When You Find Yourself Up Lard Creek Without a Paddle

 

Lard Creek...........where is it you might ask, the answer requires a little story.

Many years ago my Aunt Penny and Uncle Irv had a neighbor who wanted to hunt elk here in Oregon and my dad was the chosen guide.  The story explaining where Lard Creek is located was told by the man, Ed, that came to hunt that one year.  He was hunting Mule Deer in Washington's Okanogan Valley with his son and some friends.  They had shot a few and a passerby came into their camp to look at the bucks they'd shot and to do some digging to find out their "secret spot".  When he finally asked where they killed the bucks the man's son immediately answered, "up Lard Creek".  The answer was so quick, so nonchalant, and so WRONG it surprised most everyone in camp because non of them had ever heard of Lard Creek.......especially the newcomer.  He eagerly asked where Lard Creek was at, to which the son answered, "up a pig's a**". 

Well, this gem of a trout stream is called "Lard Creek" to me and my son.  It was featured in Fly Fisherman Magazine a dozen years ago and its popularity has grown, unfortunately.  We have caught hundreds of browns, rainbows, cut-bows, and a smattering of brookies on this wild little stream.  They average a little better than 10-inches, fight hard, taste great, and rise easily to dries; I personally have seen fish (browns) in the 18-inch range and my brother-in-law, who I have spent countless hours fishing with up Lard Creek, has seen one (also a brown) over 20.

Amazingly its not that wide, typically not too deep, but holds a solid pH in the lower 8's, keeps a decent flow throughout the critical summer time, maintains good O2 levels,  and has a healthy population of stoneflies, mayflies, and lots and lots of caddis.  The only negative is the sediment load.

Geologically the limestone based mountains are capped with Rhyolite.  There are huge landslide deposits sandwiched between the old oceanic floor and newer volcanic materials.  The canyon is so steep, the vegetation so sparse in the high-desert environment, and the run-off so intense from thunderstorms and spring run-off that landslides are common.  They build natural dams on the creek that cause pooling in the upper reaches.  These pools are typically filled with brook trout.  The deluges of spring break these dams down in a few years and the pools disappear.  The excess sediment is deposited down stream, covering the spawning gravels.  The following spring's high flows wash them clean again and the trout population doesn't seem to notice; its a constantly changing free-stoner and probably my favorite trout stream!

Lard Creek fish don't have too much preference when it comes to flies.  If its subsurface an egg is deadly year round with red-copper johns and hare's ears, sporting a peacock herl wingcase, running close seconds.  I don't fish subsurface during the dry fly season becoming a purist around the end of run off into the brown trout spawn.  When it ices over I fish the slots between ice blocks in deeper pools with egg patterns and nymphs.  It's difficult to discern the take on frigid winter days, but very rewarding when you finally realize the pause of your line was a take.

During the dry fly season, Lard Creek is forgiving in that match-the-hatch fishing isn't too critical; its an attractor pattern paradise.   But fishing a pattern relatively close in size, outline, and color is very productive.  Casting accurately, keeping a low profile, and presenting your fly well (without drag) is necessary.  Some sections of the stream, like the one you see here today, see so few anglers that even some pretty sloppy casts work out pretty well.  The sections along the road require more stealth, smooth, delicate presentations, and a good eye; fish lay in the shaded shallows and at the lips of the pools, spooking easily and spoiling good water with their frantic escapes.  Today the fly of preference was my creation, the PG Chernobyl Adams; yes, its that ugly, that big, and the fish up Lard Creek LOVE IT!

I developed it last summer on our annual pilgrimage to the in-laws when water was unseasonably high, water was a little turbid, and I was tying flies for 6 people; most of them kids.  I wanted a high-floating, easy-to-see fly in a fish-catching, time-proven color, without all the steps required to tie a stimulator and that was wulff/humpy in appearance.  I started with a #10-12 hook, tied in a wide, bushy tail of elk, immediately dubbed a female adams body, then, using the butt-ends of the tail, I made upright and divided wings.  I have an older, brown neck cape (Metz) that I have picked through well.  I was down to mostly #18 and smaller feathers or #12 and larger so I used up a bunch of larger sized hackle; it worked perfectly.  Tyler and I had only 4 or 5 today that we wore out on sharp trout teeth, but I had tied up some H & L variants and a few floating fools to round out the fly selection.  We tried stimulators but the fish weren't interested.  We found a few pteronarcys exoskeletons on bank side vegetation and boulders in the stream but the hatch was well past.  Oh well, we hit it big with the peacock bodied flies and my pregnant mutant wulffy adams. 

Tyler has been fly fishing with his own gear since he was 12.   He has caught steelhead and all western species of trout on a fly rod and has amassed a decent collection of rods for a 16-year old; a 5-weight, a 5/6-weight glass rod, a 6/7-weight, his 8-weight steelhead rod, and a recently acquired 6-weight switch rod with which he can jack out an 80-foot bomb to a small lie against the far bank of our local steelhead stream.

He actually started fishing with me the spring before he was 2.  I'd put him in the backpack, give him a bottle, and wade up the lower reaches of the Provo River.  I carried diapers in my vest next to my fly boxes along with other necessary items, like a change of clothes and a plastic bag for the major blow-outs babies/toddlers are known to have, and extra formula.  When I kept fish for dinner Tyler always wanted to hold them, so I'd kill them, hand them back to him and he'd basically suck the slime off them; I called it his organic binky!  He would fall asleep to the sound of fly line cutting the air over his head.  I fished almost daily my first semester getting straight A's in reading water, fly selection and tying, and I got extra credit due to my high catch rates.  My fly boxes were stuffed and my waders were wearing thin.  My other classes, like Calculus, Chemistry, Statics, those grades didn't fair so well!  When Corey was born the following spring, I put him on my chest, Tyler in the back, and we fished for hours together, as well as all four seasons, to my wife's dismay, catching lots of browns.   

I grew up in Eastern Oregon and fished some good water, but I hadn't fished the match-the-hatch tail waters of the Rockies where my skills would be refined.  I'm to the point now that I just really like a good challenge.  I like a difficult fish in a hard to reach lie, I like catching big fish on small hooks, and anymore I really don't care if I land one, I just want to see it rise confidently to my fly or see the dip of my indicator, raise the rod tip confidently and feel the pull.  Unless its a steelhead, things get pretty serious when my spey rod is in my hands and I know fish are in the river.  But what really floats my boat is watching my kids love it.  Tyler reminds me a lot of myself on the Provo; you just can't catch too many fish, there aren't enough angling hours in a day, and he could honestly become a certified trout bum without feeling too much guilt.  He is eager to fish any water, try his skills on any fish, and most importantly, he wants success.  He reads all he can; he has subscriptions to magazines, has purchased books, watches videos on line and is always "checking out Sage's new rod", drooling over the Beulah Platinum Series Switch Rod he wants, or reading the historical account of the Lamson company; basically he is showing symptoms of an honest to goodness addiction. 

The little turd is almost as tall as I am, now and is beginning his junior year of high school.  He just past the written part of his drivers license, went to Japan on a cultural exchange wrestling trip this summer, and will be off to college and on a mission in 3 VERY SHORT years.  I just don't know what I am going to do without my fishing partner!  Thankfully Kim and I had 6 kids, so I'll have to brainwash some of the next 5 so I have someone to go out with.

Corey doesn't quite love it like Ty.  Ty will go fishing over just about EVERYTHING.  Corey has other interests he spends time on.  I think my best bet is Cole, he got his first fly caught steelhead at the age of 7 and fishes as much or more than Ty.  I can probably con him into a few trips.  Jared is definitely addicted, but is only 7.  I have to spend most of the time helping him, not fishing with him, so he has some work to do before he becomes a fishing partner.   Abbie will go sometimes but has other things she likes WAY more (Kim has one she can rely on) but Lyndie is fishing crazy!  I need to get her catching bluegills on a fly rod, that would definitely seal the deal.  

Today was not a great day of fishing, it was a good day.  We landed somewhere between 30 and 40 fish total and had half that many more rises between us.  The big one was broke off at the hook set by yours truly and we didn't make it all the way back to the highway; we had to climb out on some really nasty deer trails that were made for things with four legs NOT carrying a 8-foot-9-inch fly rod with felt soled boots on!  And the other boys and girls opted to swim at the local pool rather than brave the truck sized boulders and fast runs of Lard Creeks upper reaches.  Family events are WAY better than the solo excursions!  What fun is fishing without someone you love to share it with.

VIDEOS OF THE DAY

Peacocks and Wild Turkey

Wild turkeys are dumb!  They are the only bird I know that can fly, but can't figure out how to get past a fence!  They will run up and down it franticly because they can't get past it.............it's 4 feet high, there is boundless sky above it, they have wings, but they can't cross.  The only bird I've seen fly, bigger than a turkey, is a peacock.  My great uncle Elden Waite had some property on the south side of the Grande Ronde Valley that he was kind enough to let me hunt on.  It had a few scattered pheasants, lots of quail, huns if you could find them, enough rock chucks to keep my .22 barrel hot all day, pigeons in the barn, and, at one time, before some trespassers shot them, a flock of peacocks............at least I think that is what they are called........nope, I just looked it up, it's a muster.  I used italics for the same reason everyone uses them.......to look smarter than I really am!  In the verbal.....ha ha, sorry oral language we use quotes with our fingers to look smarter..........or just really annoying!

So, there was a muster of peacocks on uncle Elden's place until scum shot them, and I was almost a scum the day dad took me hunting up there for the first time!  It was my first year of bird hunting and we were looking for something to shoot at......I don't think dad thought I'd hit anything any more than I did, thats why I say "shoot at".   We hunted the foothills SE of the old homestead circling down and around into the barnyard.  We were almost to the buildings (remember I'm hunting, I have a loaded gun and a severe blood lust!) when a bird, big enough to block out the sun, with REALLY long tail feathers (think rooster pheasant here) gets up (meaning flushed-from-the-tall-grass-at-my-feet) and landed in the Hawthorn bush in front of me.  I struggled to get the gun to my shoulder because I was small, weak, and trying not to crap myself..........IT SCARED THE DAYLIGHTS OUT OF ME!  I remember my dad yelling not to shoot, so I didn't.  I also knew enough to realize, after the shock of it all, that I wasn't looking at a bird I'd come to kill.  So, we headed to the barn to wait for one of the wild pigeons to offer up its life to Mr. Stevens.  Finally, a lone pigeon landed on top of one of the buildings.  Being a true sportsman, I slipped out of the building we were hiding in and sluiced it off the peak of the old barn with that trusty, old Stevens 20 gauge, bolt-action shotgun; my first kill with it.  It was a sweet victory!

We hunted up and around the old rock wall, headed north, until I flushed a small covey of huns, hitting one lightly.  We followed it to where it landed and finally got it.  My first kill on the wing; another small victory and another notch in my belt.  We drove home along the marsh, down Pierce Rd, towards B & K auto, finding a pen raised rooster crouched near the road, in weeds that just didn't quite cover him.  Dad handed me his 12 gauge and I shot his head off.  I didn't even get out of the back of the truck; I just decapitated him right there.  It was a glorious day.

That was 1982.  Since then I have killed more pheasants, quail, chukar, ducks, grouse, and huns than I can count.  I've killed deer, elk, antelope, bears, a cougar, coyotes, squirrels, some cats, a few cows, some pigs, chickens, and sheep, as well as lots of things I can't mention or my mom will beat me!  I've done it all.  I've outsmarted quite a few animals that, in their own right, were pretty sneaky.  Given the average intelligence of a turkey, this would be easy.  WRONG!  My first attempt at turkeys, I'm referring to a season, not an outing, was horrid.  I didn't have one chance at a turkey all year.  I didn't even find a tom on public ground; I did hear one at a distance, but that was it.  My friend, an experienced and highly successful turkey hunter, took us out, said he had a guaranteed tom for us, which it was, right up until the landowner drove up scaring off the one chance we had all season.

We didn't have wild turkeys in NE Oregon when I was inadvertently hunting a muster of peacocks on my great uncle's place.  Turkey hunting wasn't even interesting to me.  I remember getting my Outdoor Life magazine each spring with all the turkey articles and wanting to cry.  I hated turkey season, I wanted big mule deer bucks, elk bugling, and water buffalo charging from the thick, deep grass of Africa.  I wanted Jack O'Connor shooting Dall Sheep and caribou in the north, I wanted steelhead articles, spring bear, and I wanted to be outside hunting shed antlers.  Why would anyone want to chase a turkey around?

When we moved to Oregon from Wyoming I knew our hunting opportunities would pale in comparison.  Deer hunting is embarrassing here.  The deer numbers are so low, the average size of bucks so small, and the difficulty in drawing tags so great that I worried about giving my kids a chance to love what I love.  So turkey hunting was a new avenue of success, or so I thought, and anyway you get a tag with the purchase of your sportsman's pack.

 But this is a new year.  I did a little preseason scouting, I bought some calls and practiced, and I had a network of knowledgeable people to draw from.  As it turned out the network paid off.  I didn't really find much scouting; it was a little frustrating; a reminder of last years season; but a friend called to say he'd found me some turkeys if I was interested.  I happily took down the information and we planned our hunt.

This hunt was kinda special because we had Mr. Hall, the super-duper-4th-grade-teacher with us.  He came to Oregon for spring break and stopped to steelhead fish with us; we took him turkey hunting as well.  We took off a little late; work was a disaster and I couldn't leave when I had planned to.  So our first spot was taken.  We made fast tracks to our back-up spot and I spotted the turkeys almost immediately.  We piled from the Yukon, hustling up the hill and made a quick set up.  Nothing happened. Finally I heard the toms gobbling at my yelps.  We moved up the hill to intercept them but our second set up was still a little too far out.  We made a mad, quiet dash to close the distance and I got the decoy set up (Sweet Sally) and rolled out of the shooting lane none too soon.   There were 3 or 4 toms that came in.  Tyler and Corey were split and I was laying safely between them; Mr. Hall was behind a Ponderosa watching close by.  The turkeys came to the decoy, checked her out, turned to walk away when the boys started burning some powder.  We had got two!  It was pretty sweet stuff!  High fives, hugs, pictures and lots and lots of smiles.  It was a lot of fun sharing our first turkey kill with Mr. Hall, the creator of the true Thanks Giving Dinner.  For those of you not familiar, its a chance for kids to bring all sorts of interesting game to eat as a dinner at school around our national holiday.  Tyler LOVED it; of course he eats bugs, raw fish eggs with a little gut attached, and Kim's burned chilli without flinching!  

This is Mr. Hall and his awesome wife Kay-law-nee; in this picture they are at the Portland Temple on their way to our house.  Thanks Mr. Hall!

Fishin with the Shem-ster

 

Shem Carlson is my cousin-in-law.  I don't think that is a legal name for our relationship, but that is what I call him!  He married my uncle Tom and aunt Glenda's daughter Carly, my first cousin, so it has to be a cousin and it has to be an in-law, so he is my cousin-in-law.

We went ice fishing today and invited Shem to come hang with the boys.  We actually had all of my six kids, two of Matt and Sarah's, uncle Seth, and of course Shem.  That made three girls and............lots of boys.  There were already three guys on the ice when we showed up and they got a little nervous when we all piled out of the vehicles!  Especially when I started looking for places near them to drill nine holes.  They relaxed when we headed down the lake to our alternative spot and made camp there.  Once they left we split up and took over both places.

I think this was Shem's first time ice fishing.  Unfortunately it was a little slow, but we caught fish and had fun.  It was Christmas Eve; what better way to spend a holiday than freezing to death on a lake of ice with family?

Since this was his first time out we were "showing-him-how-to-do-it", so this is a "how-to" post, very unorthodox, for sure, but a "how-to" none the less.

FIRST drill a hole.  This was a problem because none of us own an auger.  I always meant to buy one when we lived in Wyoming, but I didn't need to........all my friends had them, some were even gas operated.  Today we borrowed one from a friend.  We found out when we picked it up that it was quite dull and required two to run it. 

 

I am providing this photo for those of you that have NEVER had the pleasure of using an ice auger of this caliber.  The guy on the bottom had to be fairly tough, because every third or forth revolution of the handle clubbed you in the back of the head.  Here Shem and Tyler drill another hole.  Needless to say we didn't do much exploring today.  Thankfully Seth caught some nice fish and really enjoyed himself so maybe he will buy one.............that would be great, because now that I need to buy one I can't.  Kim has put a hold on my fishing purchases.  The other day she actually asked me, "really, how many tackle boxes does someone need?"  What kind of question is that?  You can't answer!  It all depends on the type of lures, baits, jigs, beads, flies, spinners, spoons, and trolls one accumulates!  Honestly the question cut me deep!  

SECOND
Find a suitable bucket to sit on, rig up your rod with your favorite colored jig, tip it with bait (if legal), smear it with smelly jelly, drop it to the bottom, reel up a foot or so and wait..............this is the fun part!  Ice fishing isn't like other types of fishing.  You need room to fish on open water so you can "work the clock" casting to all the minutes of angle around you.  When limited to a vertical column of water under a six to eight inch hole, fishing gets cozy.  It's time to eat, drink, and be merry, because if the fish aren't biting your going to have to find some way to take your mind off the numbness slowly entering your feet and making its way to your brain. 

 

This is Jared, he is six and already has the fishing disease.  He stayed out on the ice all day, catching only one fish and believing it was a BLAST!  We can safely assume he is a little dangerous, but probably fairly harmless in his young and tender age. 

THIRD
Catch fish!  Uncle Seth was the first to hit pay dirt with this 18 inch rainbow.  I love to listen to Seth giggle when he fishes.  Its an infectious laugh that warms the half frozen body of an ice fisherman.  The older kids made camp around uncle Seth to "hear-his-words-of-wisdom".  It was fun to listen to them banter and laugh across the ice.  Shem finally got bored of me and made his way to where the fun was at.  It also helped that he really wanted to catch a fish and Seth was the only one doing it. Of course once everyone started moving in on him we all had to hear about the scum we were for hording in on his honey hole. Tyler actually had the audacity to ask Seth to move his bait to the furthest left side of his six inch ice hole so he could drop his in on the right.  Seth got a good laugh out of this and then threatened something only he can come up with!

 

Jared was the next to catch a fish.  Shem had just left us, Matt was driving away, and the once thriving camp had dwindled to just Jared and dad.  I looked over, just in time, to see the pink rod tip bounce once, twice, then bend in full.  I set the hook, handed the rod to Jared's outstretched hands and watched the battle.  I recorded the last of it for you.   We were only in about 15 feet of water, so it doesn't take long to get the fish to the hole and through it.  By the time I had the video on, Jared had pulled the fish through the ice and was yelling for all to hear. 

 

Tyler was the next to hook a fish.  He was playing around on the ice, laying down, joking around with Seth, when his rod started dancing.  He slipped and slid his way to his rod, grabbing it as he slid past it, setting the hook as he fell.  He quickly rolled up onto his knees and fought the fish through the ice.  He bought this rod in Wyoming and hadn't christened it yet, for himself.  Everyone else had landed a fish on it at Guild's, but he just couldn't connect with a fish until today.   

It was such a nice fish and the jig he was using so bright, we decided it warranted some extra photos. 

 

These fish are really healthy and put up a good fight.  The reservoir is shallow, mostly 10-15 feet deep and the high desert environment grows football shaped rainbows in just a few short years.   I can't wait get back out here this spring with the fly rods and tangle with these fish on a sinking line and a wooly bugger.  

Shem was the next to connect to a fish.  I'm not sure he understands how big his fish is.  Seth couldn't stop talking about the size of it on the way home.  I was impressed and took quite a few pictures of it.  The big, hook jawed male, was dripping milt.  His dark back and rose colored sides are beautiful.  Seth's first fish was 18 inches; we measured it when we got home.  This puts Shem's fish between 20 and 22 inches, a real brute.  Fish of this size just have an awesome look to them, like a big, mature mule deer buck.  A 20 inch trout is pretty magical, it represents a fish that's been around a few years, a trophy. We had a nice photo session with it.

This is Tyler helping Shem get a hold of his fish for pictures.  They are a little slimy on the ice and you just can't hold a 20 inch fish like you can a pan sized trout.  They require "the-steelhead-hold", you know, tailed and supported.

Seth and Tyler were making some pretty fun comments and Shem was having fun.  This is a great picture, a little washed out, but still a great picture.

I want to make these two pictures extra large, but you loose some of the picture, so I'll have to be happy with "large" only.  I love the crimson gill plates, the cutthroat like coloring under the jaw and the big, dark, sparse spotting of this fish.

We had to have a picture of the day ending even though we weren't done fishing.  We still had a few more fish to catch, but the sun was dropping, all the other fisherman were headed home and we were late.  Every time we tried to leave someone caught a fish.  It's impossible to pick up and leave when there is the possibility you have just entered the magical time of day when all the fish in the reservoir want to eat your jig NOW.  So we had to fish another 20 minutes to make sure we didn't miss it.  The fishing was slow, but consistent, past 2 O'clock.

While these guys posed with their fish, Corey landed another one.  It was a keeper and his first for the day.  Abbie had "stolen" his rod earlier in the day, so he pouted most of the time and didn't fish until everyone else had left.  HE IS SUCH A DRAMA QUEEN!  Even then he was just a vulture, circling the rods, waiting for someone else's work to pay off for him, which it finally did.

 

Corey's keeper.  He caught another one after this one, but it was only six to eight inches long.  He released it back to the reservoir to be caught next year when it's 14 inches of crazy fish.   Jared was walking between camps and actually saw a really big fish cruising just under the ice.  He said he walked right up on it.  We asked him how big it was and he held his hands out wide, that fish would have scared a salmon had they been swimming next to each other.  His guess on length might have been off, but it doesn't surprise me he saw a fish swimming around under the ice.  It's only six or so inches thick and pretty clear.  

This is Tyler's last fish and the last one of the day.  We got some extra photos, cleaned up the place and headed to grandma and grandpa's house for a turkey dinner and present opening. 

I had to finish off this post with Jared landing his fish.  He isn't excited at all.

The Eve of Christmas Eve

Tyler was wrestling in the Best of the West Tournament today in Tri-Cities, Washington, Kim had some Christmas things to do and I had an itch to hunt Jesse.  I called uncle Tom this morning to see if he was up for some company and a duck and goose hunt by his house; we are planning an ice fishing trip tomorrow and so bird hunting would have to be today or not at all.  Corey, Cole, Jesse and I headed for Baker County around 9 AM.  We were  late, but today was about fun, not keeping time schedules.

We saw four coyotes along the freeway but didn't shoot them despite having the 7mm along.  We headed for the crick, hoping to jump shoot ducks and possibly geese.  We saw NOTHING along the crick, but ice.  It was slow to say the least.  But around the end of the walk we jumped a big covey of california quail that all landed in a big pile of hawthorn and wild rose bushes.  We waited for uncle Tom and Shem to rendezvous with us, shared the good news, got everyone through the fence, exchanged the heavy #2 duck and goose loads for the lighter low based #7 steel shot we'd brought, turned Jesse loose and headed for the the hidey-hole.

Jesse had a slight breeze working in his favor and he was fast to the bushes, locked solid in a classic point, his tail quivering, ears perked, and body tense.  I wish I'd taken a camera!  I strung Shem, Cole, and Corey along the frozen slew, spreading them out then headed around the bushes so I'd flush birds past them.   The quail held tight, flushing a bird or three at a time so that there were lots of birds in the air for probably a minute.  The shooting was fast and furious with the occasional bird dropping to the frozen ground.  Jesse retrieved them all and we headed for the tall grass, bushes, and teesle around us where we expected to pick up some scattered singles.

Our shots put up some ducks and geese further to our north.   The ducks flew up, circled, some drifted off to quieter mid day lies, but most dropped back to the oxbows of the creek.  We were planning a hunt on them when I looked up and saw 30 or so geese coming our way making for the meadows behind us. They were low and definitely going to be in range.  Shem and the boys had the shots with Tom and I flanking them.  Someone jumped early, flaring the geese.  The would be perfect shots were now long and rushed; we didn't get a bird.  But the ducks held, so we made our way north, the half mile, circling wide and coming in on them from the west.

We were spread out wide, covering as much of the oxbow as possible and still could have used another hunter or two.  Shem, Tom, and Corey held up short of the fence, waiting for the flush.  Cole I slid through the fence and he was the point man, sneaking to the edge of the crick.  The ducks flushed in waves.  The sound of 600 wings beating is impressive!  The whistling accompanied by a dull roar.  The shooting was fast with four drakes down.  I felt really bad for Cole.  He had the first shot, but his gun just clicked.  He frantically opened to action to find it empty.  We had taken the shell out of the single shot while crawling through fences and we'd forgotten to reload.  The poor kid had 300 mallards at 20 yards and didn't get a shot.

With the birds gone and the dog working to get the downed birds, Corey took a walk around the next corner to check out the noise he heard.  It was a common merganser that I guess didn't get the memo that duck season was on and we still had some empty spots in our limits.  I'll let Corey tell you the story.

The walk back to the cars was fairly uneventful until Jesse found the remnants of the scattered quail.  He had a real solid point on a broken down hawthorn bush.  As we walked up to flush the birds, Corey spotted the covey making a break for it, running through the low, grassy spot the hawthorns had grown up in.  He took a fleeing shot, but missed.  Jesse broke at the shot zig-zagging the area looking for casualties.  We were talking about what had just happened when a little rooster quail broke cover, circling us low and fast.  He was my bird and at my shot he crumpled, the #2 duck load did its job and then some.  ITS NOT RECOMMENDED WE SHOOT QUAIL WITH DUCK AND GOOSE LOADS AGAIN, but you don't have much time to switch sometimes.  We lost one leg and half of one of the breasts but overall it was a clean kill.  Shem got another one a little later ending out the day.  

Corey Playing Hookie

Corey hasn't had many days with just dad.  He is #2 in the line up, with an older brother that loves to hunt and fish as much as he does.  I have a hard time saying no to one, so typically they both go.  But today, Tyler was headed to the Tri State Wrestling Tournament in northern Idaho, so I pulled Corey out of school for some dad time.  We got some errands run early this morning and then got our ice fishing stuff together and took off.

I fished yesterday and brought home my limit of rainbows between 14 and 20 inches.  The ice was thick....ish, the wind didn't blow, the fish were pretty active and I was with good company (Larry and Kyle Carpenter).  We had a nice day.  Larry taught me a new filleting trick and shared one with him.  I brought home a load of nice, pink trout fillets and we decided we needed another day on the ice.  Kim wasn't too excited about me fishing two days in a row, but consented so Corey could have a day; what a sweet mom she is.

The fishing was pretty good the first 20 minutes.  Corey's rod dipped after just a few minutes and he lost a brute at the ice-hole.  The head was out when the hook came free.  Kyle hooked another right after that and Corey was able to land it, a nice 16 inch football of a rainbow.  But the bite died shortly thereafter and we went exploring with the ice auger.

Kyle finally found some willing fish off a point.  We moved down to fish with him and Corey caught another nice fish almost immediately.  Kyle missed a few and I walked over to the dam to look down river.  I watched a Bald Eagle circle and land in a big willow below the first good run under the dam.  A few trout rose, some ducks flew by, and then I heard the yelling.  I had left my rod unattended and unanchored at the edge of a hole.  Corey was watching his rod when mine dove into the hole.  I had taped a stand, made from welding rod, onto the handle when we first got there, and it was precariously hooked to the edge of the ice-hole, the rod was visible under the ice. Corey jumped on it, pinning it to the ice, fished the rod out of the hole and landed the fish.  It was a nice 15 incher; fat and sassy.  We missed a few more bites, had another rod get pulled into the hole (but this time it was hooked on a bucket), but didn't land another fish.

I had promised Kim we'd be home early to help with dinner and so we headed for home around 2:30 PM.  On our way out the door this morning, I had Corey grab the .270 Winchester for coyotes.  We see a lot in the area we were fishing and he hasn't killed one yet.  We were making good time, headed through cow country, when I spotted a coyote hunting mice in a pasture full of cows.  We turned around and headed back to the ranch we'd just passed.  Two guys were out talking along the road, their trucks full of hay.  I asked if my son could shoot the coyote below the house amongst the cows.  I didn't really think they'd say yes, but we must have looked pretty trustworthy.

We made our way back along the fence, lining the coyote up with the biggest patch of cowless pasture we could.  Ol' Wiley spotted us and started to run, bounding high, looking back over his shoulder trying to decide if the afterburners were going to be necessary.  Corey's shot cut him down, flipping him end over end.  It was one heck of a shot!  We headed back to ask if we could get it out of the field for pictures and to skin, if the .270 didn't break the skin too bad.  The shot was high, the pelt ruined, but Corey was still all smiles.  Corey's first coyote was pretty sweet!  I think the best part for Corey was calling his older brother to tell him he was one-upped and behind in the count!  It will be fun evening up the score!

Anticipating the Spring Steelhead Season

Its the beginning of December and I'm really missing spring!  I wanna fish so bad; I wanna feel the take, set the hook, feel the head shake and then battle a steelhead; I wanna be covered in the sweet stickiness of fresh, uncured roe; I wanna drift a slinky, eggs and yarn over cobblestones, float bobbers, and cast my new spey rod with bright flies and I wanna battle big fish!  It's been too long and the fall fishing I've missed because I've been hunting too much!  I know, cry me a river!  

My brother-in-law, Matt, just downloaded these photos and this video, off his camera.  It been almost a year; by our standards he hasn't procrastinated this at all, he could have waited another few years before doing anything with them and he'd still have beat us.  Anyway, it was good memories and exciting to relive, so I thought I'd share it.  

This picture is of a 31.5 inch native buck I quickly released after a good reviving--mouth to mouth is really weird on a fish!  Matt landed a much, much, much bigger native right after this one.  We hit a pod of pigs (big fish for you layman) that afternoon and reveled in the bent rods and smokin reels!

This particular day Matt and I headed for the river; an unplanned lazy day.  No getting up early, no beating people to "the spot", no concerns for anything but a relaxing walk down river and fishing where ever we wanted.  Our goal was to try new water, fish what we have never fished, and try something different, just to see what would happen.  We caught very few fish from new spots, but we did have quite a bit of success; lots more than the other people we ran into on the river.  

It seems we left the car around 11 AM.  We walked slow, talked and stopped often to fish a promising bit of structure, a deep, fast run, or an obscure corner with no trails leading down to it.  We reached our typical water after an hour or more and set up in one of my favorite spots.  I explained the hole to Matt, the guys down river hadn't touched a fish, and turned him loose.  He put on his bobber and jig and landed a 30 inch keeper buck in 2 or 3 casts.  I wanted to throw him in!  He always does this to me!  

To make me feel better and to stop the whining and pouting, he let me have a pictures with his fish.  I looked downstream at the other fisherman to see their reaction.  It was fun to watch the envy flow out of them, but it was so thick and acrid there was a major fish kill for the first 100 yards downstream from their position.  The rest of the river was fine as the river diluted its concentration only stunning the fish below that were unfortunate enough to get caught in its oily currents.  The most disgusting part of the ordeal was when the fisherman took off their waders!  Birds that flew over fell stone dead into the river and along the banks.  It was HORRIBLE!  When we left, after fishing for 30 or 40 minutes they raced for our spot.  I guess they had been there all morning and hadn't touched a fish.  Funny, we only fished for 3 minutes and had already out done them, well Matt had, I was still fishless.  

Another mile of river, a few fishless spots, and I was on the edge of Cole's Run.  Its a great place to fish and I love reliving Cole hooking four steelhead and landing two in minutes.  We landed 8 or 9 fish that day from the same section of river in an hour or two.  The backpack full of fish weighed 60-80 pounds!  We brought a packframe down the next day so we could "pack out" our fish; it was like deer hunting!  Anyway, I finally hooked and landed a nice 22-23 inch keeper.  Not a big one, but a keeper; the best part was Matt and I were tied, one to one.  

We started back up river and stopped on an outside corner I have never caught a fish out of.  The year before we fished this spot and fished it and fished it.  We were so confident it was fishless the kids threw rocks in.  We were sprawled on the gravel bar talking when two guys came up and asked us if they could fish.  We said sure, so they cast out, hooked 3 fish, landed 2 of them, and left.  It was embarrassing.  It was just after that Cole's Run got its name.  

Matt and I started on the lower end.  I hooked a 29.5 inch keeper hen almost immediately.  The next cast was the 31.5 inch native buck with the awesome hooked jaw.  (See the photo at the top).  Matt was losing, I was up 3 to 1.  He put on some drift gear, cast out, asked me what to feel for, because he had never used drift gear before, and hook a fish of mammoth proportions.  No kidding!  I hadn't finished with my explanation of a "heavy-swimming-feeling" and he was hooked up.  The fish was a bruiser and pulled him all over the river.  When I finally tailed it I couldn't get my hand around the fish.  It was SO deep and thick and heavy and strong and BIG!  I guessed it at 34-36 inches.  It's adipose fin was like a sail.  It pulled free at the waters edge and I fought it, hand to fin combat, for a few seconds before it cheated, kicking water up into my face with its massive tail and departed for deeper, darker spots in the river.  We never got a picture, but I can still see its massive "shoulders" above the water and feel its hefty body.  WHAT A FISH!  I was pretty torn up over not getting a picture, but Matt didn't seem to care. 

We fished our way back to where we caught the first fish.  Everyone was gone.  So we started at the bottom of the hole and worked our way up.  I didn't touch another fish.  Matt was still trailing by one, but he pulled a head by 2 before we left.  He was into fish on almost every cast, there for a little bit.  We had worked up to the middle of the hole when we heard someone coming.  It was my mom and dad.  

Matt had just hooked up and I asked him if he could hand the rod over to my mom as she had never landed a steelhead before.  You can watch the epic battle between my mom and her first steelhead.  It was a native hen, so we gently released her, after the pictures.  

Busting Birds

 We woke up early yesterday morning, before daylight, and got ready to duck hunt.  It was blowing hard in town, which meant the middle of the valley was going to be miserable.  It was!  Gusting to 40 MPH and cold.

We set up along the field edge, near some juniper trees, waiting for the ducks to fly out of their sanctuary and into the uncut wheat fields of Ladd Marsh.  The boys haven't done much pass shooting, so they were excited to get out there, especially after the hunt uncle Seth and I had last week.

There were some guys decoying to the south of us, doing a good job of it too.  They weren't the typical guys out there scaring off ducks.  Their set up was professional and the ducks responded well to them.  It helped us out, keeping the birds focused on something besides us.  Many times ducks would make a pass at the decoys, bank with the wind, slide down over us and try making a turn to get back around setting us up for good shooting.

 

Corey and Cole tag teamed the first duck, a young, local drake.  It collapsed stone dead out of the air.  Jesse marked and retrieved it to them.  Then Tyler knocked down a duck, a big northern bird that didn't move once it hit the ground.  Jesse was right there again................the boys were loving it.  They all had part of a duck and had some other opportunities they just didn't connect on.

The decoy spread was busy most of the morning knocking down birds.  On one of the rallies a wounded hen barreled over the top of me, barely in control with flight feathers askew.  I knocked her down as she jetted past me with the wind, trying to make it back to water.  She fell over 100 yards out but Jesse had her in his sights.  It was a few minutes before he showed, but show he did with the mallard in his soft mouth. 

Tyler knocked down another duck soon afterwards.  It was a local drake, small and without the color of the norther birds.  A guy came down the line, headed away from the decoy spread, and back to his truck.  He had set up that morning unknowingly in front of the spread.  He knocked down a duck and while looking for it spotted the spread.  Without a dog the duck was impossible to find in the thick, heavy grass.  He came to tell me so Jesse could find it.  I headed up to where he said the duck fell and Jesse had scent almost immediately.  It took him a while to track down the runner, but he got him before he made it to the ditch.  The man thanked us and gave the duck to the boys, since their dog had retrieved it.  They were pretty excited to up their body count.

Just before we left, a big group of ducks dropped into the decoys.  They dropped a few and I watched a lone drake break formation headed for the open field.  It dropped 500-600 yards from the decoys.  I watched the hunters that killed it for a while and realized they hadn't seen it drop.  I headed out with Jesse to find the dead bird.  He worked the wind perfectly, finding the bird quickly.  There was a long, deep, wide ditch between us and the decoys.  I tried to get the attention of the guys sitting in their blinds, but with the wind, they didn't hear me, so we reduced it to our bag limit and headed home. 

 We got home, changed out our steel shot for lead, did some chores for mom and headed to chukar country.  We passed two trucks leaving the area we wanted to hunt, but decided with the limited time we had, we'd give it a go.  Jesse pointed birds in the first draw.  I had to move 60 yards down hill to where he held the birds.  I was just above him when the birds flushed, I missed easily.  Jesse turned up country and pointed again on a second group, just 40 yards from the last.  I had a quick shot that didn't connect with anything.

It was Corey's turn next.  Jesse made it around to him, following scent on the ever present wind.  Corey followed him out on a point where Jess locked up again.  Corey made it to his side and kicked up a bird.  It was too fast for him and as he let down his gun and guard, the rest of the covey flushed.  He said he didn't get his head down, he didn't follow through, and he is positive he flock shot, missing his chance.

Tyler had just caught up to us and was standing there with me watching Corey work his way back towards us and Jesse was headed around the hill hunting.  I told Tyler it was up to him to get some feathers in Jesse's mouth, so he took off fast trying to catch the dog.  It didn't take long and we heard the shot and Tyler  yelling fetch.  They had made it down to the next ridge and into the draw where Jesse pointed his birds.  Tyler worked in close and then Jesse moved on, fast; the birds had ran out.  Tyler kept with him and he locked up again a few minutes later.  Tyler got along side of him, flushed the birds and killed a chukar; his first on the wing.

 

 We stopped for pictures and then headed around the hill looking for more. 

Jesse had a few more points, the boys had a few more misses and we were headed back, trying to stay ahead of the falling darkness.  Jess was in the lead, but below Tyler and Corey.   A chukar flushed wild between them.  The shot was Corey's and he let the bird swing out and away from Tyler before shouldering his gun.  At the shot the chukar dropped to the ground, rebounded and flew down country, crashed again, raised once more, high into the air, then ran out of gas.  The boys got Jesse down there and he found it, pointing the dead bird, then retrieving it to Corey; his first ever game bird shot on the wing.  When Corey hit it he started yelling and jumping up and down......he was so excited.  Cole and I watched from above.   

Cole got a few shots in, but the chukars were fast and the single shot 20 gauge is still a bit big and the hammer somewhat cumbersome for a 9 year old.  But he had fun and can't wait to go again.  I missed six opportunities at chukar; not the best day of shooting for sure.  If my dad would have been there I'm sure I'd have heard him announce to all the world, like he did in 1995 when we were hunting uncle Dave and aunt Kerrin's place in Vale for pheasant, that "if a bird gets up in front of Jason, someone kill it, because he can't hit CRAP!"