Andrew Marshall Wayment's Blog, page 18

BOB, THE SLOB

Author’s Note:  This post first appeared on Upland Equations on June 13, 2013.

Every so often, a fisherman catches a fish worthy of a nickname.  I caught a whopper last night whose name came to me instantly.  No offense to anyone named ”Bob” (including some of my friends), but I caught a fish last night that I immediately nicknamed, “Bob” or “Bob, the Slob” to be more precise.  You see, Bob has what people call “a little bit of a weight problem.”  This large rainbow has a gut like Tommy Boy.  And with a fish, that’s not a bad thing!

Bob, the Slob has a “little bit of a weight problem.”

I have a secret fishing spot not far from home I dubbed, ”The Mini-Madison” because it reminds me of fishing the Madison River in Montana, except instead of being a 50-mile riffle like its namesake, it is only a 50 yard riffle; hence, the nickname.  Over the years, I have caught numerous bruiser browns, colorful cutthroat and rotund rainbows in the pockets and runs of this secluded stretch.  I wrote about this special fishing spot in my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.

After nine years of fishing there, I love this secret fishing hole!

However, this year the fishing has been super slow at the Mini-Madison.  I have fished it about ten times and moved a few browns only to have them refuse my streamers.  A few weeks ago I hooked a fat rainbow, but watched it flip free right by the bank. Last Friday morning, I hooked and landed another decent rainbow, but this was the only fish brought to hand so far this year.  With the lack of success, it seemed that my luck had run out at the Mini-Madison.  But after a rainy day, I saw a break in the clouds last night and decided to give it another try.  I am so glad I did!

Upon arrival, I fished an Olive Circus Peanut through all of the regular lies where I have stuck nice fish with no takes.  In years past, the browns of the Mini-Madison could not resist the Circus Peanut, but now they are totally on to it.  So I switched to Kelly Galloup’s Crawl Daddy, an articulated streamer with a deer hair head, yellow dumbbell eyes, and rabbit strip claws, tied to look surprisingly like a crawfish, with some of the flair of a Circus Peanut or Galloup’s famous S. Dungeon.  I picked this fly up last summer in Galloup’s Slide Inn along the Madison because it looks like a killer.

A chubby rainbow caught on one of Galloup’s Crawl Daddy’s, which is an articulated streamer tied to imitate of crawfish.

Below this small willow-covered island, I casted this streamer and jerk-stripped it through some holding water with nary a bump.  So I scooted down river and cast to a deeper spot where two currents came together.  With no followers from the jerk-strip, I just pitched the Crawl Daddy into the heavier current and let it swing below me.  This was the ticket.

Almost at the end of the swing, I felt the strong, unmistakable jolt of a munching trout and I instinctively jerked back to drive the point home.  At the hook’s bite, the acrobatic, beefy rainbow flipped out of the water and then peeled more line off my reel than any other fish has in a long time.  At such moments a fisherman’s eyes bug out of their head and they wonder just how big the fish is at the end of their line. I giggled nervously.

As a side note, it took me a long time to learn that streamer fishing for big trout is not a tip-toe-through-the-tulips affair.  I used to think I could get by streamer fishing with 4X Tippet (i.e. 6lb test), but I can’t count how many monster fish I lost when the tippet failed.

One day I lamented to Kelly Galloup at the Slide Inn about this very thing and he asked me, “What size tippet are you using?”

I replied, “4X Flourocarbon” (as if that would make a difference).

Kelly immediately fired back, “If you want to consistently catch big fish on streamers, you need to use 1X, or even 0X, or you will keep having problems.  Big aggressive fish are not focused on the tippet, but only on the fly.”

So with that piece of sage advice, I switched to 0X (12lb test) for streamer fishing a few years back and can attest that it has made all the difference.

After a few jumps and scorching runs by this super-charged rainbow, I tightened the drag and then put the stick to this hawg.  The fish’s strength and weight was no match for the 6 weight Sage rod and the 0X Tippet.  When it tired, I drug the fatty up on the grassy bank.  Indeed, this is the biggest rainbow I have ever caught at the Mini-Madison.

With a big smile on my face, I exclaimed, “What a SLOB!!! . . . Bob, the Slob.”  I snapped a few photos then released him into the river’s current.

This stuff never gets old.  Thanks Bob!

And Bob lives to play another day.  I sure hope to hook up with Bob again.  It would be my pleasure!

If you like this post, check out my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.  You’ll love it!

Also, I would love to hear some stories about the fish you have nicknamed. Leave a comment!

KEEP FISHIN’ WITH FAITH!

Andy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO KNOW A RIVER

Author’s Note:  This post first appeared on my blog, Upland Equations on June 27, 2013.

As an angler, can you ever really know a river?  Over the years, there have been many that I have become very familiar with and loved dearly. But I have come to understand that every river withholds some of its deepest secrets.  This is one of the reasons we are drawn to them.  Fortunately for us, after time, we can come to understand a river well enough to unlock some of its hidden truths.

Take for example, my epic two-day fishing trip with my brother, Shawn, on Colorado’s Arkansas River.  For those interested, I wrote a post about the phenomenal first day of this excursion on our other blog, Upland Ways, entitled, “From Dawn To Dusk.”  With Shawn’s help and knowledge, I was able to experience tremendous success on the Arkansas, the river of his heart.

Brother Shawn, fishing his Arkansas.

After breakfast on the second morning, we went back to fish a boulder-run channel on the far side of the river that we had fished the day before.  Shawn explained that, “In my experience, The boulder runs of the Arkansas hold more fish than anywhere else.  So, I target areas where the bottom of the river is strewn with big boulders.”  With the bright sunlight overhead, the fishing was a little slower in the channel than the morning before, but still good.  There were numerous times when Shawn and I had on doubles, both of fish and big grins.  Although I fished a hopper dropper rig, the majority of the fish moved struck the lead fly, the Mustang Sally, a foam Yellow Sally invented by Shawn.  I missed many of the strikes only to foul hook the fish on the dropper.  After awhile, I decided to remove the dropper and fish only the dry.  Shawn and I both had a twenty-fish morning in the channel and the flatter water below the bridge.

Hard to beat brown trout on dry flies.

When the fishing slowed down, we walked up the river above the bridge through the cactus-covered desert to this long run of the river.  We both caught a few nice browns in this area, but the bite had definitely slowed and this section lacked the tell-tale boulders of other areas.

Fish on!  Notice the boulder strewn channel from whence he came.

We moved upstream to another perfect boulder run that eventually led up to another side channel created by a narrow willow-covered island.  As Shawn had predicted, this channel was excellent holding water and Shawn and I took turns catching numerous browns on dry flies.  I saw firsthand why Shawn loves this river so much.  It sure had been generous to me on only my second full day of fishing it.

Nice brown from a side channel.

But, as Shawn also had prophesied, the fishing ground to a halt at around 12:30 p.m. so we headed back to the truck.  We decided to drive into Canon City to get some lunch and to stop at the Royal Gorge Anglers to stock up on supplies.  At the shop, we talked with Larry Kingrey, the man who invented many of the popular flies for the Ark such as the Ice-Dubbed Nymph; and Bill Edrington, the author of Fly Fishing the Arkansas: An Angler’s Guide and Journal.  Bill is the man who once told Shawn that the best fishing on the Ark happens when the runoff begins to subside and the edges clear.  Shawn and I had timed my trip perfectly to meet these conditions.  We reported to them our good fortune fishing the past two days.

While we were in the shop, two other anglers came in who coincidentally had been fishing the exact same area of the river we had been fishing, but they reported that they had done poorly.  Shawn and I told them that we were using Yellow Sally patterns and also that the majority of our fish were caught within one to four feet of the bank.  We pointed out some of Kingrey’s Yellow Sally patterns that were good comparisons to Shawn’s Mustang Sally.  They eagerly bought some of the flies and headed back out to the river even though the action was done until the evening.

MUSTANG SALLY!

After they left, Bill then said out loud in our presence, “That is the classic example of when two guys come into the shop and report that they have been spanking fish all morning.  And then two other guys, who have been fishing the same stretch, come in and report that they have not moved a fish all morning.”  Admittedly, Shawn and I felt pretty cool and fortunate to have done so well.  But Kudos to Shawn as he has come to know much about his beloved river.  With Shawn’s help, I had experienced two days of phenomenal fishing.

After an excellent Italian lunch at Merlino’s Belvedere Italian Restaurant in Canon City, we eventually made it back to the Arkansas river for the evening bite.  We fished an entirely new stretch of the river that Shawn had never fished before, but we observed that it was another boulder run with the characteristics of excellent holding water.  As expected, we both did well on this stretch.  The other areas of the river we fished were equally kind to us that night.  When the sun began to set, I hated to leave this beautiful, generous river, and realized that I had barely even scratched its surface.  Two days had not been nearly enough.

“I am haunted by waters.”  Norman Maclean

Almost every angler has heard the phrase from Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It, in which he says that he is “haunted by waters.”  Undoubtedly, most fishermen can relate to this sentiment, but why?  I submit because a beloved river can become so familiar to us that we know intimately many of its riffles, runs and holding spots.  At the same time, we understand that there is always an element of the unknown to these beloved rivers which intrigues us.  We are always curious to know what is around the next bend.  We are haunted both by a river’s familiarity and its hidden secrets.

TWENTY THINGS EVERY BRUSH WORN SHOULD KNOW ABOUT OL’ RUFF

Author’s Note: This post is dedicated to the memory of George King, the author of That’s Ruff!, one of the finest books ever written on the pursuit of the ruffed grouse. George founded the newsletter “Grouse Cover” and the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Brush Worn Partridge Hunters, or “Brush Worns” for short, and brought grouse hunters from all walks of life together as few have ever done. George left a grand legacy for all grouse hunters and he will be missed.

TWENTY THINGS EVERY BRUSH WORN SHOULD KNOW ABOUT OL’ RUFF

1. When I hear the phrase, “from sea to shining sea,” I think of the ruffed grouse, or Ol’ Ruff, because he can be found from east coast to west, even up to Alaska. Wherever he is found, Ol’ Ruff is a grand game bird.

2. Every single ruffed grouse is a masterpiece of art from the palette of the Creator. All ruffs are beautiful, but a red phased bird is a rare trophy to be celebrated, especially in the west.

Two distinct ruffs from Grouse Alley.

3. Ol’ Ruff is a trickster. Using his fan tail like a rudder, he can juke and jive like no other grouse and can magically put obstacles such as trees or rocks in your way quicker than any other game bird. They don’t call him “The Trickiest Thing in Feathers” for nothing!

4. Ol’ Ruff inhabits the gnarliest places that few men see, cover so thick that you might just get twigged in the eye, scratched on any exposed skin, or, as Grandpa Grouse called it, “horse collared.” Most people shy away from such places, but not Brush Worns because they know this is where Ol’ Ruff dwells.

5. There is no finer table fare than the ruffed grouse. Get creative! Think fajitas, Tandoori grouse, or Makhani grouse. You can’t go wrong with the delicate meat of the ruffed grouse unless you overcook it!

6. Ol’ Ruff has inspired the very best in sporting literature from Burton Spiller, the Poet Laureate of Grouse Hunting, to George King, George Bird Evans, Grandpa Grouse, Corey Ford, Bill Tapply, Tom Davis, Tom Huggler, Ted Nelson Lundrigan, Steve Mulak, Robert F. Jones, and many others. Reading their books is almost as good as pursuing Ol’ Ruff himself, but not quite.

Thats Ruff!: Reflections from Grouse Country. This is one of the original patches for the Ancient and Honorable Order of Brush Worn Partridge Hunters.

7. The ruffed grouse is known by many names, Ruff, Ruffie, Partridge, Pa’tridge, Fool Hen, Pine Hen, The King, but no matter the name, he is a prince of a game bird and well loved by all who know him well.

Gray-phased is the predominant coloring in Idaho.

8. Every successful shot at a ruffed grouse is a lucky shot and Brush Worns are truly surprised at every single one that falls. No bird can bring on a shooting slump quite like Ol’ Ruff. Remember shooting is instinctual, especially for ruffed grouse. Don’t think about it so much and just keep swinging and under Tapply’s law of averages you’ll start hitting again.

9. To be successful at hunting Ol’ Ruff, you’ve got to learn to snap shoot. William Harnden Foster invented skeet shooting to practice shooting for grouse hunting, but there is nothing that can replicate the thunder of a grouse flush, the resulting adrenalin that pumps through your veins, or the difficult shots in tight cover. In my humble opinion, snap-shooting can only be learned through real-time experience.

10. Ruffies are a bird of the second growth forest. They need young, diverse forests to thrive. Old growth is no good for Ol’ Ruff, or most other wildlife for that matter. Logging and fires can work wonders for grouse habitat and grouse and create the tangles they need to survive.

11. Ol’ Ruff is a noble game bird and he deserves respect. Brush Worns know that to take one on the wing is the only sporting way.

12. A Brush Worn never forgets his first ruffed grouse taken on the wing. It’s at that moment that he changes from a child, or a meat hunter, to a sportsman. Welcome to the fold, Brother Brush Worn!

13. The drumming of a ruffed grouse in the spring, like a Tom turkey’s gobble, is a herald of good things to come. The noise carries a long way and is deceiving as to where it originates. A drumming grouse can be ten feet away or a hundred yards, but it’s often hard to tell.

14. The places Ol’ Ruff lives and the experiences had therein inspire names that flow so naturally like, Grouse Springs, Viet-Freakin’-Nam, Grouse Alley, The Pinch Point, the Outhouse Covert, Grouse Rock, The Blazing Saddle, The Forgotten Covert, Center Stage Dusty’s Nub, or the Sleepy Hollow.

Brother Shawn and his red-phased ruff from Grouse Alley.

15. The pursuit of the ruffed grouse with a good, close working dog is the very height of hunting. When you load up the car and the dog overhears the jingle of her bell, she’ll get as excited as you about the upcoming grouse hunt. The teamwork necessary to successfully take a ruffed grouse will forge an unbreakable bond between the hunter and his dog.

Our first ruff of 2012. Without Misty, it would not have happened.

16. Some have written that the western ruffed grouse is a subpar bird, the quintessential fool hen, but despite this slander, Ol’ Ruff is a quick learner and, though he can be naïve at first, after a few encounters with dogs and bird hunters, he will be as wily and challenging as any other game bird, maybe even more so.

17. Brush Worns are an odd, reclusive lot and are very protective of their secret coverts. Despite this hard shell, with the common love of Ol’ Ruff and the places he dwells, Brush Worns, when they break through that crusty barrier, often find instant camaraderie with other Brush Worns, the likes of which is not found in most other endeavors.

18. Ol’ Ruff can be a cyclical bird and some years there are more birds than others. The years of scarcity sure make a Brush Worn appreciate the years of plenty, but the pendulum always seems to swing back and, if the habitat remains, the numbers will return. Be sure to not overshoot your coverts and make sure and leave some seed birds.

19. Keep a journal of your pursuit of Ol’ Ruff and you will enjoy your hunts for years to come.

20. Above all, remember that no day in the grouse woods with your bird dog is wasted. Life is fleeting and every single day afield in pursuit of Ol’ Ruff is a blessing to be savored. Soak it up because the hunting season only comes once a year.

A fine brace of gray-phased ruffs.

DOUBLE FLUSHER IN THE OUTHOUSE

I have been hunting with my good friend, Jim Parry, a number of times over the past three hunting seasons. However, we never seem to get into many birds when Jim is around and the ones we have found have presented only tough shots. I have joked with Jim that he is the “K.O.D. (“Kiss O’ Death”) of Grouse Hunting.” In all seriousness, Jim is a great companion in the field and I really enjoy hunting with him. Moreover, last Saturday morning, I realized I misjudged my friend’s hunting prowess and skill with a shotgun.

Jim, second on the right, and the crew enjoy the view from Up On Top in 2012.

After an arduous hike into one of my blue grouse coverts, “Up on Top” with nothing to show for our efforts, I decided to take Jim to a covert I dubbed “the Outhouse Covert.” I named it this because this narrow creek bottom literally has an outhouse about three-quarters of a mile up the draw. Moreover, because of my experience missing copious blue grouse the first time I hiked this productive draw, I joked that this is the place you go to shoot like Pure-T crap.

Jim Parry hunts a beautiful ridgeline in search of grouse.

Despite its name, ye ol’ Outhouse has become my choicest covert this year with numerous coveys of blues and ruffed grouse and my shooting has been a little better (knock on wood!). As we hiked up the draw I felt good about our chances.

When Jim and I reached the chokecherry thicket where I had found a small brood of blue grouse on opening day, another covey of five or six blues intermittently flushed up the side hill. To my amazement, before I could even shoulder my gun, Quickdraw Jim fired and knocked one bird down and then pumped in a new shell, swung hard on another, which I did not see because of the thick quakies, but heard hit the ground with the threnody of its last wing beats. Frankly, it all happened so fast that I did not realize Jim had actually shot three times and had taken two birds with three shots. I believe that Jim pulled off a genuine double, which I have never done in all my years of hunting blue grouse. Not bad for any wing shot, especially one who I had earlier dubbed the “KOD of Grouse Hunting!”

I kept my eye on Jim’s first bird, while unbeknownst to me, Misty, my Brittany, retrieved the second one to Jim’s feet. Since I didn’t see Misty retrieve the other bird, I said, “Jim, I think you’ve got two birds down. I heard the second one hit the ground.” I then walked over to where I heard it hit the ground and sure enough, saw the pile of feathers, but no bird.

“Where’s your other bird?” I asked with a puzzled look on my face.

Jim responded, “Misty retrieved it.” I then walked over and patted Jim on the back and congratulated him for his excellent shooting and good fortune.

Once we had both birds in hand, Jim said to me, “One of the grouse flushed into that tree right there,” as he pointed to a nearby service berry tree. It took me a second, but I soon saw the camouflaged blue in the tree. Jim offered to pitch a stick while I planted my feet and got ready for the flush. With the throw of Jim’s first stick, the bird flushed hard down the draw and, to my relief, I made a nice shot. In less than ten minutes, we had three grouse in our game bags and big smiles on our faces.

I said to Jim, “That was some good shooting, my friend.”

He humbly replied, “I just got lucky, that’s all.”

The Blue Grouse: My favorite game bird.

We hiked up to the Outhouse and took a few photos of Jim with his two birds. I was genuinely happy that after all these years, Jim finally got the skunk off. Taking his photo seemed like the perfect way to celebrate Jim’s double flusher in the Outhouse. Good job buddy!

Double Flush at the Outhouse.

DOUBLE FLUSH IN THE OUTHOUSE

I have been hunting with my good friend, Jim Parry, a number of times over the past three hunting seasons.  However, we never seem to get into many birds when Jim is around and the ones we have found have presented only tough shots.  I have joked with Jim that he is the ”K.O.D. (“Kiss O’ Death”) of Grouse Hunting.”  In all seriousness, Jim is a great companion in the field and I really enjoy hunting with him.  Moreover, last Saturday morning, I realized I misjudged my friend’s hunting prowess and skill with a shotgun.

Jim, second on the right, and the crew enjoy the view from Up On Top in 2012.

After an arduous hike into one of my blue grouse coverts, “Up on Top” with nothing to show for our efforts, I decided to take Jim to a covert I dubbed ”the Outhouse Covert.”  I named it this because this narrow creek bottom literally has an outhouse about three-quarters of a mile up the draw.  Moreover, because of my experience missing copious blue grouse the first time I hiked this productive draw, I joked that this is the place you go to shoot like crap.

Jim Parry hunts a beautiful ridgeline in search of grouse.

Despite its name, ye ol’ Outhouse has become my choicest covert this year with numerous coveys of blues and ruffed grouse and my shooting has been a little better (knock on wood!).  As we hiked up the draw I felt good about our chances.

When Jim and I reached the chokecherry thicket where I had found a small brood of blue grouse, another covey of blues intermittently flushed up the side hill.  To my amazement, before I could even shoulder my gun, Quickdraw Jim fired and knocked one bird down and then he pumped in a new shell, swung hard on another which I did not see because of the thick quakies, but heard hit the ground with the threnody of its last wing beats.  Frankly, it all happened so fast that I did not realize Jim had actually shot three times and had taken two birds with three shots.  I believe that Jim pulled off a genuine double in the process, which I have never done in all my years of hunting blue grouse.  Not bad for any wing shot, especially one I had earlier dubbed the ”KOD of Grouse Hunting!”

I kept my eye on Jim’s first bird, while unbeknownst to me, Misty, my Brittany, retrieved the second one to Jim’s feet.  Since I didn’t see Misty retrieve the other bird, I said, “Jim, I think you’ve got two birds down.  I heard the second one hit the ground.”  I then walked over to where I heard it hit the ground and sure enough, saw the pile of feathers, but no bird.

“Where’s your other bird?”  I asked.

Jim responded, “Misty retrieved it.”  I patted Jim on the back and congratulated him for his excellent shooting and good fortune.

Once we had both birds in hand, Jim said to me, “One of those grouse flushed into that tree right there,” as he pointed to a nearby service berry tree.  It took me a second, but I soon saw the camouflaged blue in the tree.  Jim offered to pitch the stick while I planted my feet and got ready for the flush.  With the throw of Jim’s first stick, the bird flushed hard down the draw and, to my relief, I made a nice shot.  In less than ten minutes, we had three grouse in our game bags and big smiles on our faces.

The Blue Grouse: My favorite game bird.

We hiked up to the Outhouse and took a few obligatory photos of Jim with his two birds.  I was genuinely happy that Jim finally got the skunk off.  Taking Jim’s photo seemed like the perfect way to celebrate and commemorate Jim’s double flusher in the Outhouse.  Good job buddy!

Double Flush at the Outhouse.

THINK TWICE ABOUT HUNTING ON YOUR WIFE’S BIRTHDAY!

My wife had a birthday this week and with it being hunting season, I couldn’t help but recollect an experience I had eight years ago while bird hunting on my wife’s birthday.  I’m sure you will agree that’s a risky proposition any way you slice it!

In early September of 2005, I set out the morning of my wife’s birthday to get in a hunt before spending the rest of the day with her.  As my pointer, Dusty, was recovering from ACL surgery, it was just my French Brittany, Sunny Girl and I.  The weather was heavily overcast and the air had that distinct muggy feeling that rain was imminent.  I was driving Baby Blue, my trust Ford Escort fishing and hunting wagon, and we drove to one of my long-standing coverts, Grouse Springs east of Bone, Idaho.

Old Gate Ruffs by Ross B. Young. I love this painting and have it hanging on my wall because it reminds me of Grouse Springs.

As I drove into my regular parking place, I was a little nervous about getting out of there.  I specifically recall thinking to myself: If It starts to rain, I’ll need to get out of here quickly because I’m not sure Blue will make it back up that steep hill we came in on.

Grouse springs is a series of wooded draws and sage brush benches leading up to a pine covered ridge.  We typically look for ruffed grouse down low and blue grouse up top, but we have occasionally found blues while hunting the lower quakie draws.  It’s a beautiful, productive covert, which I visit a few times a year.

Sunny and I did the typical loop checking each wooded draw starting with the Overlooked covert, then over the sage brush bench to Grouse Springs, the biggest of the wooded draws, and finally down a draw we now call “Grouse Alley,” but back then I called it “Viet-Freakin’-Nam” because some areas are jungle thick.  Sunny and I did not move one single bird through the whole loop.

Two distinct ruffs from Grouse Alley taken in 2011 with Brother Shawn.

By the time we hit the cattle pond at the bottom of Grouse Alley, the bottom fell out of the lowering skies and it started to dump, not rain, but snow, with a vengeance.  Of course, I was concerned about getting out of there safely, but I still wanted to hunt my way out even though we were getting soaked by the heavy, wet snow.  I guess I am one of those who have no sense to come in out of the rain.

Sunny and I hiked over the sage covered bench and dropped back down into Grouse Springs in the blinding blizzard.  To my utter surprise, a big covey of five ruffed grouse flushed off the open, snow-covered hillside toward the springs.  I shot numerous times, but in my astonishment and haste, I missed.  When I went in for the reflush on a bird I marked down, I missed again.  I was so flabbergasted and desperate, I just couldn’t shoot straight!  I never could shoot that Remington Semi-Auto well.  So I blew my only opportunities of the day.  I remember being so disappointed in myself.  Every miss back then was a blow to my fragile ego.  And to make matters worse, I didn’t know if I was going to get out of there because of the weather.

A fine brace of gray-phased ruffs from Grouse Springs taken in October of 2010.

When I finally made it back to the car, I was soaked.  I fired up Blue and turned around and nervously gunned it up the steep slippery slope. With its front wheel drive, Blue chugged it up the hill, over the deep ruts and pot holes back to the more solid road on Skyline Ridge with no problems.

However, as we headed down towards Tex Creek, although the snow had stopped falling, the wet roads turned into some of the sloppiest gumbo crap I have ever driven on.  I followed in the tracks of someone who had slid all over the road.  Heck, one false move and I could have easily slid off myself.  Pretty soon, I caught up with some sheepherders towing their wagons who, with the treacherous road conditions, just stopped in the middle of the road and would go no further.  I don’t blame them.

I had no choice but to stop.  I thought to myself: Serves you right for going hunting on Kristin’s birthday!   I felt this urgency to get home to be with my wife.  In fact, all she wanted for her birthday was for me to bake her a cake, which I had agreed to do.

I talked with the sheepherders for a while and assessed the situation.  There was barely enough room for Blue to pass on their lefthand side, but because of the grading of the road, the road slanted down toward the ditch.  So, at best, it was a sketchy proposition.

Desperate men in hard circumstances do desperate things so I decided to go for it.  With the gumbo mud caked on my tires inches thick, I spun and slid on the road, but old reliable Blue pulled me straight, trudged forward past the trucks and sheep wagons, and safely the rest of the way to pavement.

I made it home without anymore ado and baked my wife a German Chocolate Cake, which she enjoyed.  I often think of that crazy hunt, the blizzard in September, and the harrowing roads, but I’ve never taken the time to write this story down until now.  Since then, I always think twice about hunting on my wife’s birthday.  Eight years later, we are still happily married.  She must love me to put up with such shenanigans!

WILD SOUTH BY PETER RYAN

WILD SOUTH BY PETER RYAN

One of my favorite outdoor writers of all times is Charley Waterman.  He was one of the last “Jack of All Trades” outdoorsmen who did and loved it all and wrote about it: Big game, upland game, waterfowl, fishing, camping, etc.  The great thing about Charley was that he admittedly was not the best hunter or fisherman, (or writer for that matter), but his love of the outdoors and the pursuit really came through in his work.  And furthermore, Charley could tell a good story, which is an art that is lost on many new hook and bullet writers.

Wild South: Hunting & Fishing the Southern Hemisphere by Peter Ryan.

I recently had the good fortune of reviewing the new book by Peter Ryan entitled: Wild South: Hunting & Fishing the Southern Hemisphere.  As I read, I was instantly struck by how much Peter Ryan reminded me of Charley Waterman, except his book covers hunting and fishing in Australia, New Zealand, Africa, Papua New Guinea, and South America.  As Charley Waterman was to the North American continent, Pete is the man who has done it all in the Southern Hemisphere and has written about it.  And I would add that he writes well and tells a great story.

Pete pursues the California quail in New Zealand and Argentina. All photos herein are used with permission from the author, Peter Ryan.

One might think that after having traveled so broadly and accomplished so much that Pete might be rich or prideful, but his humility really comes through in the book.  Peter is not a rich man who uses money to buy trophy hunts in far off places, but rather is family man who worked hard and saved for his trips abroad and took advantage of the hunting and fishing opportunities that were available to him.  From his book, we learn that Pete doesn’t hunt and fish to boost his ego, but rather does these things because he loves it and because it is an essential part of who he is.  I can relate to this.  Of himself, Peter humbly reports:

I was never as good as the best fly-fisher, tracker, marksman or dog-trainer.  There was always too much to do, so many different disciplines that to master them all was impossible.  It was enough for me to be the bumbler, Mr. Nobody from Nowhere, who loved it all and never gave up, not once.  Maybe there’s a kind of honour in that.

Although I’ve always loved to hunt deer, I’m not much of a big game hunter.  With that said, I really enjoyed Pete’s tails of chasing big game in the Southern Hemisphere.  Pete has a way of transporting his reader to these remote wild places.  One of my favorite things about this book is when Pete goes into detail about the people, their culture and languages.  For example, he states regarding the Swahili’s interpretation of the lion’s roar:

To the Swahili-speaking peoples the lion’s long roar and finale of descending grunts is said to be “Nchi ya nani? Yengu. Yengu. Yengu” Whose land is this? Mine. Mine. Mine.” It’s stunning up close, especially if the cat is using a rock, hard ground or some other object to work his wall of sound.

Such detail shows a love and respect for the game animal as well as the different cultures he’s experienced.  For Peter, hunting is not about the kill, as the story about his only lion hunt shows.  Pete passed on a younger lion that most hunters would have taken and this was the only hunt for lion he will ever have.  That says something.

Tinamou or Perdiz of Argentina.

My very favorite parts of the book are about fishing and bird hunting.  Pete shares tales of hunting quail and pheasants in Australia and New Zealand, Perdiz in Argentina, and Francolin and Guinea fowl in Africa with his German Shorthair Pointer, Saxon.  He also writes of fishing for Peacock Bass in the Amazon, Dorado and massive trout in Argentina, Trout in Australia, New Zealand and South Africa (which really surprised me).  I’ve read about all these great game fish before, but learned for the first time about Papua New Guinea’s Black Bass in this book.  I was intrigued by the following description:

If you ask a mad-keen fly-fisherman what the toughest river fish in the world might be on a pound-for-pound basis, you’ll get a variety of answers – dorado, tigers, Saratoga, barra.  Few will name the Papuan black bass, which is a pity.  By any measure they may be the dark horse of the bunch.  It’s only their remoteness and difficulty that has kept them out of the limelight.

Such description makes me want to strike out upon a quest to tackle such a fish.  Heck, all of Pete’s stories about fishing stirred within me a bit of wanderlust to see the world and to experience such wild and beautiful places.

Can you even imagine?

But this book is more than just about hunting and fishing.  It is really about life and man’s place within nature.  Peter had the rare opportunity to become a hunting guide in Africa, but he shares that he turned this down because of his desire to raise a family.  On the flipside, in the Epilogue, Peter tells of another instance of a job offer with excellent pay halfway across the world in a big city and the choice he made:

Everyone has a choice like this, in some way, at some stage.  It’s a battle between the head and the heart.

It would be impossible to match that kind of income locally.  If we took it we would never again have to worry about getting a new car, or fixing the hot-water system, or retiling the bathroom . . . the thousand and one cares that wear you down.  There were other advantages too.  The job offered a new beginning after some hard times.  On the other hand, life in a sprawling industrial city wasn’t the dream we’d been working towards.  VJ and I talked about it all night and got lost in the details, but in the end realized the only advantage the offer had was the money.  It was that simple.

Nothing else about it was better than the dream we had been pursuing.  There didn’t seem to be any point to slaving away to make more money to buy a place we liked when we already had one.  Some would call it foolish but we stayed.

When shall we live, if not today?

Amen, Pete.  I don’t call that foolish one bit. On the one hand, he could have chosen all nature as an African Hunting guide but no family, and on the other, had he accepted the good paying job in the city, he could have chosen money over his beloved outdoors.  I totally understand why Pete made the choices he did.  There are so many things in this beautiful world that are more important than money.  As an outdoorsman and a father of six kids, I greatly admire Pete’s decisions and believe that he has his priorities in order and has found a balance between his two loves: His family and the outdoors.

Peter and his shorthair Saxon.

In short, for those who love the outdoors for the right reasons, this is an excellent book.  I am glad to have the opportunity to review it and I highly recommend it.  Follow Peter Ryan on Facebook at the following LINK.

Beauty and the Beast: Africa’s Tiger Fish.

PLAYING FOR KEEPS

Early this morning, I fished my favorite spot, the Mini-Madison and did not even wet my net.  However, I learned that there’s a much better fisherman than me at the Mini-Madison.

I’ve been fishing the Mini-Madison for almost ten years now.  In my book, Heaven on Earth, I wrote about this special fishing hole:

The Mini-Madison truly is a wonderful place and I never know what is going to happen every time I step foot into its magical waters. The more I experience this special spot, the more I realize that encounters [with big fish] are not uncommon.  In fact, I expect the unexpected every time I go there. 

I never get tired of this.

I also wrote:

In an area that is rapidly developing, it truly is a “last best place,” for it is the only place near home that I know where, in the early morning (or late evening for that matter), I can see the Grand Tetons to the East with a pastel colored sky in the background.

To me, this vision is significant in many ways.  First it signifies the wildness of my secret spot in the throes of civilization.  On the property adjacent to the river, I have witnessed ducks, geese, countless doves, warrens of rabbits, skittish skunks, windy weasels, Hungarian partridge, and wild ring-neck pheasants.  This semi-untamed place has become my haven from the “real world,” not an escape, but to paraphrase Traver, my own “island of reality in a world of dream and shadow.”  I go there to find myself and to commune with nature and its Creator. 

As you can tell, I love this place dearly.  At the time I wrote my book, I thought the fishing at the Mini-Madison would never decline.

Bob the Slob.

For the last three years, however, the Mini-Madison has been extremely tough.  The lack of fish has bewildered and frustrated me.  For so long, I wondered if I had lost my touch or if the fish had become so educated and wary that they were beyond my skills.

Last year I only caught a total of four fish there.  Granted, some of them were true hawgs, but in years’ past, there were times when I caught four fish in one day that were all pushing twenty inches.  This year, I have caught a total of five fish from the Mini-Madison, two of which are my very best fish of the year, Bob the Slob and Bad Leroy Brown.   So the Mini-Madison still holds that same magic, but she guards her secrets well.

Bad Leroy Brown

A few years ago, after I finished my book, I observed for the first time on the Mini-Madison a playful, little river otter.  I was fishing the King Hole and standing on my usual perch, when he swam up in the rapids below me and stuck his head up with a big smile to observe me.  I said out loud, “Hello!”  After he had satisfied his curiosity, he rolled and darted downriver.  I smiled and did not think much of it.  I figured that with this year’s high water, he was a long way from home.

The years that followed have been the toughest years that I have experienced on the Mini-Madison.  Except for the handful of fish I mentioned, the holes just seem to be devoid of fish.

Last Wednesday night, I went to the Mini-Madison and in the failing light, I noticed as I approached the King Hole a trail across a small grass and willow and covered island.  I thought to myself: This sure looks like a beaver slide.  But I have never seen a beaver at the Mini-Madison.

This morning, I approached the same island in better light, I again observed the trail across the island and noted that it was clearly made by some river animal, maybe an otter.  I thoroughly fished all the regular lies, but did not move a single fish, not even in the reliable King Hole.

When I reached what I consider to be the downstream edge of the Mini-Madison, which is below two other willow-lined islands, as I cast a dry fly into a seam where two currents come together, I saw something huge swimming down directly toward me with its head out of the water like a dog.  As he came closer, I realized that this was my friend the otter from year’s back.  When he got to about ten feet away, I said out loud, “Hello Otter!”  At the sound of my voice, he ducked his huge head under the water, and his fat body rolled above the surface like a dolphin.  This was the biggest river otter, I have ever seen in my life.  He was the size of a Labrador Retriever, I kid you not.

With this observation, I quickly realized the source of my Mini-Madison woes.  For the last three years, my friend has made the Mini-Madison his home and he has been pounding my fish.  Get this, a river otter’s diet consists primarily of crayfish and fish and some report that otters consume about 7 to 30% of their body weight each day.  That’s a lot of fish, my friends!  By his looks, this lardo has been living high off the hog.  My son Tommy and I gave him the nickname, ”Fatty Bolger.”

Big trout . . . and otter food.

I don’t begrudge Fatty for doing what comes naturally.  As a fisherman, I have come to realize that one of the only constants in life is change.  Like I said, Fatty is a better fisherman than me at the Mini-Madison and he plays for keeps.

The Mini-Madison at Sunset.

THE PILGRIMAGE

A “Pilgrimage” is defined by Webster’s as a journey made by a person to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion.  Some may not believe that a fishing destination meets such a description, but over the year’s, for reasons I describe in detail in my first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun and Faith, my annual trip to Montana’s Madison River has become a pilgrimage.

In short, in July of 2002 after I experienced one of the toughest trials of my life, I experienced some unparalleled days of fishing on the Madison River.  Some may call it dumb luck, but I realized it was Divine Providence.  And, since that special experience, I go there every chance I get to remember.

This past July, I shared this special place with a good friend, Scott Johnson.  We fished the Madison for two days, July 4th and 5th.  Following are some photos and my journal entries from day one of this pilgrimage:

Thursday, July 4th.

Scott and I woke up at 4:30 a.m. and drove over the divide to the Madison River.  As always, the river valley was so beautiful, but the river was surprisingly low.  We started off fishing near the island below the bridge and Scott started hooking fish regularly.  He was using a heavy two-nymph rig with a split shot and was getting down and dirty. In fact, he was fishing the deeper, swifter water where I would not have focused.  After all these years, I am still learning. 

At first, I struggled to catch anything.  I was using a Red Fox Squirrel Nymph and a Gold Ice Dubbed Nymph and got no strikes.  So I borrowed a heavy Brown Rubber Leg from Scott and tied that on as the dropper.  In the boulder runs below the bridge, I finally hooked and landed a nice rainbow and hooked a Whitey, which got off.  I was glad to finally get the skunk off. 

First big rainbow of the trip.

I worked my way up past the bridge during the glorious sunrise.  Every time I fish this stretch and observe such beauty, I cannot help but remember why it’s my Heaven on Earth.  

First light on the Madison is simply magical.

Once I made it up to the boulder runs above the bridge, I began to see a few rises.  The Madison River is so dang healthy.  I saw Salmon Flies, Golden Stones, Yellow Sallies, Crane Flies, midges, tons of different caddis flies, and pale morning duns spinners. 

On Wednesday, when my family and I went into the Slide Inn to buy my license and some streamers, Kelly Galloup personally told me to look for the PMD spinners in the early morning.  Actually, here’s how the conversation went.  As I was buying my license and some streamers, I asked Kelly, “Are the big bugs out?” Kelly responded, “Oh yes. Watch for the spinner falls in the morning.”  I thought: Spinner falls!  What the heck is he talking about?  Then, I realized Kelly might of thought I asked, “Are there any bugs out?”  I kept a mental note that Galloup mentioned the PMD spinner fall in the early morning.  It was a good thing because that little tidbit made my whole morning. 

When I saw the first rises, I said out loud, “I’m switching to a dry fly.”  I started out with a CDC Caddis and caught a little rainbow right off the bat.  I worked my way up to the big log jam, where I found the Brodin Net eleven years ago.  Since then, this particular lie has always been special to me.  I cast the CDC Caddis up into the riffle behind a boulder and watched the tell-tale rise.  I stuck him and fish blazed out into the main current.  I was able to put the breaks on him and bring close, but missed him twice with the net.  Below me, the fish did a head shake and was off.  I was a little bummed, but still stoked to have hooked such a nice fish on a dry fly.  All of the flies that I used had barbless hooks from either Henry’s Fork Angler or Trout Hunter. 

With Kelly Galloup’s statement  in mind, I then switched to one of Harrop’s CDC PMD’s.  I have never seen a more realistic pattern in my life.  This was the ticket!  I carefully worked the water and watched for the rise.  Within five minutes, I hooked into another rainbow almost as big as the first.  This one, I landed and took a few pictures.  I was ecstatic: Big fish on tiny dries on the Madison, it really does not get any better than that. 

Big fish on dry flies is the height of fly fishing.

Following my footsteps from years past, I worked my way up to the exact same riffle where I caught the brawling brown eleven years earlier.  Somehow, I just knew there would be a fish there.  Call it faith!  With the sun over head, the water had that same golden glow as it had that day so many years ago and was perfect to see my fly.  I cast the tiny dry into the bumpy riffle and watched it drift downstream and a huge brown rose and sucked it in. 

Beautiful Brown Trout taken on a CDC PMD from the Golden Run.

I fought the fish hard, but with the light tippet had to be careful.  I finally netted him down by the log jam, where we netted the big fish with the newly-found Brodin Net years ago.  It felt like de ja vu.  Some may say a mere coincidence, but I maintain it was Divine Providence.  Like I said, this place is sacred. 

After catching these beauties on dry flies I made my way down to Scott, who was fishing down by the bridge.  I apologized for leaving him and reported that the PMD spinner fall was irresistible.  My morning was saved by them, and on the Madison of all places.

Stay tuned for Day Two!

If you enjoyed this post, please check out my book, Heaven on Earth.

ANOTHER GOOD SAMARITAN

Saturday morning, my wife, Kristin, and I hiked with some of our family up to Bloomington Lake, a place that is very special to me.  Twenty-one years ago, I traveled up to this lake to camp overnight with some good friends.  This happened to be right around the time that I found my faith in God and changed my life for the better.  So I’ve always associated this lake with the light and peace that I discovered at that momentous time in my life.

Unlike my visit years ago, Saturday was cloudy and cool.  Despite the less-than-favorable weather, Kristin and I decided to do the hike to Bloomington Lake.  That morning, for many reasons, I lamented over the sad state of our nation.  In my humble opinion, so many people have lost their faith in God and direction in life.  It’s truly easy nowadays to feel alone in your faith.

Kristin and Ben make the hike to Bloomington Lake. The night before Benny took a little spill and scraped up his face.

Once we reached the small alpine lake, my good wife tolerated me fishing for a while, but the fishing was less than stellar.  I caught two small rainbows on an old reliable Pistol Pete, which has saved me from being skunked more times than I can count.  The other family members who fished also caught a few fish, but nothing to brag about.

Kelly and Emmaus catch the first fish at Bloomington Lake.

After an hour, my wife and kids were ready to go.  I had not satisfied my fishing addiction one iota, but I knew I needed to be considerate to my family.  Our plan was to take the kids to the beach at Bear Lake to play with their cousins.  As we drove towards Bear Lake, the rest of Kristin’s large extended family passed by us as they headed home.  They reported that it was too cold to hang out on the beach.  So we turned around and headed back to the farmhouse we rented in Dingle, Idaho.

With this change in plans, the wheels in my head started turning on how I could get in some more fishing.  I asked Kristin if I could drive over to St. Charles Creek and fish for a while.  She graciously agreed as long as I was back by dinner time. I invited my brother in law Kelly Averett and his daughter Hannah to come along.  Kelly and I have successfully fished this creek together numerous times in the past.

We quickly drove over to St. Charles, Idaho and up the canyon, but missed our usual parking spot along the creek.  When I turned around, I ran over a nasty rock that punctured a back tire which deflated completely in less than two minutes.  Earlier that week, we had just replaced the back brakes in the Yukon and neglected to put the tire iron and all of the necessary pieces of the jack back into the vehicle before we left for the family reunion.  As you can guess, I was never a great Boy Scout.  We were up the creek without a paddle so to speak and it didn’t look like we would get to fish after all.

Rather than panic, Kelly and I quickly looked for a solution to our problem.  I checked my cell phone, which had only one bar, but when I tried to call Kristin, the calls repeatedly failed.  So I decided to hike up to a nearby ridge to see if I could get better reception.  No dice!

When I began the descent back to the road, I noticed a van stop directly below me.  I realized the driver saw me up on the hill and wanted to help.  When I made it to the van, the guy introduced himself and told me that he had just observed Kelly at the Yukon and stopped to ask if we needed help.  Kelly reported that we did not have a tire iron and that I had hiked up to the nearby ridge to try and make a call for help.  With this information, the gentlemen drove down the road and picked me up.  He had three cute youngsters in his vehicle that were quietly chowing down on vanilla ice cream cones.  He reported to me, “We are camping up in Paris Canyon and really have no reason to be up in this canyon.  But we decided after we got these guys some ice cream that we would go exploring.  That’s when we noticed that you guys needed some help and stopped.”  I thanked him for his concern and kindness.

Our newfound friend happened to have a Yukon himself and, after we returned to my car, he quickly showed me how to release the spare tire from under the car.  I would not have figured that out in a million years because, after three years of owning the Yukon, we had not experienced a single flat tire.   After trying a few things, the gentleman jerry-rigged the jack with a piece of metal, which gave him the leverage to crank the jack and get the flat tire off the ground.  The Good Samaritan then stated: “I’m of the belief that there is always a way.”  His McGuiver-like persistence was inspiring to me.

With his tire iron, I quickly removed the flat, and put on the spare.  Unconcerned with getting dirty, our friend, then crawled under the Yukon and secured the flat tire to the car’s bottom in less than a minute.  Kelly and I both thanked him profusely, and he humbly replied, “It’s amazing what a determined redneck can accomplish when he puts his mind to it.”

I replied, “The world needs more people like you.”

He smiled and said, “You guys go fishing!” And then he and his little friends were off to go back to their families.

With our setback, we only had 45 minutes to fish before we needed to leave to get back to our families.  We had come all this way so we decided to get after it.  I went directly down to the creek near the car to fish upstream and Kelly and Hannah walked up the road and planned to fish downstream until we met.

Kelly and Hannah Averett.

The creek was ice cold and at first, I raised only a few skippies, one which I inadvertently relocated when I tried to set the hook.  I carefully made my way through the tight stream casting where I could through the canopy of trees.  St. Charles Creek holds many fishy looking holes at the numerous bends of the waterway.  In years past, Kelly and I have caught numerous nice rainbows, cutthroat, and brook trout. After catching a few small fish, I questioned whether the creek still held any of the bigger fish as in years past.

The fish did not seem too interested in the Mother Chukar fly, so I switched to one of Shawn’s Elk Hair Caddis with a ginger hackle.   This fly was the ticket!  I waded up to this long run below a overhanging branch and a small cascade.  I cast to the head of the run just below the cascade where the water could not have been more than a foot deep.  The fly drifted no more than six inches when I observed an aggressive strike.  I set the hook and quickly realized that this was no skippy, but a Madison River-sized rainbow in a ten-foot wide creek.  I was using my three weight TFO rod so the fish’s fight was intense and fun.  After a few acrobatic jumps, I beached the big fish on the gravelly bank upon which I stood.  What a fish!

Nice Trout for such a small creek.

I only caught a few more tiddlers in the short time that I had left on the creek, but it was enough.  I was grateful.  Kelly and Hannah reported that they caught a decent fish on Kelly’s first cast.

As I walked back to the car, I realized that this whole experience would not have been possible but for the modern-day Good Samaritan.  I was grateful that there are still some truly wonderful people in the world who help others without a second thought.

The other realization I had is that even though we sometimes feel alone and have nowhere to turn for help (or no cell phone reception), we are never really alone.  God knows us and He knows what we need.  If we have faith, He can send help when we least expect it.  Oftentimes that help comes through good-hearted men and women who follow a prompting without knowing exactly why.  It’s experiences like these that help to restore my faith in mankind.

If you like this post, please check out my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.  You’ll love it!

All creatures great and small . . .