy brown trout, had wizened up to me.  And then one day, I saw firsthand that there was a better fisher than I hanging out in the area–a big fat otter the size of a Labrador retriever–and I figured he was Playing for Keeps.  At that moment, I realized that the fish were just not there anymore.  After so many years of good, reliable fishing, this was a hard pill to swallow.  I fished the Mini-Madison quite a few times this past spring both before and after my father passed away last March, but I did not move a single fish.  I seriously questioned whether my days of good fishing at the Mini-Madison were at an end, but yet I still went in hopes that things would change.

Then, over the 4th of July week, as I wrote about in The Old Yellow Rod, I found my Dad’s Yellow Fiberglass fishing rod, which is the rod that he used the first time that we fly fished together back in 1999.  Right after Dad passed, I had searched high and low for that rod, but just couldn’t find it.  My brother’s father in law found it in my Dad’s trailer where I had looked before without success.  I was so happy to find this treasure.

A buttery brown next to the Old Yellow Rod.

The following week, during my daughter Eden’s birthday party, I was talking to my youngest son Ben about fishing and he instantly wanted to go. He excitedly pled, “Let’s go fishing Dad!”

I responded, “Tomorrow,” but at the age of two, Ben does not quite grasp the concept of today/tomorrow/yesterday.  He just wanted to go fishing right then and was disappointed that we didn’t get to go.

The following night–despite the lack of success at the Mini-Madison–I just had the feeling that the fish would be biting.  I told my wife Kristin, “I’m going to go fishing at the Mini-Madison.”

She responded, “You’re taking Benjamin! You promised him.”

“Will you come with us?  I don’t dare take him by myself.” I pled.  “I may need your help if we get into trouble.”

Kristin really didn’t want to go, but finally gave in and said grudgingly, “I’ll go, but it’s not for you, It’s for Benny!”

I grabbed the baby backpack and Kristin and I took Benny to the Mini-Madison.  As I suspected, the river was running picture perfect as I had seen it so many times before.

I commented to Kristin, “Tonight is the night.  I know the fish will be biting.”

I strung up Dad’s Old Yellow Rod and tied on an olive Peanut Envy.  Kristin helped me get Benny into the backpack and then onto my back. The river bottom was so slick that I had to be extra careful.  I cast to every small hole as I carefully made my way out to what I call the “Long Run.”  Upon arrival, I cast up between two boulders a few times with no follows, but on the third cast, I had a vicious strike.  When I set the hook, the brown blasted out of the water and we knew we had a big one on.  Benny giggled with glee.

When heaven touches earth.

I hollered to Kristin, who was sitting on the bank, “Video this!” and she used my iPhone to capture Benny and I slowly making our way over to the bank with a nice bend in the rod.

In my excitement, I yelled, “We got a big fish Benny!  And on Dad’s Old Yellow Rod!”

When we reached the bank, Kristin took some excellent photos of me and Ben and our fish.

Dad and Ben admire a beautiful brown trout.

Kristin said to me, “That’s a monster!.  You knew tonight was the night, didn’t you?”

“I sure did.” I responded.

I’m happy to report that since this glorious July evening, I have fished the Mini-Madison numerous times–always with the Old Yellow Rod–and it is back and good as ever.  Each trip, I have brought numerous sizable browns and a rainbow to hand.  One morning, a good friend, Scott Johnson, and I brought as many fish to hand as I did all last year.  This sudden comeback has been both a surprise and a pleasure, “Oh me of Little Faith!”

Check out those smiles.

Some may chalk this comeback to pure coincidence or happenstance, but not me.  I believe that things happen for a reason.  For so long this secret spot has been my sanctuary, a place of peace in a troubled world.  And this year–with the loss of my Dad–has been particularly hard.  When I needed it most, I found Dad’s fly rod and suddenly the Mini-Madison is back fishing as good as ever.  It’s almost as if the Old Yellow Rod has magical properties, but I know that’s not it.

Dad and Benny revel in a glorious night at the Mini-Madison.

Today in church I heard a quote from Thomas S. Monson that captures my thoughts on the matter:

Our Heavenly Father is aware of our needs and will help us as we call upon Him for assistance. I believe that no concern of ours is too small or insignificant. The Lord is in the details of our lives.

No, I don’t believe that any of this is a coincidence.  Keep fishing with faith, my friends!

 

ROB’S FISH

I have a friend named Rob Pincock that I have known through my church for quite some time now. I’ve always been impressed with his work ethic, his generosity, and how genuine he is. Rob is the kind of guy you can count on when in need.

During the week of July 21 through 25, Rob was one of the main guys in charge of my church’s camp for the young women in our area. He worked selflessly and tirelessly all week to make sure things went smoothly, sometimes doing menial jobs like hauling away all the garbage from the various campsites.

Since my oldest daughter Emma turned 12 in 2009, I have been going up to Girl’s Camp for one night of the week to help out. Since that time, I always tell people, “Girl’s Camp is the best kept secret in the church!” This is because I get to take a few days off of work to be in the mountains with my daughters, the food is so much better than Scout Camp, and there’s a fun little trout stream that runs right through the camp. This year, I went up to Girl’s Camp on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Wednesday morning, I got to go white water rafting with my second daughter, Jenness, and twenty-eight other girls and leaders, on the world-class stretch of Snake River above Alpine, Wyoming. Rob was one of the leaders on this adventure. All in all we had three rafts full of people.

With the high precipitation we received last winter, the river was higher than I’ve ever seen it. The raft I was in ended up hitting a big rock wall which threw me and four others in my boat into the turbulent river. We all were rescued without any casualties. However, the experience was pretty harrowing for all in our boat. From that point forward, we were hyper-focused and had no other mishaps.

In this photo, our boat is navigating Lunch Counter. I’m in the front on the right and my daughter is in the back on the right. Lunch Counter has made many a man into Lunch Meat!!!

When we got down to the take out, we found that the other two rafts were way behind us. When they finally reached the take out, Rob, who was in one of the other boats, reported to me that he had a rough ride. His raft hit the same rock wall that we did, which sent him and many others into the river. If that were not bad enough, when Rob’s raft hit the famous “Lunch Counter” rapid, Rob was thrown into the raging river once again. Needless to say, I felt for my friend and was glad he finally made it safely to the takeout.

When we made it back to Girl’s Camp, I decided to fish the little creek for a while. After having fished this creek for five years now, I know most of the good spots on the creek. As I approached the most reliable holes–which happen to be right near the road–Rob drove by in his white Toyota and stopped to say “Hello.” I knew that Rob had recently started fly fishing, but he and I had never fished together before.

I asked him with a smile, “Do you want to catch a fish?”

Rob replied, “No. I have so much to do. I really shouldn’t.”

I insisted, “Come on, Rob! I know right where a good fish is holding. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

When Rob realized I wouldn’t take no for an answer, he agreed. Rob pulled his truck over and I handed him my little three weight Temple Fork rod rigged with a Chubby Mormon Girl tied by my brother, Shawn (I assure you that the name of the fly and the fact that I was at a Mormon Girl’s Camp is purely coincidental!!!).

Cutthroat on a Chubby Mormon Girl.

At the first hole, Rob struggled a little with casting the rod and hung up a few times in the thick weeds. When he finally got a good drift, a nice cutty rose and Rob was a little slow on the strike. As he false cast to try again, a red Toyota Van drove by and–as if in slow motion–the fly hooked into the van’s wheel well and the rod jerked behind him. Rob held the rod tightly as line peeled off the reel until the fly finally popped off. The limp line sling-shotted back to us.

I chuckled as I watched the whole fiasco unfold and the confused look on Rob’s face as he looked over his shoulder and realized what he had hooked into–a monster in any angler’s book.

Rob said to me, “I am so embarrassed. Now you’ll never want to go fishing with me again.”

I replied laughingly, “Don’t worry about it, Rob. It’s not that big of a deal. Actually, it was pretty funny.”

Rob wanted to go down to the car and retrieve my fly and–to ease his mind– I told him, “No, flies are a dime a dozen. I have another one we can use.”

I re-rigged the rod with another Chubby Mormon Girl. I handed the rod to Rob and we walked twenty feet upstream below the best hole on the creek. At this moment, I felt that nobody deserved to catch a fish more than poor Rob. In fact, I said a silent prayer in my heart: Please help Rob to catch a fish out of this hole! Rob made a decent cast into the shadowy pool and a nice fish rose, but Rob missed him on the strike.

“Hit it again,” I told him, “I don’t think you stung him.”

Rob made another good cast and the fly drifted through the lie and the fish rose again. Rob set the hook and the big fish ran downstream. I pulled out the iPhone and snapped a few photos. Rob soon landed the big Cutty.  My prayer had  been answered.

Rob fights a nice Cutty in a fun little creek.

As I took his photo, Rob raved, “That is a huge cutthroat for this little creek! Andy, thank you so much for letting me catch your fish.”

“Congratulations,” I responded “This is the second biggest cutty I have ever seen in this creek. It was my pleasure.” I replied. I honestly enjoyed watching Rob catch that fish as much, or more than, if I had caught it myself. Indeed, fishing with Rob was definitely amusing!

Nobody deserved to catch this fish more than Rob!

THE OLD YELLOW ROD

The family all sat around in the living room discussing numerous things including the preparations for my father’s funeral. Everyone’s emotions were so on the surface as we laughed and cried about our beloved Dad. Somehow the topic came up about how we would handle selling Dad’s things for my Mom.

In tears I said to everyone, “I will sell Dad’s fishing stuff, but there is one thing that I want if I can find it. When I took Dad fly fishing for the first time at Birch Creek, he bought us these matching yellow Eagle Claw Rods with Pflueger Reels from Walmart. I gave mine to Scotty a long time ago, but I would love to have Dad’s to remember that special day.” Mom readily agreed to let me have it.

In my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith, in the chapter, “The Teacher is Taught,” I wrote about when Dad bought us these wonderful rods 15 years ago:

 Shortly after I pulled into my parent’s driveway in Rupert, Idaho, Dad declared to me with a huge grin on his face, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

As I sat on the porch, he came outside with two brand new seven and a half foot yellow Eagleclaw fly rods, two Pflueger Medalist reels, and two green Cortland lines, which he had purchased at Walmart for this very occasion, one for him and one for me. As we put the rods together and wound the line on the reels, I was excited about the prospects for the morning and the chance to spend some quality time with my favorite outdoor companion. We naively thought they were the best rods money could buy as we practiced casting on the lawn. Dad caught on to casting pretty quick. Throughout the night, I felt like a kid eagerly waiting for Christmas morning . . . .

We went on to have a banner day of fishing the next day at Birch Creek and Dad was hooked on fly fishing for the rest of his life.  From then on, we shared that passion.

As I acquired better rods (most were gifts from Dad), I soon lost the appreciation for the Old Yellow Rod and ended up giving mine to my brother Scotty so that he too could learn the joys of fly fishing. Over the years, however, I began to realize the underlying value of what I had so quickly given up and the connection it had to my father and wished I still had the Old Yellow Rod.

Dad and Jodi on the Buffalo River. Dad never had much sense of style, but he still rocked!

The weeks following the funeral, I looked high and low for Dad’s matching rod and reel, but it was nowhere to be found. My brother Jake found a Yellow Eagle Claw rod with a Pflueger reel out in the shed that looked a little like the rod and at first, I even thought it was. However, as I looked closer, the rod was the wrong weight and it was too long. I began to suspect that my generous Dad had given the Old Yellow Rod away to another newcomer to the sport and that I’d never see it again.

Over the Fourth of July, my family went to Rupert for the holiday and the Wayment family reunion. Tuesday night, Robbie reported to me that his father-in-Law, who had purchased my parent’s camp trailer, found a rod in the trailer that was stored in a Sage metal rod tube. I found that interesting because I had looked through the trailer for rods and reels before it sold, but I did not see any.

Curious to know which rod it was, I asked Robbie to bring it over Wednesday night so I could see it. Upon receiving it, I pulled it from the white Sage rod tube and instantly recognized it as the counterpart to my Old Yellow Rod and still attached was the Pflueger reel with green Cortland line. The Old Yellow Rod had aged well as it looked almost as new as the day Dad fished it at Birch Creek all those years ago. As I held it in my hands again, it transported me to that special day; I reminisced about Dad running up the creek bank with the Old Yellow Rod in hand and his net bulging with trout wearing a smile the size of Texas. I raved about how excited I was to find it.

“This is a real treasure to me!” I stated emphatically with tears in my eyes.

Mom then said, “Andy, you better quit or you’re going to make me cry.” She again agreed to let me have it.

The following day Scotty and I took two of Scotty’s boys, Easton and Steele, his two daugthers, Hadley and Avery, and two of Robbie’s sons, Carson and Nate, fishing to a spring creek, I call “Joshua Creek,” after my nephew, Josh (although that is not its real name). Dad too loved to fish this tiny creek during his life. Our hope was to catch a few trout with the kids. Of Course, I opted to fish with the Old Yellow Rod.  In some ways the trip seemed like a pilgrimage.

Upon arrival, we found the creek in bad shape because of numerous cattle that had trampled its banks into oblivion. However, the water was still ice cold and held brown trout in decent numbers–although not like in years past.

The young boys, Carson, Nate, Easton and Steele, all opted to follow me because maybe they thought I was the guy who knew what he was doing. As I handled and cast the Old Yellow Rod, it had an instant familiarity. I cast into a narrow grass-lined run and got a short drift of about a foot and a small brown trout pounced on the fly. I handed the rod to Nate and he reeled in his first trout ever. Yep, the boys followed the right guy!: I thought to myself.

Kids and fish go together like eggs and bacon!

My nephew Nate shows off his first trout caught on the Old Yellow Rod.

However, as the good book says, “Pride goeth before the fall.” The next hour I spent the majority of the time snagged up in the weeds, busting off and retying on flies, pulling my sandals out of the mud, and swatting horseflies. Needless to say, the boys soon got bored with the so-called mighty fisherman. Scotty decided to take the kids to shoot my .22, but I was not ready to call it quits on the Old Yellow Rod or this beloved, decimated stream.

I continued to work upstream to where the creek runs up against the hillside. On the left-hand side the bank is choked with ten-foot high willows and on the right-hand hillside, the quakies come right down to the stream. Most of this area is unfishable for all of the foliage. I climbed my way upstream through the thick maze hoping to soon find a fishable stretch. As I stepped around a bend, I spied the perfect looking run. I cast the caddis fly about ten feet ahead of me, let it drift down, and a nice sized brownie pounced on it. Though I was by myself, I hooted and hollered with glee as I brought the buttery brown to hand. Over the next few minutes I caught a few more browns and rainbows, which made my whole morning. I walked back down the road with a smile on my face.

A buttery brown next to the Old Yellow Rod.

A fishes’ worth should never be measured by its size.

When I got back home, I sent a few photos of the day to Shawn and I told him that we found Dad’s Old Yellow Rod.  Shawn, who, as of late, has fallen in love with fiberglass fly rods, texted me and asked, “What’s the make of that rod? Is it glass?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check it when I get back from tacos.” I replied.

After I checked the rod, I wrote back, “I think the rod is glass. It’s Eagle Claw, but made by Wright & McGill. Sure looks like glass.”

Shawn responded back, “I know on the glass rod Facebook page there were people looking for that rod.”

While I thought that was pretty cool, I do not pretend to be a glass rod aficionado. It’s a great little rod, whatever the make. Frankly, I don’t really care what the rod is made of; it could be a willow switch and it would still be priceless to me. In fact, I have no qualms with saying that of all the rods that I own (most of which were given to me or inherited from Dad and some of which, including my bamboo rod, are dang nice), this one means the most to me because of its history with Dad. The Old Yellow Rod is a true treasure.

ANDY’S “MISTY MORNING SUNRISE” IS FEATURED IN GUN DOG

This morning I found out that my article, “Misty Morning Sunrise” is featured in the August issue of Gun Dog Magazine. I submitted this article over two years ago and thought they had forgotten. So I am both surprised and stoked. What a great honor to be published in this great magazine!

Be sure and check it out!

WHEN IT’S RAINING AND WHEN IT AIN’T

Fifteen years ago Dad and I first fished Birch Creek together and we have loved it ever since. This past Memorial Day Weekend, Dad was supposed to go on our annual family camping at Birch Creek, but he passed away on March 31, 2014. To say I miss him does not even begin to capture the emotions I have experienced with his loss.

Dad fishes Birch Creek in 2009. This was the first time he fished in a long time after having his shoulder surgery.

Thursday night before our Memorial Day camping trip, I experienced mixed emotions: Excitement to go camping and fishing at this sacred place, but apprehension about going to Birch Creek without Dad for the first time. Since I was up, I killed some time on Instagram looking at photos. On my sister Jodi’s Instagram wall, I came across a photo of Dad and Jodi fishing on the Buffalo River, another special place for our family. At that moment, I keenly felt Dad’s loss and wept.

Dad and Jodi on the Buffalo River. Dad never had much sense of style, but he still rocked!

Dad and Tommy fishing Birch Creek in 2011.

I commented on Jodi’s picture: “I’m going to really miss Dad this weekend . . . Birch Creek for the first time without him.”

To my surprise, although it was super early, Jodi quickly responded back: “I know you will. But when it’s quiet, just remember, he will be there. He will. Cheers.”

I was moved by Jodi’s response and I hoped she was right.

I had to work Friday morning and we did not end up getting on the road to Birch Creek until 4:30 p.m. We reached the campground around 6:00 p.m. and most of our regular camping areas were already taken except the one next to the public latrine. This happened to be the same spot where we shot pellet guns with Dad, my brother Scott, and his kids back in 2012. My family and I quickly set up the tent trailer.

Dad tying flies on the banks of Birch Creek Memorial Day Weekend 2013.

After completing the work, I strung up the Riverwatch Kispiox Valley bamboo rod I inherited from Dad and went fishing on the stretch that Dad and I had fished so many times together. My daughter Lily tagged along. I hooked numerous fish, handed her the rod, and she reeled them in. When our friends, the Warmoths and the Drapers, showed up sometime after 7:00 p.m., I fished with the Draper’s daughters, Kenya and Jasmine, and with my daughter, Nessy and son, Ben and they all got to reel in numerous fish. We had fun.

The good ol’ days are right now.

When we all had our fill, I went back to camp, plopped into a camp chair, with my arm draped over the back and a big smile on my face. Lois Draper looked at me and said, “You are content, aren’t you?” I could only agree. After all, this is one of my favorite places on earth.

As we sat around the fire after dinner, my good friend, Cliff Warmoth grabbed my daughter Lily and cradled her like a little baby with his meaty arms and said with a chuckle, “Do you want me to rock you to sleep?” My Dad used to do and say that to my kids all the time and it totally reminded me of him.   I instantly thought about Jodi’s comment on Instagram. It was like Cliff had uncannily channeled Dad’s energy for a split second.

When the sun hit the water Saturday morning, I again started fishing with the kids for a while. As usual, I hooked the fish and then handed the rod over to the kids. After a while, I had some fish strike my indicator, so I switched over to a Red-Butted Double Renegade tied by Dad and caught a few fish on the surface before breakfast. The bamboo rod seemed to cast so much smoother with the dry fly (as opposed to a weighted nymph).

Benny hopes to net Eden’s fish.

After breakfast, I went back to fishing. Nessy also strung up the G-Loomis rod I gave to her when she was 9 after she caught a fish all by herself with this rod on this very same stretch of creek. On this day, fiver years later, she caught 5 or 6 fish on her own.

Nessy has turned into quite the fisherman.

I worked my way upstream to a big bend in the creek. My son Tommy followed and I urged him to take off his shoes and try to catch a fish on the fly, but he would not leave the bank. At around 11:00 a.m., dark black clouds suddenly blanketed the sky witnessing that a storm was quickly coming. This sure looked and felt familiar!

The first time I fished this stretch with Dad in 1999, we had a similar storm blow in. Back then, with the first few drops of rain, the fishing turned from good to phenomenal. In my book, Heaven on Earth, I wrote the following about this experience:

After a while, we decided to explore other stretches of Birch Creek in its sparsely settled valley. To the north of Lone Pine, we found a good looking section of river with small waterfalls and plunge pools. Dad and I fished the same spot for over an hour and caught many nice fish.

Overhead the skies turned black bearing witness that rain was imminent. The first few drops of rain descended sparking a feeding frenzy of the abundant fish. In three or four consecutive casts, I hooked and landed fish, each one bigger than the previous. It is amazing how weather can trigger the fish to aggressively feed like that. After landing each fish, I unhooked and released them as quickly as possible in hopes of more nonstop action.

I have witnessed that same phenomena on other occasions. As the funny outdoor writer Patrick McManus aptly coined, “The best two times to fish is when it’s rainin’ and when it ain’t.” Dad and I learned this lesson firsthand that unforgettable afternoon.

As before, with the first few drops of rain on the water, the fish started to bite nearly every cast. I again challenged Tommy to get in the water and catch a fish, but with the looming skies, Tommy quickly retreated back to camp.

I realized, however, that something special was happening. I then proceeded to catch fish after fish after fish just like that day with Dad fifteen years ago. I’ve often heard this quote which criticizes a person’s intelligence because they have “no sense to come in out of the rain.” Honestly, with the swarm of activity and success, I did not mind the rain one bit. I continued fishing through the storm for about ten minutes until I saw lightning. Fortunately, I had enough sense to get out of the river and seek shelter from the storm.

As I stepped onto the bank, something happened that was both intriguing and terrifying; the little Ross Cimarron reel that I also inherited from Dad started to buzz with electricity. It sounded like line was peeling off the drag, but it was not moving. At that moment, I was so relieved to be holding a bamboo rod (as opposed to a graphite lightning rod) and to be out of the water.

When I got back to camp, I found my family and others taking shelter in the trailer. Nessy reported that as she was moving our stuff out of the rain, she was electrocuted when she picked up the graphite rods such that she could not remove them from her hand without Kristin’s help. I am glad no one got hurt. What a storm!

With the trailer crowded, I went and sat in the Yukon and watched the rain and hail pound down. As I sat in the front seat, I reflected on the similarity of this experience to mine and Dad’s all those years ago. I wondered if it was a sign that Dad was near and that he was aware of me and my circumstances just as Jodi had promised.

At Dad’s funeral, I was blessed to speak for my family about Dad and his wonderful life. I commented about how Dad did everything in life with a gusto unmatched by most. Everyone laughed when I said that Dad’s motto was “Go big or go home!” Why would he be any different on the other side? Okay, maybe he had a little help. Until someone from the other side tells me otherwise, I will take this whole experience as a sign. It was awesome fishing with you again, Dad!

Dad fishing Birch Creek during our antelope hunt in 2009.

Dad and Andy at Birch Creek in 2012.

 

The Sporting Life Radio Show

Today I was invited to be a guest on Bob Svetich’s radio show to chat about pre-season conditioning of our bird dogs and how to recognize hypothermia. The podcast will be available later this week…

http://www.thesportinglifeshow.com/guests/

Setter Feathers

WATCH FOR ANDY’S ARTICLE IN THE RUFFED GROUSE SOCIETY’S MAGAZINE

I’m excited to announce my forthcoming article, “The Song of Harvest Home” in the Summer Issue of the Ruffed Grouse Society’s Magazine. The article is about a banner hunt a friend and I had last Thanksgiving in East Idaho. My friend’s 11 year old son got his very first grouse that day. To sum it up, there were many things to be grateful for that day! Hope you all enjoy it.

Jalapeño Sauerkraut

It’s the in-between season…time to throw dries for Arkansas River browns and daydream about birds and dogs and wild country. The Ark has been incredible fishing so far this spring minus the snow melt in the higher elevation. The caddis are present and this spring we’ve seen the best blue wing olive action I can remember. The true run off will begin in the next few weeks and will go on deep into June or early July this year. The snow pack in the head waters area is at 155% this year…good for the mountains and the river but tuff on us anglers.

I’ve been bitten by the canning bug and eating clean. Here is a recipe for Jalapeño Sauerkraut…cultured food is truly good for the gut and this recipe is delicious!

Make certain you use good sanitation and hygiene before starting the process.

Two medium heads of cabbage

Kosher salt or raw sea salt 1 tablespoon per head of cabbage

Jalapeños as many as you can handle!

Wash cabbage and slice it

Mix with salt in and bowl for about five minutes…squeezing the cabbage

Place Jalapeños on the bottom of a quart mason jar and the layer the cabbage and peppers

Place a smaller jar into the quart jar to pack the mixture down

This will get the juices to cover the entire mixture

You can add salt water brine to cover the mixture if necessary

Cover with cloth and let sit for 3 to 4 weeks. I started tasting the cabbage at 3 weeks

Once the flavor is satisfactory, spoon into a new clean jar and place into the fridge

Bon Appetit

See ya on the Colorado prairies