Upland Outdoors

A Morning in the Pacific Flyway

2012-01-17T12:08:00.000-08:00

A strange day was brewing. Snow and rain were in the forecast but the sun rose on the old duck-mobile showing a marginal weather day at the duck club.

Decoys were strung as a slight wind tripped over the lake, adding to the morning chill. When all was ready, we hid back in the willows waiting for flights of Mallards, Teal, Pintails and Widgeons to buzz our sets looking for a place to land.

Then the strangeness came.

The usual manic quacking and honking of thousands of ducks and geese that drop into Sauvie's Island on their journey south that echoes across the lake ceased. The wind stopped. Clouds and the predicted snow and rain vanished. All was quiet, save for the distant howl of passenger jets streaking over head.

Hours went by and we waited. Dogs shivering, gunners growling.

But the Pacific Flyway came through again. The weather rumbled to what was foretold, the clouds moved back and the wind held a rumor of snow.

In 45 minutes the limit was reached. Another morning in the mud.

So there it is. Stayed tuned.

The Boys Just Wanna Hunt

2012-01-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

It's the end of the year for pheasants. And a pretty good year it was. All the usual suspects showed up the last week and scoured out several roosters in 30˚ clear weather.

The weekend after was the annual friends and neighbor hunt.

Unlike last year when there was more than a foot of snow on the ground, we had stellar weather. Started out at 17˚ and warmed to the mid-40's by the after lunch chukar hunt.

Not as many birds were harvested this time around, but the laughter and b.s. was at record levels.

So there it is. Stay tuned.

(Things are getting ducky - no reference to the 2012 Rose Bowl)

It's the Hat Man! The Hat!

2011-12-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

"Just what I need. More stupid human tricks. Of course they know I'll sit quietly and pose like a pro. They've done it for years...Always the red sweaters too. And those silly Santa hats. Gimme a break. Sending out a photo of the family and dog as an invitation to a Christmas Party. Pure genius."

"I don't care much about the bone in the glass, or this photo stuff. I have to sit on a chair and look regal rather than stretch out on a couch. It's just not dog friendly. What a drag."

"I think I'll spice up the evening with a little chaos. Maybe I can swipe that hat and then devour the stupid wad of yarn at the end. Yeah, the hat man! The hat."

"Got it!.. Now we can all relax and...

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."

(Wit and wisdom according to the Dog)

Orion Rests Under a Full Moon

2011-12-20T10:29:00.000-08:00

11˚ at moon rise.

Elk will feed on the south faces near the tops all night. Cows and calves linger in bold groups like cloistered nuns. Bulls stay back of the herd in solitary confinement keeping a keen eye on the harem.

They'll move before daylight and hide in silence while the sun breaks through the darkness.

By the time Orion the Hunter gets over the horizon it's near 0˚.

The trucks make an annoying scream as they start to warm up. Boots squeak on frozen ground. There's no wind, or moisture, only dust. It hangs like a suspended contrail you can see for miles.

On the mountain, the faint light of morning reveals lingering snow from weeks before drifted in batches, crusted from the sun.

No fresh sign.

No elk again.

So there it is. Stay tuned.

A Season of Elk

2011-12-01T10:13:00.000-08:00

A short time after this image was taken, a herd of 70 elk began meandering across the open pasture on the left side of the photo near the half way mark. A huge bull, probably 6X6, trailed the herd keeping his eyes on his harem. They were about 2 miles away and walking like dairy cows going off to milking.

They had spent the night feeding in the hay fields in Cow Valley and now were headed back up to the fir pockets and ravines to bed down for the day. We hoped they'd run into other hunters and turn back toward the protection our mountain offers. We waited three hours and didn't hear a shot.

That was opening day.

Over night more snow fell and the morning brought low clouds and decreased visibility. We knew the neighboring ranch had hunters afield and we monitored their radio transmissions.

They had seen the herd and were attempting to move ahead of the animals to set an ambush. If shot at, the elk would come our way. We waited another two hours for rifle reports but heard none. The elk had vanished.

That was day two.

The next morning we scoured our property for sign, in hopes the beasts had doubled back. After checking every possible passage without crossing tracks we called it a day and headed back to Willow Creek.

The hunt was over for the time being.

So there it is. Stay tuned.

(There are two regular Elk seasons in Oregon. First Season occurs in the last week of October while Second Season starts in November and last for about 10 days. A limited number of special permits -tags- allow hunting at different times during the fall and winter. Our tags are special landowner permits allowing us to hunt until the end of the year. We're afforded the luxury of time. Hopefully enough time for the elk to find their way to our side of the fence. So it's back to the mountains next week)

The Gallatin & Picabo Redux

2011-11-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

Well past the phase of moonlight, the days grow short and cold. The leaves have turned and the wind threatens to tear down the changing hue of a golden fall. Across the prairie, black clouds warn of manic storms.

I travel south to Billings to rendezvous with Mrs. M.

The intent is to cross the divide out of Bozeman and camp along the Gallatin, fishing and hunting grouse, but "want" at this time in Montana is always subject to "weather."

We set camp at the Greek Creek USFS campground late in the day. With snow falling and darkness approaching, we made fast what needed to be done and settled in to a campfire cooked pheasant dinner and a pinot noir.

The area was a "grizzly bear sighting" area, so while we didn't use the amenities provided, we were extra vigilent keeping the .357 magnum and "bear spray" handy. In fact, our dinner entertainment was selective readings from the "bear spray" manual and manufacturers notes on bear attacks.

Almost as scary as ghost stories at scout camp.

Morning found us circled by coyote tracks and an iced over river.

The temperature hovered around ˚16 and opting for discretion over valor, we pulled up stakes and headed south through West Yellowstone and across The Craters of the Moon to Picabo, arriving in the Big Wood Valley at sundown.

We spent the remaining days wandering the landscape, learning the birds and trees along Loving Creek, Silver Creek and the Big Wood.

We walked in Hemingway's footsteps at Silver Creek.

Marveled at the monsters along the banks of the Big Wood.

And chased brown trout around Loving Creek as they finned for tiny baetis.

A final campfire under the threatening sky and it was off to Boise to drop off Mrs. M., and then head to the base of the Blue Mountains to find elk for the table.

And there it is. Stay tuned.

Legacy Lost. And Found.

2011-11-18T14:53:00.000-08:00

I go to Montana for more than the hunting and fishing.

Not only am I attracted to the states' certain enigmatic quality borne from the rugged landscape and radical mood swings of weather, but also to its history.

Its aura is a connection by affinity to mind and spirit.

Standing in a sharp wind along the High Line out of Havre as a roaring freight train twisted the rails to scream in pain, I have stared in wonder at the Sweet Grass Hills as if a million buffalo raged across the plain.

I have marveled at the audacity of Lewis & Clark and paid homage at monuments like Pompey's Pillar.

I have revered the pioneer families that once inhabited the vacant skeletons of old homesteads that speak of strength and freedom.

Vague recollections from an early childhood of playing Cowboys and Indians in a neighborhood park in Helena and trudging through too-tall brush following my Father as he hunted along the Teton Bench outside of Choteau have led me to visit places that once were home.

Driving west out of Glasgow and dropping down on Hwy 191 south out of Malta gave me the opportunity to drive through the small town of Zortman to see the place where my Mother's (Elizabeth Clair Whitcomb Pilkey Mohlere) stories of her Montana family and the Ruby Gulch Gold and Silver mine originated.

What I thought was going to be a quick drive-by proved to be much more.

Zortman, Montana

Zortman is a historic old mining town in the Little Rocky Mountains named for an early day prospector who hunted gold there in the late 1880's and early 1900's. It's also the home of a family legacy nearly forgotten.

I turned off 191 and took the seven mile gravel road into town, where one of the first things I saw was this little white church sitting atop a very steep hill right in the middle of town.

I stopped at the cafe and noticed several framed documents and old sepia print photos relating to the Ruby Gulch mine and(whom I mistakenly thought was) my great uncle, Charlie Whitcomb - the subject of many of my Mother's stories. I asked if there were any other artifacts that I could see and then I was directed across the road to the Zortman Hotel and Garage. There, I was told, I'd be able to find out more info on the Witcomb family.

The Hotel is a rustic building with a gas pump out front and a skinning rack off to the side. When I walked in, a couple of hunters were skinning a deer on the rack. Inside I met Candy Kalal, one of the owners. I said (again mistakenly) that Charlie Whitcomb was my great uncle.

After a few pleasantries, Candy introduced me to her husband John. Apparently, he had known both my great aunts - Genevieve "Freddy" Whitcomb and Virginia and was well versed in the Whitcomb family history.

I explained who I was and then the stories started...all too long to address here. Then John asked if I'd like to see the Whitcomb Family graveyard, of which I didn't know existed.

We hopped in John's pick-up and drove up the hill to the cemetery. There we stopped at the entrance to the grave site. It obviously had seen better times. The wrought iron fence was still standing, but the gate and posts had been knocked over. Oil lamps once stood on each corner and at the gate.

As I walked down the center of the site, I felt a chill of anticipation sweep through me.

Buried there are:

My Great Grandfather - Charles Whitcomb, founder of the Ruby Gulch Gold & Silver Mine. Montana pioneer and entrepreneur. (Headstone weighs about two tons. Quite a huge chuck to lug uphill in 1934.)

My Great Grandmother - Katie "B", the soul of Charlie.

My Great Uncle - George Whitcomb, former Lt. Governor of Montana, WWI hero - DSC. Shot to death in Helena while running for Governor. Aunt Freddie called it a "hit."

My Great Aunts - Freddie, fine artist, had the church on the hill built; and Virginia (whom I had met as a child and was a favorite of my Mother)

And my Grandmother, who was never known by her children's children.

It was a strange feeling. I had transcended the aura and walked with my ancestors for the first time. My Mother's stories became real.

What was once lost, was found again.

So there it is. Stay tuned.

Again to Glasgow

2011-11-14T09:22:00.000-08:00

Getting There

Wrapped up the necessary details at the Jack O'Diamonds ranch and headed north to Dickenson, NDak. Arrived under rainy skies to discover the whole town had been taken over by the oil boom taking place in North Dakota. Not a single motel available. Trudged on to Glendive, Montana.

Over the past few years my travel plan has taken me across the top of Montana, through Northern Idaho and to the Palouse in Washington State before dropping back down to Eastern Oregon to end the safari with yet another futile elk hunt (more on that later).

This year I decided to skip the Palouse and travel directly south after spending a few days in Glasgow, Montana hunting Block Management land that I had stomped before and had relative good luck.

Glasgow is located on the Milk River just east of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation and the Fort Peck Dam and lake. It is the world's largest hydraulically earth filled dam in the world. Constructed in the 1930's by the Army Corps of Engineers, it impounds a lake 134 miles long, has 1600 miles of shoreline with a capacity of 19,000,000 acre feet.

After setting up camp and scouting a few of the areas I was familiar with, I stopped at the Montana Fish & Game office to buy a license. There I was told that the pheasant hunting was virtually non-existent because of the Milk River flooding, which had most of the plain underwater until June.

Might as Well Hunt

Not very good news, but what the hell, there I was...might as well hunt.

I took off with the dog in near frenzy. Once I put the e-collar on him, he's charged and ready for the field. We arrived at a BMA section that looked to be perfect territory. Little used structure, ditch banks, open CRP with a food plot stubble on one end. Wind coming straight at us about 5 mph. Temp in the high 30's.

It was the perfect afternoon. Joe Dog and I crisscrossed through the low cut hay and he quartered through the short wind rows nose to the ground. There was scent. As we neared the ditch row, he dove in and the chase was on.

Trying to keep up with a dog running a ditch on hot scent will keep you honest. The adrenalin peaks about the same time as your heart rate. Then the dog slams to a point, you take a breath and the madness of the hunt explodes in wild flushes. One bird at first. Another jumps. It's a hen. Three break left. Roosters! Swing, shoot, snap the breech and reload.

It's over for the moment. Breathe deep and feel the sting of cold air refresh your senses. The dog retrieves one to hand and turns, without praise, to dive back into the tall grass. A simple lull in the action.

Four or five steps later it begins again. Knees wobble and hands shake. Gasp for calm. Two hens blow from the cover and run up the row. The dog in hot pursuit plows over the ditch bank and two, four more birds erupt from the cover. A rooster drops, you fumble for more ammo. Another flushes at your feet...the bastard was running back toward you. One shot it's down.

A Montana limit on a October afternoon.

In the waning light of dusk, the dog and I made our way back to the truck to put an end to the day. One of the best afternoons ever.

The next day, weather moved through bringing high winds and spits of rain. Took a short hunt at another BMA site but found no scent to chase. The day after it was on to Malta and then south.

So there it is. Stay tuned.

Once Again North Dakota

2011-10-31T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure why North Dakota pheasant hunting has such a grip on my soul.

It’s not the two day drive through stunning country susceptible to violent changes in weather at the drop of a hat. It couldn’t be the amazing pheasant hunting at the Jack O’Diamond’s Hunter’s Hideout or the massive horns on huge whitetail deer standing guard on the bluffs overlooking Cedar Creek.

I know it’s not the jack rabbits as big as my dog or the sneaking coons that will invade your stash cooler when the night is cold and silent.

It's the morning light. Orion in the south before daylight and a cock rooster’s macho belch louder than a 747 streaking across a crisp blue sky at 30K+ feet. One thing for sure - it all sounds better than a siren racing to the shooting at 2 a.m. city time.

Once again it’s North Dakota. This time with a different crew but a game bunch none the less.

(Look, I know it’s not L & C’s great trek, but for one of us it was the beginning. For another, it might be the end. Loved ones are that way...more important than history.)

On board was the Minnesota outlaw accompanied by a new dog (a puppy probably too young for such an adventure but she did show signs of brilliance when not obeying the master. Minnesota also brought two other generations of himself.

A son, and grandson - who, unfortunately had broken a leg on a dumb dirt bike deal a few months earlier but was still on crutches. At 12 yrs old, the young man was a gamer. No whimpers or tantrums or growls. Shot his first pheasant and grinned. Low key and a gentleman.

His dad -son of the main Minnesota outlaw - also got some shooting and marched the tune quite well.

Also on board was the infamous TBird, a hold over from last year and the Major Domo of the crowd. Up too early and ready to go, he was the easy spirit of the hunt. And quick with the Breakfast Cylinder.

New this year, and hopefully again next year, was the SW Washington outlaw of nefarious character Mr. Harding. Although not pictured in the group shot (he left early), he was certainly one of the bunch. The ravages of Agent Orange have taken it’s toll on the old goat, but he remains in the moment.

And a dog guy.

And then there are the dogs.

Hunting NDak is all about the dogs. I know I wouldn’t make the drive without the dog. Seeing them dodge and quarter across the golden CRP and through the coolies and over the rises is a joy to behold.

Joe Dog was solid as rock, even swimming the creek to retrieve a rooster on the other side. Minnie Gun, Mr. Hardings’ yellow lab went nuts when we first arrived. She hadn’t been around that much pheasant scent in her life. She soon settled down to her nose on the ground and yellow tail twisting through the brush. Young Ginger the Vizla didn’t quite know what was going on, but at 6 mo. how could she.

Most improved dog of the hunt was TBird’s Tripp. Solid points and retrieves.

It’s all about good dogs and dumb owners.

After four days, the party was over. We hadn’t taken as many birds as last year, but the experience was equal.

Minnesota’s went East, TBird and Harding went West and I took off North to Glasgow.

So there you have it. Stay tuned.

Seeking Picabo

2011-10-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

No, not the former Olympic downhill skier, but the convenience store, cafe, library,gas station and grain elevator crossroads in the middle of Idaho where three prime trout streams meander through the golden Big Wood River Valley at the east end of the Camas Prairie.

The valley is surrounded by sage hills that turn from crimson to violet in the waning sun. The streams seem to border the edges of agriculture and back country.

Silver Creek

Silver Creek is a blue ribbon trout spring creek 38 miles south of Sun Valley. It’s rumored to be the last river Ernest Hemingway fished before he scattered his brains on the walls of his Ketchum home in 1962. In homage to the great one, I made Silver Creek a particular destination of this leg of the safari, but without the self destruction.

Since the 70’s, about 800 acres of Silver Creek has been owned and managed by the Nature Conservancy. Initially, the acreage was purchased by the Sun Valley Corp when the ski resort was opened for the use of celebrities who liked to fish and hunt ducks.

The Nature Conservancy has managed the stream with kid gloves and its paid huge dividends. There’s more fish by 10X per river mile on the managed land than in the rest of the streams’ flow.

Fall best fishing times are from 10 a.m . to about 3 p.m. and I spent four hours working the bank and wading across the crystal clear waters tossing tiny dry flies and swinging emergers of beatis patterns. I tried to channel Hemingway but gave that up when a huge rainbow tail walked a slight riffle after grabbing my swinging pheasant tail. From then on it was a fishing pleasure.

The Big Wood

Flowing south out of the Boulder Mountains north of Sun Valley into Magic Reservoir, the Big Wood River is another prime fishery.

The fishing was also the best during mid day and Joe Dog and I covered several miles catching trout on dry flies at leisure.

Loving Creek

Billed as a “trophy torut” stream, Loving Creek is a restoration in progress project of the Idaho Fish & Game. You can keep fish on Loving, but “none” below 20 inches.

Wow. Pretty cool restriction.

Because of time constraints, I only spent a couple of hours on Loving dancing grasshoppers over the algae bloom. A couple of good sized rainbows went for the ruse but their big brother's stayed below.

So there it is. North Dakota Redux is on tap. Stay tuned.

And So It Begins - Part Two

2011-10-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

In the State of Oregon the upland bird season starts seven days after the opening of the deer season. Most of those that live east of the city of Portland think it's a stupid move on the State, but typical for the geniuses that inhabit the halls of Oregon government (read: govment).

But we adjust. Because we must.

Opening morning at the ranch was about the same as its always been. The corn drivers sought direction from the field generals and were pointed in the right direction, even though the corn was too high and too deep and too big. (Growers have more corn in the ground this year than other due to the high price.)

Joe Dog and I got the assigned to hunt the perimeter with Mr. T, a gentleman and a consummate sportsman. The other group split into two sections, with one driving through what corn they could and the other blocking..

(Note: Some of the photos is this post were taken by Mr. T. If any are used in commercial publications I'll give him the credit...but not the money...he'll squander it in Argentina dancing the tango.)

Mr. T. has had the good fortune of hunting worldwide and knows his stuff. It was a great pleasure to stomp the weeds with him and the Joe Dog.

Throughout the morning we worked the brush and hay fields.

We worked them hard and with success due to the astuteness of the dog and our dead on shooting. (Braggin' rights)

It couldn't have been a better day.

There was even a chance to take a break and survey the whole shootin' match, of which we took top honors.

And so there you have it. A snapping clear day in Willow Creek. A good hunt behind a good dog. You can't ask for a better day.

There it is. Stay tuned.

And So It Begins - Part One

2011-10-17T16:30:00.000-07:00

The official opening day of deer season on the ranch started three days later than the State of Oregon's selected day because of a wedding. Fortunately the new groom is a golfer and not a hunter. (The bride is the daughter of one of the ranch corp.) Hell would be freezing for a young newly-wed (give em 5 years) groom to depart the day before the annual celebration of marital bliss to chase deer in the sage brush. The wrath of the new Missus would be monumental. (Ah, mere speculation you say...I dare you to try)

On the morning of the 4th of October the truck dropped us off near the top of Carlyle and the walk began under gray skies and a chill wind.

Hunting partner Pete and I took the furthest west end ridge and proceeded to the lower reaches at a slow pace. The monotone colors of the day, heavy sage and neutral shade of deer added to the difficulty of the hunt. On these gray days it's touch to see them. For a brief moment the skies attempted to clear but bounced back into the dull mood of the day.

On our way down, Pete took a long shot at a running 5X5 but missed. Hitting a running deer is a chore and one at 600 yds. is even harder. More luck than anything else.

Near the end of our hike (4 hrs. later), I tagged out on a 3X4 monster running up hill about 250 yds away. A successful hunt.

(Sorry, no dead and bloody deer shots here.)

Three other hunters in our party also tagged out. Pete and charlie had to wait til' the last day of the season to fill their tags and have meat for the freezer. No one scored "huge racks" and no one cared.

At least I didn't.

The hunt for me is the smell of sage crushed under a boot. The sting of a sharp wind.
The stalk and the shot. And the meat.

So there you have it. Stay tuned.

Another Season Begins

2011-09-29T16:54:00.000-07:00

For most of us that participate in blood sport, the start of the hunting season is more like Christmas when you were 12.

The closer it gets to the opener, the more agitated up you become. It's just like Santa's half way down the chimney. Finding, sorting and packing gear settles you down a bit, but the anticipation still gets the best.

Planning on the road/out of state rendezvous' with partners acerbates the situation. You pour over maps and exchange cell numbers to ease the burden, but the nervous sweat still soaks through your shirt.

Three days before you hit the road and head to the high country your list, if you've started on it, begins to get shorter. So does your temper.

Yet questions still remain. And the answers are still the same. You'll know them then. When the season begins.

So there you have it. Stay tuned.

Workin' Cows

2011-09-26T15:07:00.000-07:00

*/=

After spending a good day chasing Sage Grouse, I got roped into helping move some of the ranch herd from one mountain pasture down to another. So I saddled up a 4-wheeler and joined the chase.

The object of the move was to bring several sets of cows and calves to a lower stretch of the property for better grazing and to keep them all in one area before they're moved again in about a month.

The whole operation included three 4-wheelers and five riders on horseback. It's great fun even though I'm not too steady on a 4-wheeler.

The drive took a few hours. On several occasions we had to corner a few pair that had escaped the main push an hour earlier, attempting to chart their own course rather than succumb to the will of the horsemen driving them down.

Ranch work is a blend of the old and new.

And there it is. Stay tuned.
(Leaving in a few days for the annual safari through some of the best acres in the West. Posts will continue from the road.)

The Sage is Still Green

2011-09-20T09:49:00.000-07:00

In the high desert of eastern Oregon, the usual rainstorm is three drops. Has been for years. Until this Spring when heavy rains and record snow pack blew out rivers and muddied fields beyond repair. Then it shut off. Crops got in three to four weeks late. A bad year? No way.

There's been no rain since June but the irrigation ditches are at full tilt. Lush alfalfa hay fields have been cut once, twice or, in some cases, three times. Cut grass is watered for more growth. Corn keeps taking on irrigation and reaching for the sky.

The season's changing. It's late summer and the sun is keeping a sharp angle over the southern horizon.

And the sage is still green.

Upland bird hatches took a beating, but hens re-nested late and the prospects for a robust population of pheasant, quail and chukar are good. Young rooster pheasants will color late, making late season shooting even more exciting. Reports from other states are not so promising, but counts should be adequate for hunters willing to work a bit harder.

After a summer long absence, I was back at the ranch and took a good day to wander the brush and let the dog push up sage grouse. The late afternoon hunt yields a quick season limit - 2 in the State of Oregon. An omen of the coming season? Maybe.

Opening day comes in two weeks. Dog is ready.

And there you have it. Stay tuned.

Wallowa Redux

2011-09-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

Part 2

Up the Lostine

Mrs. M and I pulled out of the VR's elk camp on Thursday morning and headed to the Lostine River. The Lostine River is a tributary of the Wallowa River southwest of Enterprize OR.

In Joseph, we stopped at the Joseph Fly Shoppe and queried about the fishing on the Lostine. We were told that the State of OR doesn't do much to protect the wild fish and doesn't stock the river, resulting in poor fishing. Even with the lousy report, we journey up river.

A serious pool and drop stream, the Lostine is granite bottomed and crystal clear. It is designated a National Wild and Scenic River, hosting wild cutthroat trout, Bull trout, steelhead and salmon.

The river cuts a steep canyon through the Hurricane Mountains from its source near the 8000 ft. elevation down to 3700 elevation when it meets the Wallowa River.

Irondyke Campground

We set up camp at Irondyke C.G. in the late afternoon and got busy exploring the immediate surroundings, gathering wood for a fire and generally making ourselves at home. The campground is one of many small semi-primative C.G.'s maintained by the USFS. Each C.G. has 4 - 5 fire pits and one W.C. Because it was labor Day weekend week, we had expected to see more people but were pleasantly surprised to find only one other couple inhabiting the campground.

This type of campground is my favorite. It's got the fire pit if you need to have a fire and the outhouse. Modern conveniences in the bush. Besides, most of the larger campgrounds down river before the road turned to rough gravel and washboards were starting to look like inner city tenements.

Wading Wet

The term "wading wet" is often used by flyfishers to describe wading rivers without waders and braving the cool fresh water found in high mountain streams and creeks. Usually, the "wading wet" fashion consists of shorts or cut-offs and wading boots, however the lovely Mrs. M takes the haute couture approach.

Note the sheer tights, colorful socks and, of course, the camo mini-skirt. The perfect fashion for a wild and scenic river.

In spite of the fashion show and the warnings from the fly shop, we did catch some fish. None of any size but with 3 wt. rods, even a smolt is a fair pull.

The best part of wading wet is the warming needed after spending several hours working slight drifts and pools of a cold river.

Off to Another Adventure

From the smell of a warming camp fire to the shadows of Chinook spawning in the pools; the quirky chirps of flickers and furry creatures to the howls of the night and the scream of a redtail in the afternoon breeze are only a preview of what the Lostine brings to the senses.

And just as we've began to settle in, another adventure takes shape.

And there you have it. Stay tuned.

The Wallowa's with the Wife (Yikes)

2011-09-09T13:11:00.000-07:00

Part One

The lovely Mrs. M. and I scooted for the Wallowa Mountains the last week of Auguston a mission to visit WVR's elk camp and find some fish in the rivers. Smoke from wild fires in central Oregon, as well as fires along the Columbia west of Maryhill and the John Day River canyon blurred the view for most the drive east.

So much so, we were unable to see the mountains from our first stop at Wallowa Lake.

The Wallowa Mountains are located in northeastern Oregon between the Blue Mountains and the Snake River. The Eagle Cap Wilderness area is part of the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest. The mountains were formed from granite from a magma upwelling the Late Jurassic and Early Cretaceous.

The steep ridges and deep canyons formed by the violence of the earth's beginnings now shelter large herds of Elk and Deer, a bunch of Mountain Lions, a few Wolf packs and other creatures of the forest and high plateau.

Our first destination was hunting and fishing partner W's elk camp high in the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest. The area is lush pine forests, steep canyons, wide meadows and tough granite ridges. Perfect habitat for huge Rocky Mountain Elk. And perfect habitat for sneaky bow hunters looking to pin the rack of a lifetime.

Once we met up with the camp, W, Mrs. M and I went for a walk in the woods. During our stalk, W repeatedly bugled and chirped for elk and was rewarded with a stunning shrill conversation in the quiet forest. The talking went on until near dark, but the animals remained deep in the green.

The next day we took the drive to Buckhorn Overlook, which overlooks the Inmaha River canyon and one ridge over is Hell's Canyon, with the Seven Devils standing watch on the eastern rim. Mrs M, W & Mrs. VR and I had a quick bite overlooking the canyons and then headed back to camp to take an evening hunt.

Again, it was much like the day before. Quietly walking through the woods, skirting several of the many meadows, looking for trail sign and sound. On this hunt, the elk weren't talking, but they were close. We could hear movement.

As we walked along a skid trail, I was a moving elk. It's body was a light brown. A bull. W. readied an arrow, and the group followed slowly in single file. As we came to a small clearing, we heard the animals crashing through the brush, and a yearling elk bolted in sight up a nearby hill. And then the forest was silent. No sound but adrenalin hushed breath could be heard.

The evening hunt was over. It was back to camp, cocktails and chow.

In the morning, Mrs. M and I would head to the Lostine River on the edge of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.

So there you have. Stay tuned.

To the St. Joe

2011-08-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

And Yet, Another River I've Wanted to Fish

After one final morning swinging wet flies, Ghillie and I packed up and headed over to Northern Idaho and the St. Joe River.

An afternoon drive from Spokane over to Coeur d'Alene, Id, and then south to St. Maries. 49 miles up river to Avery and then a couple more miles to the campground.

Again, the river was at a higher level than normal. From what we could find out, the river was about double the size (CFS) than what it should have been for late July. Wading access was limited to above Avery and by what we observed on the drive upriver, those reports were true.

At Avery, the river tightened up, but the bank was accessible - probably due to the fact that most of the larger run-off streams were below.

River make up consisted of pool and drops, class 3-4 rapids and numerous flats. Not a lot of frog water.

After we set up camp and had a reasonable cocktail hour, we BBQ'd dinner and swatted mosquitoes and other biters.

In the morning we toured the river on both sides locating access and optimal runs. Overhead, a bald eagle swooped by clutching some sort of furry creature in its talons and black clouds gathered in the west moving directly toward our location.

It didn't take long at all for the rain to reach our stretch of river, sending us to the fly shop in Avery for bugs and b.s. Ghillie even broke down and bought a wading stick - after several years of cajoling he finally succumbed to the pressure.

Lucky the rain shower was a passing visitor. It was time to get line to water.

We spent the rest of the morning and much of the early afternoon exploring the riffles and tailouts, swinging nymphs and wet flies along with various dry flies.

A couple of bright St. Joe wild cutthroats apiece and it was time to nap through the belly of the day.

Overhead, angry clouds bounced around a stunning blue. Chipmunks in camp raced for thrown peanuts, squeeking like surprised cartoon characters and a pair of white tails in velvet sneaked a few munches of green near the picnic table but trotted off before a camera could be found.

A quick nap followed by an even faster snack and we headed down river.

To the west, angry clouds were growing fast. As the humidity climbed, the black fists roiled above the tree tops and choked back the afternoon sun.

The perfect dry fly evening was about to begin. Or so we thought.

Ghillie and I rigged up and jumped to the river at the first sweeping gravel bar. He was using a huge golden stone pattern. I opted for the smaller yellow stimulator.

Within seconds of dropping the fly on the water, I took a nice St. Joe Cutthroat. A few more casts and it was fish-on again. Ghillie has scooted down river and fought his own monsters is the seam.

Just about the same time as my four weight nearly leaped out of my hand and a huge Cut tail walked across a riffle, the sharp crack of thunder echoed up the canyon, followed by another. And then the rain...

The storm arrived with vengence and river was now not for us.

Hightailing it back to the rig, we made it to camp and celebrated our day by sitting under the rear hatch of the truck drinking B&B, counting One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi between thunder claps and lightening flashes and toasting our good fortune to be vertical in an upside-down world.

The rain continued at a heavy pace all night, breaking near daylight but it was time to travel and off we went, opting for a route west through the Palouse to I-90 out of Ellensberg.

And there you have it. Stay tuned.

From the Kettle to the St. Joe

2011-07-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

I've Always Wanted to Fish That River

The nagging desire of near ancient anglers has become a centuries old lament. Whether it's eye-balling the other side of an impassable river to longing for perfect conditions in otherwise inclement weather or shuffling through a pictorial magazine, drooling over pristine water and huge fish in a strangers hand to missing a hatch by a hangover; it's all the same. Much of what you see, you cannot have.

Unless you make the effort.

And in this case it was driving 600 miles in a day, racing from the soaked hills of the coast to the dry northeastern corner of the State of Washington, trying to outrun thunderstorms and biting flies.

Destination: Kettle River/North Columbia
Purpose: Monster trout

Along with the usual suspect Ghillie, we reach the first destination in good shape to find a quiet little campground on an island between the Kettle River and the Columbia.

It's called Kamloops Island and is run by the National Parks Service. $10 a night and the best deal for less people and adequate conveniences.

The campground became our base camp for forays up and down the Kettle and Columbia. As is usual this year, water levels were high, with both rivers dropping a few inches each day. Ghillie and I spent two days wandering, looking for put-ins and take-outs for drift craft, along with wading access points. We discovered that the Kettle is best suited for raft type craft or pontoon boats. The North Columbia requires power craft to handle the distances and current.

Our first taste of water was on the Columbia.

We meandered down several gravel roads looking for good access and finally found one that brought us to within a few hundred yards of the river. A quick step over private property and we were on the riv, casting looking to cast dry flies for hallow hidded trout.

Alas, to no avail. We'd missed the hatch.

Our discussion then shifted to whether to come back later or focus on the Kettle. And the Kettle it was. But the Columbia did look promising for another trip with the right kind of boat.

On the way in to the Columbia, we encountered a few of the local residents. A couple of coyotes, several deer in velvet and a chubby black bear male taking a morning sojourn along the gravel.

That night, we engaged in a lengthy discussion with Officer Jake of the National Park Law Enforcement Rangers. He's an avid fly fisherman and hunter (as well as he should be living in that neck of the woods). His information about the kettle and the N. Columbia was extremely helpful, and the fact that he's read some of my stories in Gun Dog Magazine added to the visit.

Officer Jake said he was expecting the arrival of German Shorthair female puppy in a matter of a few days. Along with his trusty Brittainy, I'm sure he'll be "dogged up" for some time.

In the morning Ghillie and set out again for the drifts of the Kettle. Weather broke into sun and blue and the river gave us both a great morning.

Later that day, we were joined by another one of the usual suspects, Larry S, from Spokane.

That evening all three of us walked the banks of the Kettle casting dry flies for aggressive trout. All of us scored on moderate size fish and called the evening bite a success.

The next morning it was back to another Kettle destination. I think we might have crossed a "no tresspassing" line, but it was unclear at the entry point. Big Stimulator patterns seemed to work the best.

After spending several hours hiking the shore, it was time to call it quits and set about packing for the St. Joe.

The St. Joe is yet another kind of river. Different than the Kettle and requiring a post of its own.

I'll be back at the post in a day or so.

Until then. There it is. More later.

Ahhh...Back To The River Again

2011-07-19T11:36:00.000-07:00

Grabbed the dog and headed to the Deschutes for a few days of swatting bugs and busting the brush to wade the river.

Wet weather and cool temps have kept the water level higher than normal for this time of year, but the most notable difference is the amount of vegetation along the river bank.

Stands of thistles and other nasty weeds have taken to the added moisture and have grown into huge groves. Getting to the river bank now requires the use of a machete in some places.

But the river was what the river is...the perfect muse. Weather was mild, near 80˚ during the day and chilly at night.

Osprey were snapping through the cloudy days and the big horned sheep kept showing up along the ridge lines on both sides of the river. I tried to get a pix of four big rams, but they were too far away.
However I did get a couple of curious ewes eye-balling me as I walked the access road.

Fishing was good. I used some dry flies - Caddis and Adams to some success, while swinging wet/soft hackles payed off the best. No fish of any size, but 12 good pulls and a load of fun.

Wading was difficult. The submerged rocks are moss covered and slippery and the water's high.

Stumbling over the unknown is what the Deschutes is all about this year.

Heading north to Kettle Falls and the upper Columbia. So as always, there it is. More to come.

Gun Dog Expo Coming this Weekend

2011-06-20T14:36:00.000-07:00

Gun Dog Expo, a trade show for gun dog, upland and waterfowl enthusiasts kicks off this weekend down in Albany at the Linn County Expo center.

Created by Kirsten Fulk, pointing dog trainer extraordinaire, has labored for over 6 months to get this show put together and, soon, off the ground. It's a huge undertaking, but looks like she's pulled it off.

Media luminaries like Dez Young of Hunting with Hank fame and Scott Linden, VERSUS network star of "Wingshooting USA" will be on hand for seminars and autographs.

Dock Dogs dock jumping performance and competitions will also be a featured activity, along with vendor booths in the 70K square foot center.

Two veterinarians from OSU will hold classroom type discussions of dog athletic injuries and canine shoulder problems.

In addition, three wildlife biologist from the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife will also be on hand presenting new information concerning habitat programs and new raptor/dog training rules.

The event promises to be a winner.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 6•9•2011

2011-06-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

Good Dog Finds Another Dumb Owner

Hunting partner G. from Minnesota open the door to his farm house and look what stepped into his life. A lovely Vizla by the name of Ginger.

She's all ears and feet right now, but the pup will get her first road trip in October when we gather at the Jack of Diamonds cattle ranch in southwest North Dakota for the kick-ass pheasant hunt of the year.

Roxanne, from Jack of Diamonds, said in a recent e-mail that they're getting crops in late because of the heavy snow and subsequent high water, but indicates she's seeing lots of hens and expects a good hatch.

The Rivers Are Still High and Mighty

Word from the Deschutes river as of June 1 is that the river has settled down from 7,000 CFS to a fishable 5600. That's still pretty high, but the stone fly hatch is still in progress with Green Drakes showing.

Might get to the river in a day or so.

Speaking of Kick-Ass

Over the weekend we traveled to Roseburg for an outdoor USA Boxing event.

Only one of our fighters from Grand Ave Gym participated and took a unanimous decision for the win. In the mean time, I changed hats and refereed several bouts including the heavyweight main event.

The big boys - 201+ pounds - hammered and mauled each other for the three round fight. The victor clearly out classed his opponent. The ref had no complaints.

Gun Dog Expo - June 24 - 26 Linn County Exposition Ctr. - Albany OR

So there it is. More later.

Braised Pheasant with Fennel, Thyme and Sage

2011-05-30T14:29:00.000-07:00

Tried a new bird dish. Braised pheasant with fennel, thyme and sage from the garden. Bird in the pix was strutting his stuff in a snow covered field in western Montana a couple of years ago.

I think he's one that got away.

The two birds I used for this recipe came from eastern Oregon cornfields.

Recipe Ingredients

Two wild pheasants, quartered
Butter
Handful fresh sage
Handful of thyme
Two lrg fennel branches
Salt and Pepper
2 cups of chicken broth
2 cups white wine
Cup of chopped carrots
Cup of chopped celery
Cup of sliced mushrooms
One red bell pepper rough chopped

Directions

Salt and pepper pheasant pieces. In a crock pot or enamel lined baking pot quickly brown all sides of the bird in two tablespoons of butter and remove.

Add carrots, celery and mushrooms and cook until softened - about five minutes. Add red peppers and cook another couple of minutes.

Add pheasant piece and stir for about two minutes. Then add wine and chicken broth - just enough to barely cover birds. Rough chop sage and thyme and add to pot. Lay fennel stems across top of mixture.

Bring mixture to a boil and turn down to simmer. Cover and place in a pre-heated 350˚ oven and braise for an hour and a half.

At that point check the pot to see if the meat falls off the bone. If it does, then you're ready to serve. If not, have another bourbon and wait a half hour.

Serve with brown or mixed wild rice, broccoli or asparagus. Ladle an ample helping of sauce over the bird and enjoy.

Simple to do and delicious.

So there it is. More later.

Blood Sport

2011-05-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

Can't fish. Might as well fight.

Took the Grand Avenue Boxing Club's Power Punchers to Yakima, WA on Saturday to participate in the Charles Esparza Memorial Smoker.

(r - l: Angel, Julio, Ben and Devante)

Angel and Julio both have had previous fights, but Ben and Devante were set for their debut inside the ropes.

Over the last week the main fight was with the scale. A couple of boys needed to drop some pounds to make the weight class we had matched for them.

At the weight-ins, everyone tipped the scales at the right weight and we were off to the arena.

"Bad News"

Ben opened the afternoon with a stunning display of left jabs followed by rights to the head and body of his opponent. Basically, Ben's superior conditioning, speed and power overwhelmed his foe.

The referee stopped the fight half way through the last round, giving a Ben a solid win for his first battle.

On the drive back from Yakima, we decided we should call Ben, "Bad News' Burton, for the way he tore up the other fighter.

Ben will travel to Sutherlin OR on June 4 to take on another battle.

Dangerous "D"

When Devante Edwards first started coming to the gym, he showed great promise through his athletic ability. We started getting him into sparing sessions early and discovered he was fearless, but too uncontrolled, throwing wild punches and not moving.

Head coach Fred Ryan, former pro welterweight contender Daryll Penn and myself worked with "D" over the last six weeks trying to keep him cool, calm and dangerous in the ring.

"D's" hard work paid off during the eighth bout of the day as he completely dominated his opponent, dodged and slipped punches, while sticking the left hand squarely on the nose of the other guy.

Again, superior conditioning played an important part of "D's" win.

Our other two fighters both lost close decisions and vowed to train harder for the next tourney. Sometimes a loss does more good than a win.

All four fighters will be going to Sutherlin, June 4. We'll probably take some younger fighters too.

All in all, for the first "team" outing, the Grand Avenue Boxing Club athletes put on a good show.

So there it is. More later.

Stone Flies and Chocolate Milk

2011-05-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

The annual stone fly hatch is in full swing on the Deschutes River.

The bugs have begun crawling up the rocks to shed their husks and now they're in the tree drying their wings. A few have started flying their crazy zigzag pattern, dipping in the river for a sip or two.

It will likely take a week or so before they begin to mate and start dropping eggs back into the river. Maybe by then the river will be cleared and dropped enough to fish.

Late word from Ben N. that he's seen lots of bugs over the water, in the trees and on the rocks, but the river is running over 7000 cfs, cresting the bank and holding the color of chocolate milk.

That was two days ago. Maybe Tuesday next will be the right time to try the river again.

So there it is. More later.

And Then There Was Mother's Day

2011-05-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

Most of the afternoon on Friday was spent wandering the banks of the Fall River near La Pine, Oregon.

This gin clear spring creek runs 7 miles west to east into the Little Deschutes near the headwaters. Always a tough little stream to fish, I had some luck swinging Blue Wing Olive emergers under cloudy skies and temperamental winds.

Don't know what the water temp was, but standing still for any amount of time was a cold prospect. The river which bubbles out of the ground about two niles west of where this shot was taken, always stays at the same chilly temp and rarely gets blown out. Fishing requires light gear - 7X tippets for dries, but using wet flies or nymphs is the ticket. Anyway you cut it, the Fall is one of the many stunning rivers in the state.

Regional Qualifying - National Seniors Boxing Competition

In addition to the weekend fishing, I also was officiating at the Regional Qualifying boxing matches in Bend.

Fighters from Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Montana showed up for elimination bouts on Friday night with the championships on Saturday.

13 fighters will advance to the nationals. If these boxers survive another round of eliminations at the main competition, they will qualify for the US Olympic Team.

And Then There Was Mother's Day

On Sunday, I rode north to the Deschutes River canyon to swing soft hackles and lob March Browns.

Weather went crazy in the morning with high winds, hail, rain and 39˚. As noon approached, the clouds backed off and the wind died down.

I fished the south section of Rattlesnake Canyon, taking four fish on brown soft hackle. There was a few rises, but nothing to warrant changing the rig to dry flies.

On the way out I stopped at Sherrar's Falls and watch Warm Springs Indians snag chinook from platforms built into the rock around the falls.

The two guys in the photo just tagged what looked to be a fair size fish.

So there it is. More later.

Watching Water

2011-05-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2011.

As the varsity guys from USN Seal Team 6 fast rappelled into the Pakistani compound to plant a 5.56 mm full metal jacket round in the brain pan of UBL killing the world's most wanted mass murdered and bringing to end a 10 year posse chase across the globe, Willie Ghillie and I found ourselves watching the water charge through the Deschutes River canyon in central Oregon.

The weather, for once, worked in our favor with temps near 70˚ and no wind. The river color was a tad off due to constant run-off, but was visible enough to wade. The water temp is still low and with the river rolling at over 6000 CFS, it's a tough wade.

Insect activity picked up in the mid afternoon as the sun rose high and warmed the air. BWO's, Mohagany duns and some March browns were in the air.

One lone stone fly happened to attach itself to my shirt as I busted through the brush near the bank. I didn't notice many nymph shucks or other adult stones in the trees. The air temps just haven't been high enough yet.

I suppose the big stone fly hatch will be a little late this year. Probably be closer to the end of May, rather than the middle.

Both the Ghillie and I tried several different nymphs and dry flies, but the winning bug was a soft hackle with a brownish body. Most of the fish struck when the fly was near the end of the swing.

In all, it was a fine day to be on the river.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 2•28•2011

2011-04-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

Looking for Water

So the weather here...which can't suck enough...is by far a lot mellower than the viscious happenings throughout the southeast. However, it hasn't calmed down enough to promise good water anywhere in the state.

So, having said that, Sunday, May 1, the usual guilty suspects and I will venture east to find some water. Reports from northeastern Washington have been sketchy but what we have indicates the rivers are high and out, but the reservoir lakes are giving up fish.

Unfortunately, it's too far to go for a day trip.

As we wind down April, we also face yet another record rainfall month. The mountains have 100% plus snow pack and the farm ground remains soggy. Prospects for serious angling prior to July remain unclear.

Fish report from the Deschutes - BWO, March Browns, Some Mahogany Duns - Best time Mid Day - cludy will yield more dry fly action but nymphs or emergers will be the ticket.

Will report May 2.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 4•20•2011

2011-04-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

Finally the Weather Looks Promising

Went to the river to swim the dog and check out the clarity. On the west side, the Sandy is a good indicator for most of the others in the area.

It was slightly off color which means the east side streams must be on the mend. Neddless to say, I got the "fish jones" growing stronger by the minute.

Maybe take a day trip to the Deschutes this weekend.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 4•11•2011

2011-04-11T11:09:00.000-07:00

Good Water A Long Time Coming

Don't get too excited. It will be some time before the water in most of Oregon and Washington rivers looks anything like the photo above.

Heavy rains and snowfall will keep most waterways high and muddy through this month and probably into May.

Deschutes is running near 8,000 CFS, which is about 2000 CFS over good fishing. John Day is at flood stage.
Haven't heard much about the Yakima, but I venture it's out too. Cowlitz, Lewis and Kalama are dark and high.

Umpqua and Rogue rivers in southern Oregon have been giving up steelhead with river levels dropping.

With more rain and snow in the mountains predicted through the end of the week, it looks like the middle of April run to the river (whatever river) will be tabled until the reports clear up.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 3•29•2011

2011-03-29T13:28:00.000-07:00

Tune Up at Farmstead

The usual suspects were rounded up and descended on Grass Valley to chase after pen-raised pheasants.

Leaving Portland at dawn, we headed east to Biggs Junction and then south to Grass Valley in intermittent driving rain and wind. Thick clouds hugged the hill tops and creeped into the higher canyons. They stuck to the hilltops like folded gray sheets.

Needless to say, the shooting was fierce and the hitting - marginal. At least the rain abated and we even saw a little blue sky - a welcomed sight for us rain weary Oregonians.

The dogs were in heaven. Plenty of scent and wide acres to run. Joe Dog was in his element, making most of the retrieves like the champ he is.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 3•21•11

2011-03-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

Waiting for the Weather

While I wait for the weather to mellow out and the rivers to clear up, I thought I'd list a few things that are coming up in the next few months.

• With trucks rolling out every day, lakes and ponds across the state are getting their usual Springtime stocking.

• Spring Chinook Salmon are waiting for the fishermen. Once the rivers clear up, the bite will be on.

• Gun Dog Expo is slated for the Linn County Expo center June 24 - 26. It's the largest commercial trade show for gun dog, upland and waterfowl enthusiasts in the US. Looks like a must show to attend.

• The Usual Suspects are heading to Farmstead in Grass Valley for a little preserve pheasant shooting on Friday. Look for pix and story this weekend.

So there it is. More later.

Pheasant with Sage & Apricots

2011-03-01T10:13:00.000-08:00

The first day of March and all is well. It's raining like hell and every river in three states is running high and brown. Not much fishing is in the immediate forecast, but hope remains eternal. Might as well cook something for dinner.

Pheasant with Sage & Apricots

Ingredients:

1 large North Dakota Pheasant
Fresh sage leafs/dried sage
Dried apricots
Salt & Pepper
Lemon zest
Red Wine
Jalapeno Pepper jelly

(This is an easy recipe with a different twist.)

Directions:
Bone breasts and pound flat - 1/4 inch thick.
Bone thighs
Season with salt and pepper. Dust with dried sage.
Place sage leafs flat on breasts with apricot pieces.

Roll and pin with a toothpick. You can roll up the boned thigh or cook flat.

Brown breasts and thighs in olive oil.
Place pin in preheated 450˚ oven for 7 minutes.

When pheasant is done, remove from pan and cover with foil to rest.

Over medium heat deglaze pan with a cup of red wine and reduce 1/2.

Add shallots, chunks of apricot and two tablespoons of jalapeno pepper jelly. Simmer until further reduced and sauce coats back of a spoon.

Serve with assorted vegetables and drizzle sauce over meat.

So there it is. More later.

The Weather Here Will Make You Crazy

2011-02-17T12:34:00.000-08:00

The weather conditions were right on track. Cool, clear nights and partly sunny days in the the high 40's.

For five days all was well.

The rivers receded back to normal flows after being blown out by monsoon like rains. Water color cleared as the silt was washed down. Deadfall and other debris found moorage. Fish counts began to increase.

The steelhead were moving up river.

The day before A.T. and I had a Clackamas River fishing trip booked with fishing guide Dave Seida, the angry growl of nasty weather again roared across the valley.

Wind and buckets of rain fell all day and increased in intensity overnight. By morning the run-off began impacting the river clarity and flow.

But the die was cast. We loaded up before daylight and set the drift for ten miles.

Meat rods and stinky bait, hot shots, plugs and colored yarn. Spinning reels and level winds. Stuff I haven't touched in two decades.

It was like learning to fish from scratch.

But the real story was the weather.

Temp was around 39˚. The rain came in massive sheets and continued throughout the day, soaking everything in the boat.

And in the end there were no fish.

So there it is. More later.
(Once the waders, jackets, gloves and hats dry out.)

Hip Shot 2•14•11

2011-02-14T11:27:00.000-08:00

And Now It's A Goose

The honkers are flying across the island, invading fresh grain fields decimating new growth and generally raising hell.

The goose shooting season continues for a couple more weeks.

Hunters are having some success setting decoys in green fields and quiet inlets hoping the dark clouds of honkers will drop from the upper ozone into shooting range.

The weather should stay steady throughout February, alternating cool, dry days with rain days. Fog in the low-lands or wind enhances the goose shooting, bringing the gaggles closer to gun range.

So there it is. More later.

Heading to the river to chase steelhead and chinook.

Hip Shot 2•2•11

2011-02-02T10:18:00.000-08:00

The Ducks Have Gone South

The duck season slammed to a close on Sunday.

It's time to dust off the fly rods.

Nine months until the hunting season starts again.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 1•28•11

2011-01-28T11:07:00.000-08:00

Of the Tide and Rain

The last weekend of the duck hunting season looks to be a high water fiasco.

There's little solid ground left above the waterline. Short john boats are the order of the day.

Warm temps have sent huge amounts of water down to the rivers and the high tide at full moon cycle remains.

But what the hell...It's the last weekend.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 1•19•11

2011-01-19T13:31:00.000-08:00

And The High Water Remains

Torrential rains and warm temperatures have sent the river levels cresting over flood stage. In the mountains, swollen streams have turned into raging torrents, wiping out several roads and obliterating homes along the banks of the Salmon and Sandy rivers.

At the confluence of the Columbia and Willamette, run off from nearly 14 inches of rain ( 8 inches of actual rain - plus 6 inches of snow melt) has raised the water level more than two feet across the island.

Throughout the valley, standing water offers migrating ducks a wide variety of choices and severely hampers shooting at the island duck clubs. The ponds are flooded and access is limited.

Cooler weather and a drying trend will drop the water levels and open up feeding zones for hungry birds.

Hunting should improve by the weekend.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 1•10•11

2011-01-10T09:58:00.000-08:00

The First Hunt of 2011

The weather mellowed. Across the valley, standing water subsided as the rain eased and the run-off found its way to the ocean. Warmer temps melted the ice and opened up the ponds.

A thick fog settled in over the island, choking visibility to just a few feet. As the morning wore on, the sun started to chew away at the surrounding gray, casting a slight ray over the decoys lounging in calm water.

Then the flights started.

Mallards, widgen, pintails and teal.

A few hours later it was over for the day.

A good brace headed for the table.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shot 1•4•11

2011-01-04T09:34:00.000-08:00

The January Lull

High water and below freezing temps have crimped the duck hunting for the time being.

The ponds are iced up and the water levels have dispersed the migrating flocks throughout the valley. Warmer weather is in the forecast and river levels are dropping.

The weekend looks promising.

The Season Ends in White

2010-12-27T11:31:00.000-08:00

We closed the upland bird season on the ranch a couple of weeks early this year due to heavy snow fall.

Pheasants, quail and Chukar have to contend with coyotes, fox and larger raptors on a daily basis. The addition of a deep snow layer eliminates food and protective cover options, and ramps up the danger quotient.

Taking the hunting pressure off the birds, hopefully, will keep the brood stock up even though the harsh weather conditions add more peril to their survival.

Hunting in deep snow can be a tough proposition. If there's a slight crust, the birds skitter and skate across the top. Lighter weighted dogs usually can stay on top too, however, the heavier mutts will break through.

If the snow is dry and powdery, birds and dogs plow through like miniature submersables sneaking off the coast.

Whether it's crusty or powder, the hunter has few options other than to tromp along in a forced aerobic nightmare or sit by the fire and sip sour mash.

On this last day, we chose to gut out the deep snow and shag the final few through standing corn and along ditch banks. The snow was over a foot deep, with deeper drifts stacking up on the east sides of stationary objects or clumps of weeds and dirt.

The local boys gathered at the bunk house the night before to set the world straight with redneck philosophy, tall tales and other such nonsense. Every talking point was augmented by roars of laughter or an expletive of agreement.

In the morning, small chores were quickly carried out; feed the horse, throw the hay into the manger for the cows waiting for transport and get the ranch dogs from the kennels. The strong aroma of coffee followed by the sweet steam from frying bacon and grilling pancakes greeted the boys that stayed as they tumbled out of the bunks and wandered down to the kitchen for necessary eye openers and such.

More snow had fallen, adding an inch or two. The wind was slight and the air crisp with the anticipation of the hunt.

Chukar partridge, down from the sage hills, skitter along pecking seeds and tiny bits of gravel.

They dart from the weed patches and find cover under the tractors, quickly flushing back to the hills when any movement, human or otherwise, breaks the silence of the cold.

By mid morning, all the usual suspects had gathered to drive the fields. After a short strategy session we split into three small groups to run and block different fields.

On the first hunt, one group would push a pasture area, while another drove a small section of standing corn.

The idea was to push the birds from the corn and pasture towards a group of blockers set between the two fields. When all was set, the group moved into the crop fields and bush. Soon after, the shooting started as birds flushed east and west, some confused studdering in mid-air.

An hour later, it was over.

Not many birds were taken. The curse of "shoot and release" hovered around the crew, but the laughter was right on target.

The final hunt of the day would take place in the remnants of a 65 acre corn field, with a group pushing through the corn and the others positioned on the sides and at the end in a tall grass pasture.

As soon as the first group entered the corn field, birds began to flush out each side and straight over the top toward the end.

The shooting was intense. Moments of silence, punctuated by seconds of the shotgun blasts. The sudden rush of wings beating through the corn stalks reaching for flight. Yells of "Rooster." Yells of "Hen." Dogs barking and crashing through the crusted snow in hot persuit to retrieve back to hand. Wild swearing at errant dogs. Razor sharp chiding for easy shot misses. And then it was over.

The boys gathered around the fire and poked fun at each others' wild shots and praised the great ones. They charred their hot dogs and spilled their beers. A bottle or two passed between them and the burn of cold whiskey warmed each throat.

It was the final day of the pheasant season and all was well.

So there it is. More later.

On Duck Freeway

2010-12-06T18:11:00.000-08:00

During this time of year, the Pacific Flyway is like the LA freeway at 5 p.m. on a Tuesday evening. Ducks are thick as BMW's, Mercedes, low rider Chebbies and the occasional exotic sports car.
There's Green Wing Teal, the Ferrari of duck, screaming in clusters at Mach 1, dipping and diving across the pond like acrobats strung from life lines.

And there's Pin Tails, white breasted males with pointed tail feathers looping and dodging with dark females that remain anonymous in color as they circle open water like snotty Mercedes types.

Then there's the Cadillac of ducks, the Mallard.

Green headed big shouldered brutes waltzing across gray skies in perfect time to the melody of winter. They drag their mates in tandem, like Bonnie and Clyde, hell bent on doing whatever together.

They are the King of Ducks, and the rival of the Golden Eye, Gadwall and a few others that make the Pacific Flyway look like fat accountants with newly acquired Harley's on a run to Sturgis.

Today we're in the hunt for Teal. We'll ambush them.

Decoys out in flat, unassuming water where they rested before we tiptoed in through the corn. 500 ducks rushed for open air as we crept through the corn rows to the edge of the water.

They'll come back. We'll wait, camo'd up and behind the trees. Out of sight.

This side of our property few Mallards roam. It's a place for speed demon Teal and the hesitant Pintail.

We'll wait for nearly an hour. And then they come.

Teal flying sortees. Bomb runs from one end of the pond to the other. Four...and five bunch up to make the pass, diving and twirling in front of our sights.

Swing with the flock and squeeze the trigger. Lead them long and follow through. One out of five shots might be the ratio, but no one cares. The burner is on.

Then a quick shot. One, maybe two, drop. Splat in the water, the dogs in a frenzy rush to retrieve.

An hour or two slip by and it's over. A limit around.

Collect the decoys and hike back to the trucks.

Another morning at Horseshoe ends with the toast of Yukon PermaFrost and the old men laugh like youngsters at a strip club.

Damn, they say.

Those were the days.

So there it is. More later.

From the Pier to the Pond

2010-11-30T10:44:00.000-08:00

Returned from the North Carolina warmth to below freezing weather.

The hit coming off the airplane to the arrival area made me wish, just a little bit, that we had stayed in NC.

I suppose the relatives from New York will really shed a tear for us now that they're buried in several feet of snow and way below freezing temps.

Fortunately, I was able to shake off the jet lag and the sudden chill with a trip to the duck club a day or so after our arrival back into the city that wants to stay weird.

We had to break through the ice on the ponds in a few areas, but after a short wait, the ducks began to check us out.

A slight wind aided our endeavor, pitching the huddled up duck rafts off the larger lake, sending some inland to seek shelter and open water.

After a few hours of shooting, our group reached a limit and we packed the decoys up and headed back to the club house for hot dogs and more lies than anyone should listen to...especially on a Wednesday morning.

Joe Dog made the transition easily to duck dog after spending a week in the doggie slam (aka kennel) and appeared not to be too upset with his recent incarceration.

So there it is. More later.

10,000 Acres & A Six Hour Drive

2010-11-16T10:18:00.000-08:00

After hiking, driving and glassing over 10,000 acres and not seeing any sign of the elusive Wapiti, we gave it up to wait for more snow in the mountains.

Hopefully it will bring the beasts down and through our canyons, giving us another shot before the seasonal tags expire.

Its been a good hunt and a good try, but without a resident herd in the area, we have to rely on passersby that take refuge in the juniper stands and fir pockets to make it a productive hunt. Lucky our tags last until 12/31. Maybe the big one's will move on in.

But for now, it's time to head for home.

After seven weeks on the road, I was ready. Packing the Chalet trailer and tossing the dog in the back, hitting the I84 west was about as exciting as an opening day.

Its been a great trip. Even though I missed this guys big brother on the last day of the deer season and nearly had several heart attacks chasing Huns across northern Montana, this fall's safari ranks as the best yet.

The experience of stomping through the different acres in the five states is good for the soul. Dealing with the Fish & Game departments and licensing is another matter.

North Dakota was easy. Online and reasonable. Montana was also easy and not too expensive. Idaho overrated for the cost and the access.

Washington was expensive even for a three day ticket. The non-resident hit is about the same in Oregon, but there's more open land. Fortunately, as an Oregon resident, the cost isn't too prohibitive, although if I didn't have private land to hunt, I'd be growling at the limited access.

I don't know why the states think it's good business to ramp up the non-res tickets to augment their budgets without improving public access. Oregon and Washington should pay attention to Montana's BMA system and get off the pot.

North Dakota, like South Dakota, promotes its great hunting on a state level and community level. It also publishes area maps that clearly show "open to the public" land, adding more reasons for non-res hunters to show up.

Washington, Oregon and Idaho could learn a lot from their neighbors. If you're of the mind, chew on your state game guys on this matter.

Enough of the opine.

Rolled into PDX on a raining Friday night. I introduced myself to my wife as her husband, warmed up the widescreen, checked out the fridge and settled back into home.

Two days on couch and it was time to check in at the duck club and try out my new waders that I got from Frogg Toggs.

I opted for the heavy duty pair. Later this winter the added beef (5 mil) will add more warmth and comfort when the cold settles in.

For a Sunday morning shoot, seven of us limited out before 11 a.m and all went as expected.

Joe Dog transitioned from upland mutt to mud dog without much swearing and hanging with the crew in the club house was another good homecoming.

Another great homecoming was learning that two of my short stories had finally hit the streets.

"Lost in the Fog" came out in Upland Almanac in the Winter issue.

It's about getting lost in the fog while pheasant hunting and trusting your dog to help you find your way out.

This is my first appearance in Upland Almanac. Hopefully, the editors will be receptive to more stories this next year.

The other story, "Transitions," took a center spread in Gun Dog Magazine.

It's chronicles the benefits of getting a "started dog" rather than a puppy.

It's also about how I came to have Joe Dog as a hunting partner, having lost his predecessor a couple of months before my first North Dakota etc. safari.

Now, it's off to North Carolina for a family wedding gig and some sweet CW music from hunting partner Wild Bill Noonan.

So there it is. More later.

Adieu Choteau - Hello Tucannon

2010-11-08T12:36:00.000-08:00

Blew out of Missoula and weaved my way west along the Lochsau River which meets the Clearwater at Selway. A rainy curve intense trip but the shortest distance between two points...Although it might not be the fastest.

Weather cleared just east of Lewiston and the rest of the trip was highlighted by the rushing beauty of fall color plastered throughout the rest of the drive until I pulled in to the Tucannon Campground north of Dayton, Wash about 5 pm.

The Plan was to link up with partners Shuttleworth and Larry S. and son. The next morning Larry and Blake arrived. After a short hideeeho, we threw the shotguns in the truck and wormed our way up to the Mead Ranch HQ to meet Julia Mead and learn the necessary rules and regs for hunting on the ranch property. Our good fortune of learning about the Mead operation came from the resident manager at the campground...a crusty old fisherman hell bent on catching steelhead daily.

The first sortie on to the Mead ground produced a ringneck for Blake a few hundred feet from the truck. It was one of those..."Joey's on point...Bang!" affairs, with dad Larry and I approving of it all.

With the wind picking up and the lunch bell ringing, we parked for the afternoon. Blake took a nap and Larry and lied to each other for a couple of hours.

The evening hunt didn't produce any thing to shoot at, but the walk certainly amped up the evening meal
promises.

The next morning Shuttleworth rolled in pulling his travel trailer and dressed for the field. After a few minutes of set up, we took off again for the Mead ground.

Along the way we ran into other hunters and one other in particular, who also was parked at the campground. Seemed to us that he knew in advance of where we planned to hunt, and got there first. Still with a huge spread we found virgin territory and set the dogs to work.

Blake and I worked Joe Dog on one stretch, while Shuttle and Larry pushed towards us with labs Kate and Micka. Blake and I didn't raise anything, but the other guys got snookered by a handful of birds.

The afternoon drive produced the same results, so we settled into the easy chairs around the camp lantern toasting our good fortune.

Morning came in a bit cloudy and signaled that my journey need to continue. The rest of the boys took off to stomp the ground and scare pheasants and I packed my rig and hit the road again.

I stayed with Hwy 12 through Walla Walla and intersected I84 east to return to the Blue Mountains in search of wapiti in the juniper hills near the base of the range.

My travels are soon ending and tagging out an elk would cap a great journey.

Hip Shot....

I write this while taking a break after two days of chasing the elusive giant. Saw two yesterday on the handshake of a blowing storm.

Missed a difficult 400+ yard shot, but now we know they are within our grasp. Tommorrow, chains on all fours we will seek them again.

I'm back to the mountains soon and howling wind. Snow caps the peaks and high mesas, hopefully send the mysterious animals down to food rich meadows and comfortable fir pockets.

Where we will wait.

Until then.

There it is. More later.

Of Huns and Hay and Heart Rates

2010-11-01T18:11:00.000-07:00

Choteau.

A place of childhood memories and acres upon acres of hay fields, grain stubble and CRP.

At this time of the year the wind is a constant friend, always from the Northwest either gently tapping your shoulder or slapping you across the top of the head.

A manic girlfriend that never lets you out of sight.

It's also a place where the Hungarian Partridge gather in large coveys and wait until the defining moment of adrenalin overload to break as a group sending the hunter into a wild shooting frenzy...two shots from an over/under shotgun...and then quickly vanish in the thousand acre stubble. The first covey of the morning sent my heart rate into overdrive.

It took until the afternoon to settle down.

Shortly after catching my breath that day, Joe Dog locked up on a coulee ridge pushing a bright rooster towards the low sun. Fortunately, I connected and the dog retrieved to hand.

At that point I figured I had broken the spell of CHS - Can't Hit Squat - but no.

Near sundown, we walked the edge of a grain field next to CRP, thinking that the covey's would be moving to roost.

That part of my thinking was correct, but the tagging of Huns was not. We did bust a covey, probably 80 yards ahead and again they vanished.

As we turned back toward the truck, Joe took another cast to the far side of the coulee and punched out three white tail does that sprinted down through the middle of the draw at Mach One. If there was anything left hiding in the cover, it blew out of there as the deer ripped through.

There's more birds here this year, than I've seen in the last two trips over. I just seem to be unable to get on them in time. But that's not the point.

The Montana Block Management Areas are big and diverse, offering upland birds, whitetail, mule deer, anelope and even ducks.

I met a couple from Helena who had jump shot a couple of quackers from a slew pond off the Teton River. They were parked next to the road taking photos of themselves with the ducks. It was the lady's first waterfowl. I did the happy snap for them and went down the road.

Left Choteau on the tip of a high wind warning and took Hwy 200 west to Missoula. Hwy 200 goes over the divide and passes through Lincoln, Montana, then curls around along the Blackfoot River, neatly cutting the sate in half. Fine road when the weather is right. Three years ago, I took the same route and stayed in 4X4 the whole 156 miles doing 35 MPH.

Do a little R&R in Missoula and then head west on Hwy 12 to Tucannon in E. Washington.

Meet some of the other suspects and then down to Ironsides to chase Wapiti.

So there it is. More later.

Glasgow and West Along the High Line

2010-10-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

Arrived Glasgow, Montana hours before a Northern storm dropped in from Minnesota, where the barometric pressure was the lowest on record yesterday.

The trip across the wide plains and grasslands was uneventful save for the rock and roll of the wind buffeting the rig and trailer.

The tip of the storm moving east was just settling in on Montana and the temp dropped to stinging cold. Took it easy the first day, resting the dog and rehabing myself.

I originally planned to be in Glasgow three days and then head west, but the weather vetoed that plan and I opted for another day.

Needless to say, the hunting has sucked. In fact, there has been no hunting with winds gusting to 40 MPH, it's useless to even try to walk a field.

Last night the snow came on a vertical plane whipping through with viscous abandon. Seems it brought five fat guys from Tennesee and one skinny kid from Florida who ran in place and flapped his arms like a studdering goose while the chubby ones set up an Army field tent.

The biggest of the bunch lost his "partial" in the melee...Thought he might have dropped in the can.

They're up here hunting mule deer on BLM ground. Hope they have better luck than they did trying to find fatso's teeth in the snow.

The afternoon winds died down and the sun came out, melting what it could and leaving the rest to vanish in the air. Tonight rumor has it at 14˚ with light wind.

Took the shotgun and the dog for a short walk late today. Found a stretch of Block Management land that looked promising and when I saw pheasants in a stubble field, that promise seemed to be worth keeping.

But alas, running pheasants might leave their tracks but they have a better chance in the snow than a dog with the nose and a hobbling hunter.

Joe Dog and I worked the ditch they jumped into and finally busted two hens and one rooster that will live to tell his ancestors how he timed veering to the right at the final moment of truth, dodging a load of #5's just in time.

Will pack up and leave for Havre tomorrow morning after another hunt early.

The quest for Sharptails is on. Along the way, I'll stop at historical markers to relive the soul of northern Montana.
So there it is. More later.

The Wind Across North Dakota

2010-10-25T09:47:00.000-07:00

Arrived in North Dakota on the rise of the constant wind that blows across the grassland.

The usual suspects grew in number to a total of five guns ready to walk the fields of the Jack O' Diamonds Cattle Company chasing the illusive ringneck for yet another year.

Partners T-Bird, A.T., Reed and Pearson along with the dogs; Buck the brown GSP, Trip the young black with white ticks GSP and Joe Dog the Wirehair settled in to the comfortable accommodations of the ranch's' Hunters Hideout and quickly set to the field.

The shooting started immediately.
Huge coulees, river and ditch banks and CRP fields, coupled with corn fields and stubble provided acre after acre of great pheasant hunting.

Even the weather played fair with light breeze in the cool mornings, ramping up a bit in the warm afternoons then dropping off for the evening shoot.

A slight spit of rain arrived settling the dust, but not the hunt.

All dogs worked their respective short tails off, with young Tripp throwing surprise after surprise with good points and retrieves for his owner.

Buck got a little wild, but slowed down enough to make an across the river grab, even though he was wearing protective booties necessary to protect him from the rough terrain.

He'd tore up both front paws a few days earlier in Pendleton OR hunting hard ground.

Joe Dog, as usual, showed them all how to do it.

And do it we did. After three days of wandering the ranch, we saw hundreds of birds...mostly hens, which bodes well for next years hatch.

There was furious shooting every day, complete with easy misses and outstanding hits.

None of us proved to be expert marksmen, but there was enough action to keep everyone's anticipation on edge each time we walked a field.

There was even a laugh or two along the way.

After three days of hiking and hunting, yelling at the dogs and booing missed shots, we gathered up our tab and surveyed the carnage.

Of course we needed the customary group and dead bird shot.

The dogs passed on the opportunity to rest peacefully in their boxes rather than lay around and look run hard and beat up.

On Sunday morning everyone packed up and we sorted birds and left over supplies and began our respective drives.

Reed headed east, back to Minnesota. A.T., T-Bird and Pearson took off west, dropping Pearson in Billings to catch a flight back to SoCal and then on to Missoula trying to beat a storm hitting the west coast and moving east. They were hoping to reach Portland on Monday...sometime.

I'm off to northern Montana to continue the safari. Rest Joe Dog a day or two and then it's Pheasants and Sharps in Glasgow and then over to Choteau to chase more of the same.

The journey continues.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.17 10•19•10

2010-10-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

Emmett and the Road

I made the transition from Willow Creek over to Idaho and met up with long time hunting partner Russ and son Dylan in Emmett.

We fumbled around but eventually found the right ground and set the dogs off. Dylan and Joe Dog made quite a pair working the stubble.

Had a little shooting but the standing corn kept most of the available targets hunkered down until dark.

Dylan was was the major provider. he had just recently returned from his first deer hunt and walked the walk.

He'd nailed a nice forked horn with a quick shot to the neck, dropping the deer in it's tracks.

His Uncle Tom and Mom helped cut up the beast and a great dinner of Venison steaks and shrimp was the order of the day.

After another day of walking the fields and shagging up a bunch of hens, it was time to take back the road from Idaho.

Left early on Monday and cruised to Butte, Montana, meeting up with Teach and T-Bird and dogs from the push east to NDak.

Made a short side trip to honor the 7th Cav. interned at the Little Big Horn and then off to Miles City for the lay-over.

Arrived just at deer in the middle of the road time and checked out the ALCS. Tomorrow, we move east again to the Jsack O' Diamonds Cattle Company and hosts Roxanne and Richard Glines.

Will leave the confusion of the world wide web and settle for the sweet blessing of sage and wild grass for four or five days. I hope to emerge after the weekend with pix and reports.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.16 10•14•10

2010-10-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

Of White Butts, Big Ears and Antlers in the Sage

I missed. At an easy 200 yards, the biggest deer I've ever cross haired boiled out of the sage and stopped broadside, daring me to pull the trigger. And I did, missing with a shot too high and trembling like an enraged maniac.

No venison for the freezer this year. Hot dogs and weenies I guess. I'll dream about that shot all year...until next year and go back to the same place, hoping he'll jump up again.

Next year he should be bigger than the massive 5X5 he showed this time.

And I'll shake just as much, or maybe more.

But I'll come back to that very place and relive the crosshairs and the moment for one more shot.

So there it is. More later.

(Heading east to Idaho, then across Montana to North Dakota. Pheasant rumored to be thick in the Bad Lands.)

Hip Shots v1.15 10•11•10

2010-10-11T17:11:00.000-07:00

A Few Words and Pictures

Because the State of Oregon deemed that pheasant season should begin in the middle of deer season, we've had to change venue and accommodate an annual group shoot of hunters that have been coming to the lower ranch for many years.

Total was about 20 guns that drove the brush pastures and corn fields for two days of blasting and laughing.

Despite the intense discussions of the evening, all the hunters were front and center in the early morning. Most were bright eyed, save for a few who looked rode hard and put away wet.

The group arrived on Thursday evening and spent Friday trap shooting and target shooting across the ranch range, displaying an impressive variety of firepower and marksmanship.

Prior to connecting with the group, I spent Thursday at the Wilcox spread helping to sort and weigh cattle before 500+ were shipped off to fine tables everywhere.

In the end, the last several days were filled with an odd assortment of happenings that seemed to mix well despite their differences.

The group shoot is fun, but doesn't fit my style. All the shooters had a good time, and that's important.

I just think the solitary walk with the dog and the shotgun is closer to the hunting experience that I want than a push and a shove across a ranchers' field.

But more of that later.

Tomorrow we're back to the mountains. We still need to fill deer two deer tags and time is burning.

So there it is. More later.

Ironsides in the Hills

2010-10-08T13:12:00.000-07:00

Sun up on opening day brought dust layers stretched across the hot air thermals, streaking color from one end of the valley to the other. With each minute passing, the temperature archs up. Daylight it's 65˚ and growing warmer.

The Ironsides hills will burn today. Rattlesnakes will stretch across flat rocks, pissed that the beginning of their winter nap was interrupted by stinging heat. The deer will bed down before the sun reaches legal shooting and continue to hide in north side shade until the end of day.

Hunters will plow along the trails winding through the deep ravines and up, then over agate littered fingers where each step brings an explosion of the sweet dusty sage aroma. Yellow buckbrush is in bloom and disinegrates when you touch it. Cheet grasses sway pale in the slight breeze. Sage brush, thick and deeper than six feet, covers the hills and wraps around juniper trees sucking moisture where there is none.

The deer, if they move, blend into the waves of heat reflection and bright color of the high desert.

We sit and watch for movement. Binoculars ready, scanning the far sides of the canyons and draws, we look for ears sticking out of the shade, or white butts weaving through the gray green purple brush.

Dust swells in your mouth and sweat drips into your eyes.

Insects find your scent and play tag with your eyelashes and hide and seek in your ears.

Still you sit and glass. Check the out the bigger bushes for something odd. Something that doesn't fit. Something out of shape along the granite outcrops that look like half buried dinosaurs or skeletal remains of petrified dragons slain and left for carrion.

It was a hot opening day for sure. Hotter than 15 years ago. Still it was a start.

By days end, three deer were hanging and more days were ahead.

Ice cold water on the back of the neck and potato chips for salt brought a revival of sorts.

There are more days and more hikes ahead.

Even a rumor of rain.

So there it is. More later.

On the Road Again

2010-09-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

Leaving early a.m. tomorrow for the 2010/11 Hunting Safari.

Look for posts and pix along the way.

Hip Shots v1.15 9•28•2010

2010-09-28T16:10:00.000-07:00

Chuks on a Plate

I'm rapidly trying to empty the freezer before the soon to start season and the Mrs. and I enjoyed quick Chukar dinner the other night. Very tasty.

Chuker y Pico

Ingredients:

2 Chukar
Pint and a half of Pico de Gallo
Red Bell/Green Bell pepper
1 cup sliced Mushrooms
Butter
Olive Oil
White wine
1/2 c brandy
Salt & pepper to taste

Wash and dry chukars. Place in bowl, generously salt and pepper inside cavity and outside. Pour a bit of oil on and add brandy. Marinate an hour or so.
Slice peppers and mushrooms, saute quickly in oil and butter. Remove from pan and deglaze with white wine. Add more butter and quickly brown chuks on both sides.

Add pico, reduce heat, cover and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Remove chuks, add peppers and mushrooms, reduce 1/3 and add back the chukars. Heat and serve.

Dish is complemented by red or white wine.. I prefer a white pinot gris.

Note: Two days before the safari begins.

So there it is. More later.

It's A Field of Dreams

2010-09-26T12:17:00.000-07:00

Picked up Joe Dog from the trainer on Friday.

Kirsten Fulk - certified pointing dog whisper (anyway I think so) , trainer and proprietor of Field of Dreams Kennels, gave Joe Dog high marks for his annual tune-up before the upland hunting season begins.

I got down to Sweet Home early enough to shoot a couple of chukars and watch the dog go through the paces.

He hits solid points and is a masterful retriever.

During the tune up sessions, Kirsten reinforces the skills and lessons previously taught and watches for any weak points that might play when the dog is in the field working wild birds.

She also pays attention to the over-all conditioning of the dog. I've caught hell from her in the past, when I've shown up with a "chubby" dog.

Pointers should be lean. If the ribs show, the weight is probably right. (Providing the dog isn't malnourished.) This year Joe Dog had an active summer and the short Sage Grouse season helped to lean him up a bit.

At least I got away without getting chewed on.

Joe Dog was started and trained by Kirsten when he was a pup and retains much of the training.

I've taken him back for pre-season touch ups every year since we became hunting partners.

He does a lot better on remembering stuff than I do.

Kirsten not only trains and boards dogs, she also breeds German Shorthair Pointers. As the first photo in this post shows, she's got a few monsters under her wing. She also own Joe Dogs' sister Ears, who has done very well in gun dog competition. At any given moment, Kirsten and husband Paul, have 12 German Shorthairs and one German Wirehair(Ears) lounging about, in addition to the other dogs she trains and boards.

If any of you out there are looking for a pointing dog of calibre, bred well and trained humanely, check out Kirsten at http://www.fieldofdreamskennel.net

Now that I've got Jog Dog ready to go, all I have to do is pick up a few odds and ends and pack the rig. We hit the road Wednesday early a.m. for eastern Oregon and points further east.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.14 9•22•10

2010-09-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

The Road Goes on Forever and the Party Never Ends

Gotta give Robert Earl Keen credit for the headline and a great song to start the beginning of the end of prep for the coming safari across the great acres of the West.

Yup. The season is close at hand.

Notable events:
(Not in order of importance, but close)

1. The dog's at the trainers for a tune up and conditioning. The neighborhood cats and squirrels are breathing a sigh of relief.

2. The honey do's are near completed.

3. Just got tuned in to Jamey Johnson. Good old country music with a fresh voice.

4. Someone saw elk in the game unit I'll walk.

5. Was able to buy hunting license for NDak online. Ida and Mont. are still in the dark ages. Haven't tried Washington yet because I don't have a Phd. Ida, Mont, and OR are raping the the non-resident hunter on fees. It's another stimulus package I presume. I'm sure the states feel that high non-resident fees are good for commercial services like hotels, restaurants, bars, whore houses, gas stations and outfitters. Get a life. Blue collar guys that read all the b.s. in the magazines about the great hunting opportunities in Ida, Mont, Wash and Ore are more inclined to pass on the travel because the licenses are so high. They know the other services are about the same they pay at home, but paying double for a tag or license validation is like cold water on a hot afternoon or whatever..you get my drift.

6. The usual suspects are all tuned and ready for the season. Meeting in various places across
the five state tour.

7. The steelhead run on the Grand Ronde is rumored to be great again.

8. I got new socks for my birthday.

9. The weather in E. Oregon for the opening of deer hunting is predicted to be in the 80's.
Not good.

10. Actually the most important.

Somehow, through a blind inquiry, I became re-connected to two who were major influences
on my writing life.

After 40 years. Poets of note.

So there it is. More later.

Ah...The Sweet Smell of Sage and Cordite

2010-09-15T12:12:00.000-07:00

The sweet smell of cut hay and flowering sage, coupled with a slight breeze out of the south greeted us for the first day of the Sage Grouse season in eastern Oregon.

Highly regulated by the state Fish & Game, Sage grouse lasts for about ten days and limits hunters to two birds per season. For the upland hunter, it's the first blush of the year to set the dogs to field and shotgun to hand.

This year the green hues over the rolling sage hills and in the steep gullies showed the effect of cooler weather and more water. Somehow it gives the feeling that the land has softened from the usual harsh high desert norm.

Still, that sweet smell of sage that explodes as you tramp through it is the best aroma therapy I can imagine.
Along with hunting partners Cody W. and Pete S., we set out in the late afternoon to shag up some birds before they began their evening migration to the cut hay fields.

Shortly after Cody dropped Pete and I off at the fence gate, we jumped a covey of 30 birds or more that broke just out of gun range. Unlike quail or chukar, sage grouse tend to break all at once, rarely leaving a straggler. The chaos of the flush was enough to rev the dogs to a wild frenzy.

Now the hunt was on.

A few hundred yards further, Joe Dog and I broke another bunch and the shooting started. From the opposite hillside, I heard Pete let fly with several rounds and over the far hill a faint report meant Cody was taking pass shots as the birds roared overhead to the next sage covert.

Our season didn't last too long. We scored a limit on the first day.

Cody brought down a fine mountable male and Pete picked up a couple of smaller ones.

Joe Dog and I scored as well, dropping two young birds before we crested the final hill back to the truck.

We try to bag the young birds because they're the better tasting. Older sage grouse tend to be tough, like the habitat they live in, and carry a strong flavor that's not easily mellowed.
Joe Dog's monster retrieve from the edge of the hay field to the truck proved that he hadn't lost his touch after a dull spring flopping around the patio watching the rain.

He heads to Field of Dream Kennels next week for seven days of tune up and intense PT before we start the fall safari across the western acres. By his showing this weekend, I'm sure he'll be at the top of his game when we start chasing pheasants Oct. 10.

I can only hope my legs can keep up.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.13 9•9•10

2010-09-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

The Sage Hound Rides Again

Sage Grouse opens on Saturday.

It marks the beginning of the 2010 hunting season.

The regular outlaws are planning the western states safari which will include eastern Oregon, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota and eastern Washington.

Fish & Game department reports that counts are near normal.

Looks like feathers will fly.

Til' then.

So there it is.. More later.

Hip Shots v1.12 9•7•10

2010-09-07T10:24:00.000-07:00

Cornerman

Saturday was a rough and tumble route for several amateur boxers at the Biltz. I officiated as a judge in twelve bouts and took happy snaps of our guys doing battle.

Only one of our fighters won, but trainer George was was the icon of focus as he counseled and barked encouragement from the corner.

I would have had more photos but due to operator error, most turned out too grainy for this fine vehicle.

Sage Grouse are in my sights for this weekend. Shotguns are cleaned and the dog is ready.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.11 8•30•10

2010-08-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

Ok, Ok, I Know It's Not Fishing

I spent Saturday in Eugene with a group of fighters from the gym instead of wandering the banks of the Deschutes River. I think it was a wise choice.

Unfortunately, the river canyon has been home to two separate range fires.

One south of Maupin and the other north. I'm unsure of the acreage charred, but I'm certain the smoke from both fires choked up everything up or down stream.

Anyway, I opted to accompany several of our boxers to an outdoor event. Having recently been certified as an USA Boxing referee and judge, I was able to sit ringside and participate as a "shadow" judge. I will be on the line for real when I participate in the next show, which will be next Saturday.

All the fighters in the Eugene show were experienced amateurs and their skill showed. The Grand Avenue Boxing Gym, where I work out, is both an amateur and professional gym.

The kids from the Grand have the opportunity to learn from the pros and experience the technical advancement needed to be a good fighter.

To be a successful boxer, you have to be tough, athletic and smart.

Above all, you've got to have a certain spirit that helps you drive through the pain and not give up.

It's a tough and violent sport and not for the weak of heart.

The action was fast and ferocious.

So there it is. More later.

Note: Got tagged up for sage grouse, mule deer and elk. Season start in a month. Bow hunters are in the woods already and I should be getting reports later in the week. Hopefully picture of amazing racks too.

Under the Shadow of Mt. St. Helens

2010-08-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

The trip to the Great Drift was more than a hike down the Elk freeway and a fat boy nap under the firs. We actually did some fishing, despite having only one rod between the two of us.

As the previous post indicated, Ghillie and I dropped down to the Lewis River at an “oh so secret spot” to chase some cut throats and rainbows. The elk trail was pretty well chewed up and both of us did a little dirt skiing down the vertical face of the high cliffs that terrace out a few hundred yards and then drop down further until you collide with the river.

My trusty 4 wt. popped the tip just as I was stringing it up. It was probably weakened by a nasty fall I took on the Roaring Branch River in Vermont. The bruise on the tailbone has healed but apparently the rod didn’t.

So we traded off, passing the rod over when we either caught a fish or had a solid take. Fortunately, there were enough fish caught that we both got some serious water time.

The water conditions and ambient temperatures were perfect for dry flies all day long. Hiking down river, through different drifts and pools delivered several fish to hand. While we witnessed several emerging hatches, we stuck to the one true Lewis River “fish all day fly” – the Yellow #14 Stimulator, until it was totally mangled.

All this great wonder happened as the sun gave a lightshow under the shadow of Mt. St. Helens.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.10 8.14.10

2010-08-14T16:58:00.000-07:00

An Afternoon Visit to the Great Drift

It took a few days to escape the city and the usual honey do's, but I met up with Ghillie at Northwoods on the Lewis.

We grabbed flyrods and day pack and dropped over the cliff at what we call the Great Drift. Both of us haven't been down to this secluded run in several years, opting for other equally technical and physically taxing drifts further up river before the falls.

A quick 45 minute jump downhill (one that would promise to be an hour and a half back out) following an elk trail brought us into great cutthroat and rainbow water. Bull trout also inhabit these waters, but are rare to hand.

With the belly of the day providing light wind and moderate temperature, it was dry fly all the way.

Of course, spending a whole day on a river means you can indulge yourself with some of the luxuries of soft sand.

An afternoon nap under the Douglas Fir canopy is right in line for old river walkers.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.9 8.5.10

2010-08-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

More on Getting in Shape

1. Swim the dog.

2. Swim your self.
(Or, at least watch the girls in the pool.)

Stay tuned for on site updates of the Lewis River Canyon down from Mile Post 28 and Washington's Deschutes east of Olympia.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.8 7.28.10

2010-07-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

Joe Dog Says....

The upland bird and duck seasons are just around the corner. It's time for man and dog to start burning off some of those BBQ and beer pounds and get into "hunting" shape.

So there it is. More later.

The Strange Water of Vermont

2010-07-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

The Mad River

The weather put a whack on the fishing in Vermont. Days and days of sweltering heat and high humidity warmed up the rivers and sent the fish to the deepest reaches to try and stay cool.

The first river I hit was the Mad River in central Vermont. Reputed to hold rainbow, browns and brook trout, the river was like wading in a bathtub.

I'm guessing, but the water felt warmer than Mexico's Sea of Cortez water in June, which usually tips the thermometer at 72˚.

Insect activity was minimal, despite the overcast and heavy air. I worked several hundred yards along the Mad River trail out of Moretown VT. without as much as a look see from a fish. There were no fish jumping, only teenagers.

White River
Locked on to an excellent run on the White River outside of Sharon Vt., after driving the river road from Bethel Vt.

The White was clear and running low for easy wading, but again, the water temperature was in the 70's.

Tagged up with singer/songwriter Cuz Tim (The turkey slayer of a previous post) and artist Susan Whelihan a day after heavy rains had blown out the river.

I figured our best option would be to swing wet flies, but nothing worked.

As evening crowded the light, I did notice one fish rising at the bottom of a riffle seam, but getting to a dry fly was almost impossible. I had forgotten my fishing glasses with the magnification dots and was nearly blind in the failing light. Thanks to Susan for threading the hook and Tim for tying the improved clinch not, I was able to at least cast a dry. Anyway, no one fell in and we had a good time.

The Batten Kill River

The Batten Kill River is often thought of as the "soul of fly fishing" in America. The luminaries and poets of the sport have placed the mystic blanket of reverence upon the spring fed waters for years. It is classified as a blue ribbon trout stream, holding large numbers of brown and rainbow trout.

It is also a difficult river to fish. It offers simple and complex challenges, even to the journeyman angler. Long leaders (12") and light tippets are standard. Precise line control and presentation are backed with bug size and hatch recognition.

All this is fine, but when the water temp is like a sauna, all bets are off.

I spent several hours working deep pools and shaded banks nymphing and swinging a Hendrickson soft hackle and an olive caddis emerger without a bump.

At least the old covered bridge near Norman Rockwell's home offered the "quaint" for the trip.

The Roaring Branch River
It was my intent to tackle the Batten Kill one more time, but the proprietor of the Cut-Leaf Maples Motel directed me to the Roaring Branch River outside of East Arlington Vt.

I drove up the river for several miles and finally stopped at a likely entry and hiked down to the river. It was cold. Cold like a mountain pool and drop river should be.

Using an Adams #14 with a hi-vis crown, I made my first cast into a slight riffle coming around a large granite boulder. The instant the fly touched the water a small brook trout snapped at the fly as it drifted down. A moment later another brook bit and the first fish of the trip was landed.

In all, I spent two hours scrambling over rocks and sliding down scrapes, landing a least a dozen brookies before I had to dash back to the motel and take off for Burlington Vt. to catch a flight back to the left coast.

And, as luck would have it, severe thunderstorms along the eastern seaboard canceled several flights in and out of NYC, stranding me in Burlington when I could have been stumbling over the boulders on the Roaring Branch.

Just my luck.

More than Fish

The trip east to Vermont was to pay tribute to a lost Cuz and to participate in a benefit walk for a great cause - www.theprouty.org.

Fishing was a mere sidebar to a bigger journey for the soul.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.7 7.14.10

2010-07-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - Quick blasts from the hip)

Stuck in Vermont

Thunder storms across the eastern seaboard forced the cancellation of several airline flights earlier in the week. My flight out of Burlington VT to NYC was canceled and I've had to stay until today (Thursday) to head back to the wild west.

Unfortunately wasn't able to return to southern VT to revisit the Roaring Branch River out of East Arlington.

It was the best fishing of the whole trip and I had to cut it short to drive three hours for a canceled flight.

Nuts.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.6 7.6.10

2010-07-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - Quick blasts from the hip)

Packed for the Battenkill and the Mad River

Off to Vermont via the red eye tonight. Hope to fish the Mad out of Waterbury, the White out of South Strathford and a day or two on the Battenkill west of Arlington.

Shuttle reports awesome fishing off Los Barilles in the Sea of Cortez. Tuna, striped Marlin and a host of other rocket propelled fins. Should have a better report next week.

Just got word from the editor of the magazine Upland Almanac. He's accepted one of my recent story's entitled "Lost in the Fog." Publication probably due in the Fall issue.

Damn good news.

So there it is. More (from the Mad River) later.

Hip Shots v1.5 6.28.10

2010-06-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - Quick blasts from the hip)

The First at Merrill

Met up with some of the usual suspects at Washington State's Lake Merrill for a Friday evening fish.
Located four miles north of Cougar, WA (Made famous by D.B. Cooper) and near the base of Mt. St. Helen's, Merrill is a 450 acre ground/runoff water fed lake dedicated to fly fishing only.

The lake holds good numbers of rainbow and cut throat trout.

Elk, deer, black bears, osprey and eagles call the areas around the lake home and make surprise visits every now and then.

Watercraft are allowed, but gas operated motors are banned. The lake is also a catch and release fishery. Float tubes, pontoon boats and canoes dominated the flotilla, but on occasion a drifter will launch.

The fishing/catching is usually the best in the early evening until pitch dark. Woolly Buggers, pheasant tails and flashback hairs ears are good sub surface, with adams, caddis and calabaetis patterns on top are favored. Later in the summer, the hexagena mayflies begin to emerge when the water warms up. Big yellow dries, cripples and nymphs do the trick. I've also found that black ants produce good numbers before sundown.

The wind was up when we arrived, knocking us around a bit. Just after sundown it mellowed to slight gusts throughout the rest of the evening.

Catching was sporadic, with several long releases and missed opportunities.

Fishing partner Hoskins hooked a big one dragging a woolly bugger. The fish appeared to be towing Hoskins across the lake. After a 10 minute fight, the fish spit the hook right before he was set to land it.

Catch or no catch, that isn't the point. Being on the lake for the first time this year makes it all happen.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.4 6.24.10

2010-06-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - Short blasts from the hip)

Damn Nice Waders

Got the heads up from fishing partner Shuttle that Frogg Toggs® had a real nice deal on lightweight/breathable waders.

Since I've been in the market for a pair of new waders (Like any fisherman is in the "market." Fishing gear is on the top of the list. The more stuff you think you need, the less you use it), I decided to give them a try.

I dialed up the outdoors major catalog order desk and went for it.

The whole order came to the front door a day before a scheduled Yakima trip, so I was now properly geared for the river.
The Frog Toggs® Anura™ waders are made with lightweight and breathable DriPore C3 fabric and feature a six ply, heavy duty, wear resistant layer around the knees and shins.

A nifty spring loaded chest pocket, which opens easy and closes without much thought, along with a zippered tippet storage and a zippered security pocket and a draw cord to adjust for a tighter fit adds even more utility to the waders.

I felt the large pocket did not have enough volume to handle any more than a couple of small flyboxes, but the snap shut feature made up for that lack of design. The security pocket zipper is heavy duty and should last the life of the waders.

Constructed with 3.5 mm double-tapered flex-fit neoprene stocking feet with attached gravel guards, the Frogg Toggs waders are comfortable and seem to be sturdy enough to last a few seasons.

Along with the waders, the Tekk Toad wading jacket was also included. Deceiving in its construction - the fabric used in the manufacture of the jacket feels like paper - the Tekk Toad is lightweight and waterproof, and features all the right stuff including ample pockets for extra gear, waterproof hood, neoprene wrists and stuff bag. It also serves as a good windbreaker, keeping me warm in a chill evening wind with only a t-shirt on underneath.

Best part of the whole package was the under $200 price tag. For more on waders go to
www.froggtoggs.com

(Please excuse the rank commercialism of this post. When I find a good piece of gear that's well under the going prices most of the "name labels" charge, I think it's a good service to pass on the information. Besides, maybe the
Frogg Togg's people will send me some free stuff.)

The "Pink Nipple Fly" is another Shuttleworth solution to flat, mirrored evening water. You can see it and the fish devour it.

So there it is. More later.

Fish and Sun on the Yak

2010-06-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

The weather finally broke in central Washington with the sun erasing the last vestiges of rain and cool temps. At least for now, the summer seems to have arrived.

The rain followed me all the way to The Dalles, then stood down at the mountains. The trip up through the Yakima Indian Reservation was quick and easy.

Arrived before noon on Friday at Pine Tree Campground, formerly known as "The Slab", and met up with fishing partners Shuttleworth and Haney. They were basking like fat whales in the sunlight and heat of the Yak canyon, waiting for the third wheel (me) to show up.

After a brief planning session (three hours), we bolted to the river and dropped the drifter in three miles from the campground. We would take our time and work several parts of the river wading, as well as fishing from the boat.

Each of us used a variety of different flies ranging from wet, soft hackles and nymphs to dry flies when we'd see a significant rise. Throughout the day, the sun kept the temps a pleasant 80˚+ and the wind stayed slight. We caught several fish throughout the drift, but nothing of any size showed up until the shadows creased the river.

Haney was swinging his favorite monster bead headed stonefly nymph off the west section of a gravel bar in the middle of the river when his rod was hit with a by a solid smack. In an instant, the water in front of him boiled and exploded. A good size rainbow tail walked a bit and dove for the bottom. After a short fight, Haney landed the fish. He said it was the biggest fish he'd ever landed on the Yak.

After a couple of pix, he massaged the fish back to life and let it go, slapping its tail in remark as it sped for deep water.

Our boy Haney was a happy camper after that bruiser. I suppose he'll have to mount and frame his favorite fly.

As darkness crept up the canyon, we made for the takeout at the campground, tagging a few more fish with dry flies.

Pulled the boat at 9 pm and immediately started planning the next days float.

Saturday morning came sunny and warm with a slight breeze dancing up the canyon. We lounged for most of the morning, sorting gear and planning the next float. Shortly after noon we dropped the boat in five miles up river and hit the water.

I tagged a pan sized rainbow on a dry fly within a few yards from the boat ramp. A couple of nice rises were seen along the bank under the overhanging weeds. Shuttle switched to a dry with a pheasant tail dropper. Seconds after he presented the fly to water, he took a huge hit that bent his Berckhiemer (sic) 1,2,3 weight rod nearly in half. The fish had taken the dropper.

Haney was rowing at the time and dropped anchor, but had to pull it to chase the fish. We were in fast water and there was no way the monster was coming to the net. After a few starts and stops, I managed to get the net under him and brought it on board.

Very nice fish.

That fish set the tempo for the rest of the day, but nothing came to hand that even matched the size. Shuttle did have another one on that promised to be beat or equal the size, but he long released it before landing.

Throughout the day we worked several drifts and tailouts on our feet, as well as from the boat, casting dry flies into the weeds on the bank or dragging nymphs in the seams. By the time we slid into the boat ramp at the campground we had spent seven hours on the river.

We had caught and released several nice fish, had a huge one to boat and all was well.

Libations were in order.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.3 6.9.10

2010-06-10T18:07:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - Short blasts from the hip)

Don't Shoot Me Orange
Looks like the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife is going to wait until they put together the
2011 rules before proceeding with their desire to mandate hunter "don't shoot me" orange for all hunting except duck and turkey.

Glad the government has delayed cramming something more down our throats.

Fish Free Weekend
This weekend is Oregon's Fish Free weekend. Because of the rain, the rivers have been screwed with huge masses of new water, I don't suppose this weekend will be fun for the worm and marshmellow crowd.

The program is great for families and kids. No fees for licenses means a lot more kids get to fish.

Off to the Yak

I've had enough of the rain myself. A good three days drifting the Yakima River and dancing with the rattlesnakes will cure the Willamette Valley Moss Invasion Blues.

So there it is. More later.

Hip Shots v1.2 - 6.4.10

2010-06-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

(Hip Shots - short blasts from the hip.)

The rain just quit. It's been running at the tap for over 12 hours and near 40 days. If Moses was a fisherman, he'd be as pissed as I am. Most of the rivers in Washington and Oregon are out, running like chocolate milk with chucks.

Finally found something interesting on the Oregon Fish and Wildlife web site -

http://www.oregonhuntingmap.com

It shows hunting access areas(very few), ODFW offices (oh Boy!), land ownership (no private land listed) and wildlife management units. While you can download maps, check longitude and latitude references for GPS and a bunch of other stuff, it's still is a limp wrist compared to other states.

So there it it. More later.

Hip Shots v1.1

2010-06-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

Starting this post, I'll update the blog more often than previously. The weather has sucked this spring (Oregon has 200% of its normal May rainfall), seriously limiting my desire to venture too far from the channel selector. Hopefully, it will dry out in June and allow me to stomp around the rivers and streams, waiting out the summer for hunting season to begin. The update is called "Hip Shots" and will deal with random drivel that suits the mood.

Don't Shoot Me Orange Oregon

Looks like government is going to trash us again. The Oregon Fish and Wildlife is set to enact a mandatory requirement that hunters (duck and turkey hunters are exempt) wear what is known as hunter orange or blaze orange.

I call it "Don't Shoot Me Orange."

There are few hunting accidents in Oregon. In fact, the state has one of the best records in the country, but last year a kid dressed in camo got killed when his uncle mistook him for an elk.

For those of you that don't know - Elk are huge - as big as a horse. I feel sorry for the family but camo or not, the uncle's an idiot. He violated one of the main tenets of hunting - know what you're shooting at.

This move will be yet another example of government telling us what to do. Screw that. In public testimony, the game commission has been met with a resounding "no way" from upland bird, deer and elk hunters. Still it looks like they'll lock us in to another rule we don't want.

There it is. More later.

Big Bugs and One Big Bird

2010-05-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

After getting the word that the salmon fly and stone fly hatch (from the Deschutes Canyon Fly Shop - www.flyfishingdeschutes.com) was in full swing on the Deschutes River, I loaded my gear and headed over last week.

Fishing partner Shuttleworth hit the road at 5 a.m and scooted down from Seattle to meet up in Jones Canyon where we set up camp.

The weather in both Oregon and Washington had been unstable. It seems the eastern sides of both states have been getting more rain and cooler temps than normal for this time of year, but the bug hatch arrived about six weeks early.

Because of mild winter temperatures, stone fly hatches in Montana and Northern Idaho are predicted to be early this year too.

Maybe its the water temps. The Deschutes should be around 47˚, but peaked at 53˚. It's a guess, but the bugs are chucking their shucks and crawling up the rocks and into the trees to dry off.

Many are cartwheeling around and dipping back to the water. Bushes and trees are loaded with them.

Tactically, the bugs start migrating toward the banks in the morning, so nymph fishing is the best way to go.

In the afternoons, the adults begin the mating dance and hook up for a 24 hour Spitzerthon (note former Atty Gen of NY Eliot Spitzer), then tumble through the air dropping their eggs back into the river.

Using a short leader - 4 ft. - and targeting smooth water under the bushes and trees, I'll fish downstream and pop or twitter the fly as it drifts through the target area. These big flies are awkward fliers and make quite a racket on the water.

Presentation isn't as critical as with mayflies but it can be dry fly action at its best when the fish are zeroed in on the bug.

It might have been the water clarity or just fishing karma, the fish weren't paying any attention to our big bugs. Whatever the reason, neither Jim nor I tagged a fish with the stone flies.

That being the case, we went to back to the varsity special forces and settled in for three days of moderate catching and excellent being there with wet flies and some small dry duns.

I find swinging wet flies to be a whole lot more fun than getting frozen arm nymphing. It's not as boring and when the fish strike, big or small, it's a hardy whack.

But river conditions and weather all play a part. Some parts of the day, you've got to nymph and wait for emerging bugs.

See fish slap the surface, then it's time to try a dry fly. Or a dry can be an attractor for a nymph dropper. Lots of tactics, never enough time to learn everything.

Whatever the method, a fish in the creel is a fish for the table.
(Note: The Deschutes is NOT a catch and release river. Limit 2, max. 13")

Big Bird in the Adirondacks

Got a short message from Cuz Tim. He and his dad and uncle scored good in upstate NY.

Tim writes:

"I popped a 20lb, eight-inch long beard on Saturday, bastard damn near mounted my hen decoy. Can't wait to cook 'em up."

Hopefully, he'll save me a leg.

So there it is. More later.

Big Bugs and What's for Dinner

2010-05-14T14:31:00.000-07:00

The big bugs are making a strong show on the Deschutes River in central Oregon.

In fact, John Smeraglio, the proprietor of the Deschutes Canyon Fly Shop told me this morning that the stone flies (hesperoperla and pteronarcys), also called salmon flies, are crawling up the rocks, drying their wings in the trees and bouncing on the surface dropping eggs all the way from the mouth upriver to Trout Creek.

The stone fly hatch on the Deschutes can be an amazing event. The bug can be over an inch in length and is a trout favorite when they appear. The size brings the big fish up, and for dry fly fishermen, it's awesome to cast huge flies, bounce them on the water and watch gigantic redside trout smack the fly without hesitation.

The salmon fly hatch lasts for about a month, moving up river as it goes. It also attracts tons of fishermen, turning the Deschutes into a California like river with anglers every three feet. The most pressure is on the weekend, so I'll cut my losses and head out Tuesday for the lower canyon and, hopefully, lots of dry fly action.

In the mean time, the following recipe will keep you all well fed. I'll have another Deschutes report when I get back. For a daily look, go www.flyfishingdeschutes.com and click on fish report. John's pretty good at keeping things up-to-date. If you make it to the river, buy your flies at John's shop. It's just across the bridge in Maupin.

Roast Venison

This is an easy recipe and real tasty.

Ingredients:

3 - 4 lb. venison shoulder roast
2 tablespoons Sage
2 tablespoons Thyme
2 tablespoons crushed garlic
2 tablespoons horseradish
1 tablespoon peppercorns
Salt and Pepper
1/2 cup good bourbon
Various root vegetables

Preheat the oven to 350˚. Salt and pepper both sides of the roast. Mix the herbs, garlic and horseradish with a little bourbon, forming a nice paste. Slather the paste all over the roast and top with peppercorns.

Place the roast on a rack in a roasting pan and add root vegetables, squash, apples or whatever you desire. Pour a little on the bourbon in the pan to keep the bottom in liquid and set in oven for approximately 12 - 15 minutes per pound.

It's important to have a meat thermometer for this recipe. I usually don't pay much attention to how long I cook a roast, but rather what temperature it should reach before I take the meat off the fire.

Most game, including venison, is best rare to medium rare. I tend to pull the meat when the temp hits 125˚ in the center. Cover and rest for no more that five minutes. That way it's red and moist and full of flavor.

We had the vegetables and steamed broccoli slaw with the medium rare meat. A Coppola cab complemented the hearty flavors. Yum.

So there it is. More later.

Up on the Yak

2010-05-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

Took four days and headed for the Yakima River to fish the canyon out of Ellensburg, Washington.

Traveled I84 to Biggs, and cut off to 97 through Goldendale, WA, over Sadus Pass and dropped down into the new green fields of the Yakima Indian Reservation.

Every time I travel through the Columbia River Gorge, I'm amazed at how the evolution of technology has impacted the wild bluffs and canyons cut deep along the river. The rolling buttes are now home to hundreds of wind turbines planted like fruit trees across the fertile horizons.

On both sides of the river, wind farms have taken over the visual impact of the drive. At some site, cattle graze underneath the spinning blades without a second thought. I haven't heard if they've made any difference to wildlife, but the sound has got to play some role, even if the building process hasn't.

But this post isn't about renewable energy, its about trying to fish in the wind...the Yakima Canyon wind.

Made a short float with Jim and Estelle Shuttleworth from just south of Thorpe down to E-burg. The river doesn't cut through the rocks like in the canyon, but still rattles itself with strong tailouts, rapids and cutbanks along pastures and hay fields.

We were treated by a stiff 20 mph breeze with 35+mph gusts for our efforts. The temp stayed down because of the cloud cover and wind, but we still put in a great day dead drifting nymphs in seam and swinging wet flies in the riffles.

Despite the incredible action of the swallows zeroing in on the hatches and dancing their dance through the trees, we saw very few rising fish so we stuck to our game plan and stayed sub surface.

The main arsenal was caddis emergers and baetis soft hackles. Between the three of us, those particular flies were the most productive.

The river color was in good shape and the water was at a very good CFS for drifting. Not too fast...not too slow.

I hadn't been out in a big wind for months and the racket is makes is disconcerning. I think the noise as it beats everything silly is what saps your energy more than the jostling it gives. The relief of stepping into the trailer comes from silence rather than anything else.

We ended the day in sun light around 6:30 pm and set about to toast the day and our good fortune.

The next day we headed for Lake Linise, but were completely blown off by the wind. There were several other fishermen on the lake, but they had taken refuge in reeds waiting for the blow to end. I suppose they're still there. The wind didn't quit for another two days.

Abundant hatches and wildlife, great water, easy navigation and high desert weather make the Yakima River one of the sweetest NW rivers to fish.

So there it is. More later.

Remember the Ducks

2010-04-29T13:19:00.000-07:00

The rain just turned to hail and the black clouds continue to roll in from the west. Another April day that feels like February. Apparently, we've had rain nearly every day this month and the average temperature has been below normal. It's duck hunting weather, not fishing season.

In homage to the feathered, I mixed up a nice recipe last night which was inspired by a Scott Leysath recipe in the latest Duck's Unlimited magazine.

Pato Italiano Meatballs

This dish is a little prep intensive. I use skinned mallard breasts and needed to dig some shot out and grind the meat to a good consistency to mix with the hamburger.

Ingredients:

10 Mallard breast filets, sliced and ground in a food processor
1 lb. 10% fat hamburger
4 - 5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
4 tablespoons Italian seasoning
2 tablespoons Oregano
2 tablespoons dried Sage
3 tablespoons fennel seed
3 tablespoons minced garlic
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon mixed chili pepper
4 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 cup of canned tomatoes, drained and diced
1 medium sweet onion, finely diced
3/4 cup panko bread crumbs
3 tablespoons olive oil

In a large bowl, combine the ground beef and duck. In a smaller bowl, combine the flour with all the dry seasonings and sprinkle evenly over the meat, using your hands to thoroughly work the spices into the body. Add balsamic vinegar, tomato and onions, along with the bread crumbs, a little at a time.

After the bread crumbs have been blended into the meat, grab a small bit and roll into a ball about the size of a golf ball or a little bigger. I prefer larger meatballs, because, you know, size is everything.

The meatballs should be moist, yet firm. If they fall apart, add a little more flour to bind them together.

Heat the oil in a large pan over medium heat and add the meatballs. Keep each ball separate to allow a even browning. Brown all the meatballs and set aside.

In the same pan that you browned the balls, deglaze the skillet with red wine add marinara sauce.

(Of course, you've already made the sauce from scratch or need to reach for a jar of Ragu.)

When I don't have the time to make my own marinara, I use a sugar free Trader Joe's selection and usually add mushrooms, more oregano, Italian spices, fennel and a pinch of chili pepper. Reduce the mixture for a few minutes and add the meatballs, turning each one to coat and simmer for yet another couple of minutes, until the meatballs have reheated.

Serve over pasta with grated or shaved parmesan cheese, chopped scallions and ground black pepper.

We included a very nice French table wine, but a full bodied Cab would be also compliment this dish.

So enjoy.

There it is. More to come.

A Basque Delight - A Recipe

2010-04-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

This recipe always reminds me of one of my old girl friends. She was a foreign exchange student from Spain of Basque decent. All I can remember about her is that she had beautiful waist length hair and a mysterious aura about her. (Well, she also liked gin with coca cola and that's a real mystery.)

You can bet this aromatic and flavorful dish will have all complexities of a good mystery and a stunning conclusion once it hits your table.

Classic Basque Pheasant

Ingredients:

2 large pheasants, cut in quarters
1/4 cup of olive oil
1/2 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup cream sherry
1/2 cup cider vinegar
1/2 cup brown sugar or agave
4 cloves of garlic finely chopped
4 scallions, finely chopped
6 fresh basil leaves
3 table spoons of fresh parsley finely chopped
2 tablespoons cracked pepper
3/4 cup of green olives, pitted and halved
2 cups diced plums - fresh is best, dried will do
This is an easy dish to prepare.. It's all in one pot and doesn't take all day to cook. Use a ceramic pot or dutch oven.

Preheat oven to 350˚.

Add the oil, vinegar, brown sugar or agave (for those of you that need to stay away from sugars), garlic, scallions, basil, parsley, pepper, olives and a 1 cup of the plums.

Stir, cover and place in oven for 11/2 hours.

About 15 minutes before the time is up, add the rest of the plums and stir in the sherry.

The basic recipe calls for two cut up pheasants, however substituting quail works just as well, but don't cut up the quail. Use them whole.

On the night I prepared this dish I had inadvertently thawed out a bag of quail, thinking it was another package of pheasant. So, I thought, what the hell, I'll use four quail and one pheasant. A pleasant surprise.

Serve with brown rice and a smooth Zinfandel.

Delicious.

So there it is. More late.

Four Days of Jones

2010-04-19T11:39:00.000-07:00

Mid April. Always a tense time. The weathers' been unruly cold and rainy. Taxes are due. The economy's not responding while the government jams a historic boondoggle down our throat and promises more idiocy.

The solution to this anxiety and frustration...Escape to the river.

Pack the trailer, throw in the 3 wt., 4 wt. and 6 wt. rods, the dog and gas up the rig and try to beat the afternoon traffic out the door. Guess the weather on the Deschutes River will be better than what's available on the home front, tune up a little Ray Wylie Hubbard and John Prine and drive like hell to reach Jones Canyon before dark.

All in a days work.

And an honest day of preparing for 4 days on the river deserves the tranquility of solitude and a nice fire.

That night it rained so hard the dog began to bark at the pounding on the chalet roof. At 3 a.m., I stood in the door way and listened to the symphony of wind, rain, river and chattering trees. I gave it a toast of Ritz crackers and milk.

In the morning daylight a blue sky scoured out the rain and an early sun climbed over the east canyon rim sparkling the wet grass.

A faint ground fog lingered in the flat camp while the heat of the day took control.

A fast tour around the camp ground and a brisk walk down river to see what bugs were flying, water clarity and water levels revealed our only neighbors for the weekend.

There weren't any...at least humans.

I suppose a few rattlers were hiding out under the rocks, but the evening temperature dipped below 50˚, so I doubt they were moving very fast.

Of course, we're in the peak of the tick season and the dog seemed to collect them immediately on arrival. Fortunately, I had juiced him with Frontline prior to leaving. As far as I know, it's the best anti tick and flea remedy available for dogs.

The infestation didn't seem to damper his spirits or his inquisitive nature. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself as he disturbed a resident goose while taking a leisurely float in Jones Eddy.

My walk-about also revealed few flying insects and no rising trout. The Deschutes is impacted by run-off and, as a result, the water was a little off color.

On the Water

I spent the first day working the Jones stretch. At various times I swung soft hackle wet flies or dead drifted nymphs. As the evening shadows began to cover the water, I switched dry flies. During the day I brought to hand five rainbows or moderate size. Nothing to crow about. In the moments right before it was too dark to be in the water, I tagged a heavy rainbow on a #14 March Brown.

It was a fine looking fish, with the neon redside flashing as it tail walked in the fast water on the outside edge of the eddy. After a brief fight, I brought the fish to hand and released it.

The next day under a graying sky overcast and threatening I spent the afternoon nymphing with pheasant tails, hairs ears and March Browns in tail waters two miles up river from Jones. After a few hours of bouncing through the rocks ass deep in water, I gave it up for the day. I'd caught one pan size rainbow and a couple of smaller ones. I thought I might work the Jones Eddy in the evening, but the wind came up and a few martini's sounded better than fighting a snapping breeze.

On Saturday, the Osprey were out. A good sign that maybe the fish would be cruising the surface.

For the better part of the day, I worked the river between Rattlesnake Canyon and Mack's Canyon throwing everything I had at tail water, eddy and riffles. The day began as partly cloudy but soon turned to overcast gray with the temperature hovering near 70˚.

I can report few fish, none of any size and a ton of exercise hiking up and down the banks, wading through deep water over rocks and clawing around dead fall. A perfect day on the river.

That night, a sliver of moon dangled Jupiter in the southwestern sky and all was well.

So there it is. More later.

Bambi's Got Some Tasty Legs

2010-04-06T15:10:00.000-07:00

Joe Dog's flopped down in the entry way to the kitchen, forepaws crossed, ears at alert. He's watching me prep tonight's dinner.

He's silently thinking, "drop something on the floor. Come on. You can do it. Just drop that big chunk."

Fat chance dog! This is going to be a good one.

It's been my experience that most hunters would rather have the "waste" meat of deer or elk processed into jerky, pepperoni or other sausage concoctions and hamburger. Those of you that have sat at my table know that I prefer to use the whole beast, rather than process it into something other than what arrived on the hoof.

A few years ago, I began having the butcher save the shanks of deer and elk, rather than strip the meat and add it to the hamburger pile. Since one of my favorite dishes is braised lamb shanks, I thought it would be a no-brainer to do deer or elk shanks. My hunch was right. The following recipe comes out of an ancient copy of a LL Bean's Game Cook Book. Published long before spandex was invented and LL Bean became a yuppie label, the recipe outlines a simple and hardy feast, prefect for a stormy NW April day.

Braised Venison Shanks Viennoise

Let's start with the ingredients. Of course, you're going to need deer or elk, or maybe moose shanks, cut into 2-inch sections either by your butcher or yourself. (A bandsaw comes in handy for this kind of work.)

A couple of carrots, or a handful of baby carrots sliced thick, two large celery sticks chopped, some mushrooms, a chopped onion, a tablespoon or so of minced garlic and capers, along with a tsp of nutmeg, thyme, 6 - 7 juniper berries and salt and pepper make up the basic veggie and aromatic group.

One cup of red wine and a cup of chicken stock make up the liquid portion for the dish. As a side, I included smashed spuds consisting of Yukon Gold spuds, 1/2 an apple and chopped garlic.

The first step is to grind together salt, pepper and juniper berries either in a food processor or with a morter and pestal.

The LL Bean recipe calls for stripping the "fall" (silver membrane) off each piece of meat. Actually, it's not an easy task and probably doesn't need to happen. Lamb shanks always come with the membrane intact and I've never tried to remove them.

Rub each piece of meat with the mixture.

In a heavy cast iron or dutch oven pot, brown the meat thoroughly. It takes about 10 minutes to get a good crust on each chunk. When the meat is a deep brown, remove from pan and set aside.

Add the vegetables and aromatics to the pot and stir, browning the pieces over medium heat until the onions start to become translucent.

At this stage of the process, the aromatics have blossomed and the sweetness of browning vegetables grip the fond left over from the browned meat.

Return the shanks to the pot and add the wine and chicken broth to nearly cover the tops of the meat. A thicker sauce will develop with less liquid, but might dry out the meat.

Once the meat, wine and chicken stock are added, return the pot to the fire until it begins to simmer. A thick, layered aroma will begin to intensify once the dish begins to bubble. It's maddening how good it smells.

For me, the rich aroma of this dish creates immediate hunger pangs. Too bad it's due for the oven. A nice three fingers of small batch bourbon helps abate the anxiety of waiting for dinner.

I also suggest some light listening to ease the stomach growls. RoseAnne Cash's "The List" is one CD I advise, or just rock it out with Delbert McClinton's "Acquired Taste" release.

Either way, take your mind off the eatin' and think about doing some more cookin'.

Once the pot is simmering, cover and place in a pre-heated 325˚ oven. Braise the meat for 1 1/2 hrs - 2 hrs.
While the dish is in the oven, cut up the spuds and get them boiling until soft enough to smash up.

Yukon Gold potatoes offer a nice easy taste to complement the complexity of the sauce. For this meal, I diced half a Honey Crisp apple and minced a clove of garlic and folded them into the potatoes.

A couple of big tablespoons of sour cream and some half&half were added to smooth the spuds to the right consistency. A dash of salt and some pepper were also added during the mixing. It comes out semi smooth and chunky.

Depending upon the oven heat, it's best to check the pot after an hour and a half of cooking. The dish will be done when the meat easily falls off the bone. Because the shanks were pretty stout, this dish took a little over two hours to render the desired doneness.

I also included some broccoli as a green side, which I steamed in a little creme sherry and white pepper.

When the meat fell from the bone, I removed the pan from the oven and stirred in three big tablespoons of sour cream and it let stand for five minutes. A dash of lemon zest and a few capers over each plate and serve with the broccoli.

This dish just screams for a good, full bodied red wine. An oaky Cab or mellow Zin will fit the bill perfectly.

Mmmmmmmmmmm. Time to dig in.

So there it is. More later.

Women in Hats

2010-04-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

On the occasion of my wife's 50th Birthday, I arranged for four of her best friends to accompany us to Mexico for a week.

The whole affair was a surprise that was planned for months prior to our departure. Incredible as it seems, total secrecy was kept throughout the months leading up to the event, which culminated when Mrs. M and I arrived at the airport to check in for our flight.

At that point, Mrs. M didn't even know our final destination. She thought is was Mazatlan. In truth, we were all headed to Los Barilles in Baja for seven days of ...what turned out to be a raring great time.

While the photo is a bit blurring, I think the impact of the event is quite evident on Mrs. M's face. Total surprise.

From there on out the party went on.

Usually, we head to Los Barilles to visit our property in Palo Blanco, relax and stretch our salt water fishing gear in the blue waters of the Sea of Cortez.

Herding five women was referred to as "herding cats" and I firmly subscribe to that description. Fortunately, it's impossible to "herd cats" and that afforded me a few hours to walk the beach early in the morning casting for whatever sort of fish would take to the fly.

I had hoped to hire a boat to do some off-shore fishing, but the wind was up everyday around 8 o'clock in the morning, which, for me, is too uncomfortable to have any fun fishing.

Reports from other fishermen staying at the hotel were not very encouraging. One group had gone out two days in a row without touching a fish. They were after tuna and motored 40 miles off shore to find the fish, but came up empty handed.

In shore fly fishermen also reported slow action. with some hook-ups on lady fish, needles and one take on a rooster fish at La Riviera.

The wind surfers and kite boarders that were still around commented that the wind had stayed around a lot longer than in previous years. By the activity on the water, it was apparent that they were quite happy with the situation and many delayed their departure for windier waters to take advantage of the big swells and snapping breeze.

For the most part, the seven days screamed by in a blur of tequilla and sunny weather. There was good food, great wine and La Vita Loca.

So there it is. More later

Upland March Madness

2010-03-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

Caesar: "The Ides of March have come." Seer: "Aye, they have come, but they are not gone."

About the time the March NCAA basketball tournaments are set to begin, a strange lust for the smell of gun powder and open country alters the senses of many in the Upland Outdoors family.

Both gunners and dogs can't shake this sensation. It creeps into you from the last tromp through stubble or the final recoil punch on that fast breaking pheasant that got away. It's a demon of the last hunt in the past season that refuses to vanish. It's a passion that can't be satisfied except for one more walk through the field, gun at ready, dog thrashing through weeds to point.

The remedy is a visit to the Earl Brothers' Farmstead Game Preserve for a good day of shagging rooster pheasants across 1000 CRP acres.

And so it was that five of us and three dogs rolled out of town on a dull gray morning bound for Grass Valley to meet our hosts David and Dan Earl. The trip has become an annual quest to rid ourselves of the past upland season hangover and to treat the dogs to intensified pheasant finding and retrieving.

Sure, shooting released preserve birds is nothing like hunting for wild ones, but it's still a positive experience for both hunter and dog. Unlike wild bird hunting, there's always ample targets and lots of shooting. You're usually the only party on the acreage and the cost is comparable to a weekend on the east side of the mountains.

When we arrived at Farmstead, Dan Earl had set 15 birds out for the morning hunt. We put in a few hours covering quite a bit of the ground and harvested 13 roosters by lunchtime. Good shooting and great dog work.

Joe Dog and the two German Shorthair Pointers - Buck and young Tripp - roamed the acreage with intensity. Joe Dog and Buck covered most of the points, with Joe Dog doing the bulk of retrieving. Tripp bounced around like an unchained puppy on a play date, checking in with owner and other hunters alike, while trying his hand retrieving from the other dogs. He did make a few to hand and was praised like a hero he is.

In the afternoon, we set out the remaining birds in a different layout than the morning hunt. Instead of grouping the birds in one area, we spread them out over different terrain and cover to simulate a wild bird hunt. While the preserve pen raised birds do not have the natural instincts of wild ones, the thrill of the chase and mark of the dogs, along with the shooting is a ready cure for the the springtime blues.

The total count for the day was 23 out of 25 released birds taken.

At the end of the day, we set one bird in the brush for a short photo session.

The first up was Andy and Buck, with TBird and Tripp taking the pose. One thing hunters really like are photos of their dogs in action.

All around it was a good day in the field. Now we have to wait until next October for the wild season to start. But that's what fly rods are for.

So there it is. More later.

Back to the River

2010-03-10T15:31:00.001-08:00

Ahhhhhhh. Catch this sign of relief.

The weather's finally mellowed enough to head for the Deschutes and slap some water.

Fishing during this part of the year is more of a tune up for Spring than a hearty quest for redside rainbow trout.

Basically, the fish are pretty lethargic and the insect hatch sporatic. Typically, blue wing olive mayflies are the menu of choice, with nymphs and emergers taking up the secondary slot on the dining table.
Dry fly fishing is best, when it happens, in the mid afternoon, around noon to 2 pm. The rest of the time, fishing deep and hoping you'll smack a trout in the mouth is the most productive technique.

Still, there's the view. Even a fishless, partly sunny day without the usual wind ripping white caps off the water, the first signs of the seasons' change and the crisp growl of a wild river can be appreciated.

There's the furry things, doing stupid furry tricks like rolling in the spent ashes of a fire pit.

Or the last cattail knot struggling to rid itself of parachute seeds.

It's also the fishermen, fishless and hungry beaning down along the river, discussing the latest of 1000 and 1 reasons why the fish will not pay attention to their well presented flies.

So what the day was slow as church. It was the river.

So there it is. More later.

February Briefs

2010-02-17T09:52:00.000-08:00

WaterFowl Banding Program

The Waterfowl Banding Program, started in 1943, was first designed to help biologists determine waterfowl migration routes. Through this program, biologists identified the four major migratory flyways that cross North America. Approximately 200,000 ducks and 150,000 geese are banded each year. Most of the banded ducks are mallards, however one pintail banded bird was taken this year at the duck club.

Band recovery data in this part of North America shows how the harvest is distributed throughout the Pacific Flyway and provides valuable information which helps biologists estimate harvest rates and survival rates. The harvest and survival rates help us understand how breeding habitat conditions and harvest regulations affect survival. This data is a critical to determining hunting regulations each year.

A serial number, telephone number and an address are stamped on the alloy band. When you harvest a duck with a band, you are encouraged to report your harvest and give the date and location where you shot the bird. In doing so, you'll receive a certificate that lists the sex, age and location of the bird when it was banded.

Most duck hunters will attach the bands they collect to their duck call lanyards like campaign ribbons. It's a culture thing.

This year I dropped three mallards that were banded. I've just reported the bands and will report back once I get the information back. And, yes, I'll attach them to my call lanyard along with the rest of the bands I've collected over the years.

Cats Along the River

The fishing reports from the Deschutes River have settled into the usual line of blue wing olives on surface from noon to 2 p.m. weather permitting and going deep with nymphs the rest of the time.

However, it appears there's a new group roaming the canyon walls and sage pastures overlooking the river.

This cell phone photograph was taken about the first of the month just outside of Maupin.

If you fish the lower river and take your dog with you, keep a close eye on your sixes. I also suggest mixing a few hollow points with your snake loads if you carry a snake gun.

So there it is. More later.

The Season Closes with Less Than A Bang

2010-02-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

The final weekend of duck hunting arrived early Saturday morning with a light rain tapping on the windshield as we drove the final miles across Sauvies Island to the duck club shack.

The day before, Mrs. M and I got an unexpected visit by friends from northern Minnesota. Well, sort of unexpected. We knew they were on the road and knew they would be staying with us, but we didn't know their ETA.

Friday afternoon, they pulled into the driveway.

Oh, oh. I had a problem.

My whole weekend was booked to spend at the club and out of town guests posed a slight dilemma. Since the duck club is private and guests are discouraged, I would either have miss the last weekend, shine my guests on for the better part of Saturday and Sunday or convince the club honcho that this special situation deserved a reprieve from the normal rules.

I opted to present my case and won. J. Reed, the farmer from Roseau, Minnesota, would be a rare guest at the Horseshoe Lake/Yukon Bar & Grill duck club for the last weekend of the hunting season.

The other part of the problem was gear. While J. Reed is an avid outdoorsman and hunter, he hadn't driven all the way to Oregon to hunt ducks or any other thing for that matter. He and his wife LaRae were escaping 19˚ below zero weather and were heading for California via Highway 101. Their visit was merely a stop over to say "hi."

Fortunately I was able to cobble together camo waders, jacket, hat and another 12 ga. to outfit our visitor and the hunt was on.

Saturday

The previous weekend leading up to the last hunt had been good shooting, with members limiting out with ease. Saturdays' weather was promising, overcast and not too cold despite a full moon. We all had expectations that the final shoot would be above average, especially since we would shoot the last Sunday in the evening - something we never do until the last day.

What we experienced was somewhat less than what we wanted. On Saturday the air was still as a funeral. Across the lake and in the near pockets of willows, I could hear rafts of ducks quacking a calm small talk like neighbors chatting over a fence. Few birds were flying. All was quiet and at rest.

Of the ducks that did fly by our blinds, few were low enough to shoot at. J.Reed showed his skill by dropping an errant mallard at the far reach of the pond. Easily a 60 yard shot. In all, our group (4) dropped five widgeon and three mallards. The other groups positioned closer to the lake had similar shooting.

Still, it was a good day. Even though it had been slow, the ceremonial toast to the powers of the universe, Mother Nature and Winchester magnum ammunition was conducted with vigor and resolve.

Sunday

The sense of urgency didn't show up Sunday morning. It could have been caused by slow shooting the day before, or, more likely, the antics of the night before. I believe the tatooed waitresses at the Country Cat would attest to the latter.

If Saturday was slow, Sunday was asleep. We didn't begin the morning hunt until 10 a.m., but I doubt it would have mattered if we had arrived earlier. There were no ducks flying and there wasn't a shot fired in our blinds. Not from our acres or surrounding clubs.

Late that afternoon, we ventured back out to the blinds after a filling lunch of BBQ venison burgers and chips in hopes the flights would start vectoring toward the ponds to begin the evening feed. As darkness dropped around us and shooting time drew to a close, taking the season with it, we knew it was a complete bust for the final day.

It was time to pack up the decoys and call it an end. Time to patch the waders, strip the shotguns and put away the calls and whistles.

The season's over.

So there it is.

More to come as we dust off the fly rods and head to the river.

The End is Near

2010-01-28T10:36:00.000-08:00

The end of the duck season is just around the corner. One more weekend and the door slams shut at sundown on 1/31.

I suppose the ducks will be happy little quackers to know that they can drop into our ponds and feast upon the remaining feed without being rudely interrupted by mud dogs and madmen blasting away at their every move. Quiet will settle on the ponds and the migration will continue to walk the waltz south for the rest of winter.

But before we start playing "Wrap it Up" by the Fabulous Thunderbirds and saying ta-ta to the busty Starbuck's barista who mixes the mocha at 5:30 a..m. Wed, Sat and Sun, I'll allow a few moments of reflection before I turn to dusting off the fly rods and patching the waders.

Even with the El Nino influence on the weather, an early freeze and heavy rains flooding the valley fields, it's been a good year. The total count at the duck club is down by about a third from last year, but it's hard to bitch when you've got 14 to 21 ducks to clean on a weekly basis. Like several other club members, I have a list of families and individuals that I give ducks to and they certainly aren't complaining.

Nor can I complain about the shooting ...rather the shooting opportunities presented in the past few days leading up to the end on Sunday. I mention "shooting opportunities" because I've suffered from the dreaded "shoot and release" syndrome on several of the most recent outings. I hope I'll get out of that zone by the weekend, so I can deftly pat myself on the back and whisper "nice shot" over and over again to my alter ego self.

I know I'll miss the concentration of dog work. Since the end of September, Joe Dog and I have covered many miles on the road and over some of the prime acres of five states, including the weather variations of the duck club.
I've watched him cover miles of stubble and CRP, slamming points too far away to get to and make awesome retrieves in thick coverts, or disappearing over ridge lines and returning with fat chukars. I've seen him bust through barbed wire, ripping chucks of hair and flesh off, without a whimper.

At five and a half, he's on the cusp of his prime, swimming for 500 yard retrieves and sliding through the mud like a massive bulldozer after crippled ducks. He's turned into the quintessential hunting companion, quietly snoozing on long drives, recklessly scouring rimrock cliffs and charging hills with abandon. A nose with four legs. A joy to hunt with. And not a word of complaint.
The close of the season brings memories of the miles we've covered. But there's too many miles and memories to account for within these silly lines and will remain as precious as any.

Another nine months will pass until the season begins again. In the mean time, I'll fish rivers and lakes...maybe an ocean or two. Casting artificial flies for swimming creatures that lurk along undercut banks, guard tailout waters and bright riffles of wild western rivers is not a bad way to spend the time waiting for the next hunting season.

In fact, it's almost poetic in it's simplicity.

So with the final weekend of the duck hunting season a day away, I look forward to the water I'll see this next year and hope that my catching will be a lot better than my shooting.

So there it is.

More later.

Last Call for Chuks

2010-01-20T14:57:00.000-08:00

The Curse

With the duck hunting season end on the horizon, I decided to take a long weekend to chase chukar partridge in eastern Oregon before that season closes on 1/31.

For the upland bird hunter with good physical stamina and much less sense, chukar hunting is the ultimate of wild shooting and vertical challenge.

Called "Chuks", devil birds or several other expletive deleted names, the chukar lives in a rocky, vertical world where no one wants to go.

Chukar hunters are considered "a bit out of plumb" by most of the hunting community, but the promise of coveys exploding underfoot and throat clenching adrenalin rushes make grown men do strange things.

It's a curse that makes you climb.

The birds move on foot in coveys up and down the slopes. When flushed, it only takes an instant before they reach Mach 1 and then they angle downhill close to anything that obscures sight. It's like shooting buzzing honeybees equipped with afterburners. To ensure reasonable success, hunters try to start at the top of the hills, cliff or canyons and crisscross down or side-hill along the slopes. Chukar hunting is the extreme stairmaster of bird hunting complete with stunning vistas, aching side hill ankles and furious shooting.

With this in mind, along with four or five inches of snow on the ground and a statewide warming trend that left the roads clear and dry, I made the six and a half hour drive to the east side of the state. When I arrived at the ranch, I met up with the usual suspects- Pete, Tony and Kurt. The hunt plan was charted and set for the next day, starting out mid-morning.

Around 11 a.m. on Saturday, Tony and Kurt, along with Justin and young son Jake arrived with 2 4X4 Rhinos that we would take to the top of the foothills north and east of the bunkhouse.

It was lightly snowing and soon turned to a slushy rain. Wads of mist encircled the valley, obscuring the mountains to the west. The gray light turned the hills white and the sage brush black.

Overnight the temperature stayed above freezing, leaving the snow mass wet and the trails a slippery muck. There would be no climbing up the hills in this soup. The Rhinos would make reaching the crest an easy task. We would start from the top and hike through the mush to the bottom pastures in hopes of busting coveys on the south faces.

To the north, the throaty "chuck, chuck, chuck" grouping call of the birds bounced off the hillside as if they were laughing at us...a taunting come and get us if you can laugh. The chukar middle finger.

To the Top and then Down

We loaded up and took off towards the north face foothills. The deeper snow still had a frozen crust, but the road and trail up had turned sloppy in the mid day warmth.

With the added weight of fat guys and dogs, the 4X4 Rhinos chewed through the muck along the sharp ridge lines with positive traction and ease.

When we reached the kick-off point, we spread out across the first crest in line east and west. Our direction took us down into a steep ravine and then up and out to another crest. Because the uphill reaches were in the shade, the snow was still firm on top.

The dogs had little difficulty in places where the snow had a top crust, but slowed down and labored through the areas where each paw penetrated the surface and had to be pulled out with a vertical step.

The hunters...well...we stumbled alot and fell down and got muddy and wet and used terrible language to punctuate our frustration. Just another indication that chukar hunters don't play with a full deck.

When we finally got to the top of the last ridge, I began seeing groups of chukar tracks in the snow. I hadn't crossed any on the other ridge lines or in the ravines that cut back and forth through the hill group. No one else had signaled that they had crossed any either. All was quiet, save for heavy breathing and silent cursing.

I stepped off the last ridge line and took a a muddy game trail cross slope towards a deep pocket cut into the side of the hill. Slipping and mud skiing, catching my balance by pushing off the edges with my left hand and holding my shotgun like a balancing stick, I was able to ease myself into a good shooting position. There wasn't any chuks on top, they'd be near the bottom and I wanted to stay with a good field of fire.

I took a few more steps downward and froze as Joe Dog skidded to a point 30 yards ahead. In a blink, the top of a small rise exploded with birds. Most of them turned west and flew across my right flank through a hail of gunfire from Tony and Kurt. The few that went east were met with wild shooting by Justin and Pete. I focused on a smaller group that flew straight ahead south.

Justin tagged one and Joe Dog made an over the hill retrieve, bringing the bird back to hand. I dropped one across the fence at the bottom while Tony and Kurt took three in their range.

Then it was over. Adrenalin surged. Heart rates had amped to maximum.

After a short breather at the fence line, we spread across the pasture and headed back toward the bunkhouse. Joe Dog stood point a few yards into the field and another chuk broke from the brush. I took that one and two others on the way back. Tony, Justin and Kurt dropped several others from the flat sage field to their west. Pete lightened his ammo load on the east side and dropped one.

Now daylight was on the down side and the gray day was beginning to darken. A good time to leave the field, rest the dogs and toast the chukar...the devil bird...the little brown bastard...

So there you have it.

Saturday of the Right Blind

2010-01-11T16:13:00.000-08:00

The gods of duck hunting smiled down on us last Saturday.

Wading through waste deep water, Hank, Fritz and I sloshed out to the first flyway blinds on a day mild as spring and nearly as warm.

Along with the other members of the club, we had grouped at the shack well before daylight, but put off going to the blinds way past what is normal duck hunting time. After wading about 500 yards through the high water, reed, willows and muck, we began setting out decoy spreads around 9:15 am.

Despite the late start, it didn't take long before the first of several flights began to swoop in, cup their wings in final approach and dive for our decoy spread.

We had set up in two blinds. Hank and I were in a forward, southern facing blind and Fritz was in a western view blind behind us which afforded him a better view of the incoming flights.

As the birds crested the surrounding trees, Fritz would call "Mark...from your left," or "Mark...12 o'clock over the trees," like a limey tar barking ack ack orders to his shipmates in the Battle of Britain. With his timely shouts, we were able to access targets quickly and set up to shoot without being startled by the frenzy of the whole thing.

And shoot we did.

Before long, we had to call a halt and take stock of what we had in the game bag. Most of the birds that flew our way were Mallards and we targeted them rather than focus on the few Pintails and Teal that showed up. Since the individual limit on ducks is a total of seven, with two hen Mallards and two Pintails included, we needed to keep the count legal.

After a quick count, we decided to to take turns shooting, with one shot back-up from the other hunter and target only Mallard drakes. It was 10:30 am and we had 15 ducks in the bag. Each of us now had two more drakes to bring down.

Joe Dog was at his best, marking fallen ducks and making long swims into the willows. He sat out side the blinds and calmly retrieved every duck without breaking in the chaos of shooting.

Without his efforts, we surely would have had a lousy day trying to gather are own kill.

The shooting continued for another hour and we had filled our game bag to the limit. We had not heard any shooting from the other blinds around the club and figured they had packed it in and headed for the shack. We brought in the decoys and gathered our gear. Fritz put most of the ducks in a decoy sack and floated them out to the bank and them carried the load back to the truck. He returned in full sweat like a marathon runner crossing the finish line.

I grabbed the remaining ducks and began the wade back. Hank and Fritz followed after storing the decoys in one of the blinds. Joe Dog swam for higher ground and raced along the bank around the ponds and went straight for the back end of the truck. The dog bed called and he was ready.

In all, we had been on site for two and half hours and bagged a limit (21) of mallards for three. The best shoot of the season for all of us. Shooting like that deserves a good end of hunt toast.

So there it is. More later.

All Quiet on the Duck Front

2010-01-04T13:22:00.001-08:00

All was quiet on the first day of duck hunting in 2010 as we headed out to the blinds just after sunrise.

It's been raining hard for days. There's vast puddles of open water stretched throughout the valley, spreading out the migrating duck populace and putting a damper on shooting. High water means the ducks have more options for feed and shelter.

On our acres, the water level is determined by the Columbia River, which is subject to tidal variations as well as heavy rains, melting snow pack and such. When the water is up, the shooting slows down unless there's a stiff Northern wind, fog or blowing snow...none of which showed up a few days after New Years day.

On the lake, there were thousands of ducks rafted up without any cause to take flight and head inland for shelter. Flights of swans floated by, bleating like goats going to the barn. All morning long, V-formations of dusky and snow geese ran crisscross patterns rotating from the lake to the grass fields that border the river.

Stratosphere level mallards and pintails seemed to fly at the same altitude as incoming passenger jets on short final to the airport. Wads of teal soaring at warp speed, did their acrobatic best just outside the tree lines over the high water.

And all was quiet, save for the occasional shotgun report from other clubs in the area.

We set up a few hundred yards from the lake edge along the ponds we've dug out of the willow stands and dropped decoys where we could wade. This would be the best position to ambush the errant duck winging in from the middle of the lake.

Hank, doing his best imitation of a vine maple bush, watched the back side of the blind for sneaking mallards that might bust off the lake seeking shelter in the willow ponds.

A few birds screamed over and even less came within shooting range. When ever we saw a group turning in our direction, we'd call like hell and only one or two birds turned for a second look.

In all, most of our shooting was in a different zip code and barely successful.

Saturday 1/2/2010 the first day of duck hunting in the new year. It was a slow day in the blinds. Better days to come.

So there it is.. More later.