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Questions About MichiganFishing and Hunting IssuesAre Welcome and Invited!So are your memories.Call 231-585-7131 or Email tightloops_peoplepc.comEveryone has a story to tell.It might be of a very specialday afield with a very specialfriend.Or perhaps a reminiscence of the first time at deer camp withdad and grandpa. Or a trout that rose to a dry fly you tied yourself.Maybe it’s the hope your son ordaughter—--or grandchildren--—will love Michigan'’s woods and watersas much as you love them.Put it all on paper. Share thoselaughs, laments, grins and groanswith other people who’'ve also“been there and done that!”Tight Loops,Capt. Tony
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The Fishing Diaries
A Fish Tale Collection
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1st Tale
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
2nd Tale
One of America'’s Toughest Trout StreamsIs Right Here in Michigan--—the Jordan RiverBy Capt. Tony PetrellaGod created the Jordan River. And by any account, He did a very, very good job of it. But it was hundreds of tough, agile loggers who turned it into the trout stream it is today--—the most technically challenging piece of water I'’ve fished anywhere in the United States during nearly 40 years of fly angling.The Jordan begins as myriad springs and rivulets in the northeast corner of Antrim County near the tip of Michigan'’s lower peninsula. They seep out of hillsides, and bubble up from the aquifer to create clear, cold “fingers” of water. Ultimately, they join and turn into a river filled with butter-yellow brown trout, brookies with bellies as orange as a pumpkin, and rainbows as brilliant as the bumper on my old '’59 Pontiac.That’'s the part God created. What makes the Jordan so damnably challenging to anglers is the jackstraw of logs that crisscross its bottom like a million toothpicks that were dumped from a box.It'’s as if the five-o’clock whistle blew on the last day of the logging drive a hundred years ago and all those old sunburned Swedes and Finns pulled their caulks out of the big tree trunks they'd been riding and simply stomped off to Marquette. Over the ensuing years, those logs sank. Some jammed together to form tiny islands that now sprout grass, new-growth cedar trees, and a proliferation of gorgeous wildflowers that attract scores of photographers.It'’s such a beautiful place, in fact, that the Jordan was designated in 1972 as Michigan’'s first National Scenic River.But thousands of other logs simply turned into a crossword-puzzle of trout hideouts, creating classic “pocket water” fishing. A downstream float with a dry fly can be done, but not easily in most places. Forget about fishing nymphs completely. Actually, it’s best to cast upstream. Casting here demands a high degree of precision and total concentration on the fly’'s drift.First, the river itself is pretty narrow in most places, perhaps 30 feet wide, with streamside tag alders and cedar trees ever-ready to snatch an errant backcast.Second, the maze of sunken and partially-submerged logs create “targets” that range in size from as small as a soup kettle to the dimensions of a bathtub, with a quick current that whisks the fly along as if you were on a freestone river in Montana or Vermont.The trick is to analyze the stretch of water ahead of you. Study the flow, and consider where the trout are likely hiding. Then try to figure out where you can drop the fly and get a few seconds of free-float before making a quick upstream roll cast to throw the hook out of harm'’s way. Success means never having to say you'’re sorry you just broke off another two-buck fly.Success also means a nine-inch or ten-inch fish that literally leaps six feet out of the water because he'’s very angry that somebody jabbed him in the mouth with a sliver of metal.Actually bringing one of these trout to hand is an experience. Usually, it'’s “"How did he get under that log and break me off so fast?”"But casting to, and perhaps hooking, these fish is only part of the Jordan'’s challenge.The other is staying dry. Because the Jordan, as Theodore Gordon once wrote, "“is as lucent as air,"” it creates very deceptive optical illusions. You can be standing knee deep on one side of a big old sunken log, then get a shockingly cold dunking by stepping into considerably deeper water on the other side. And I do mean cold, since the Jordan rarely gets warmer than 56 degrees.That means part of your analytical process involving where to cast also includes "“where do I step next?"” This really is no place for hip boots, although at first glance it appears they'’d be perfect. Nope. Stick with chest-highs. Maybe throw in a fold-up wading staff as well. As far as the actual fishing goes, light rods such as a six-foot two- weight are perfect for the Jordan. A four-weight is almost too much gun, although some stretches do have a lot of hoppers in August and early September so a four can be useful then.Generally speaking, you can expect good hatches of caddis. Stock your fly box with the usual color spectrum mostly in size 16 and 18, though some 20s certainly come in handy.Blue wing olives (Baetis) in size 16 and 18 usually are around, along with Sulphers (dorothea) (size 16), and Mahoganies (isonychia in size 14). Sparsely tied parachutes seem to work best, and are easy to see because of the white wing post. Smallish stoneflies in gray and yellow frequently pop up, and beetles, ants, and crickets are always good—--especially in late summer.So, if you’re tired of fishing in crowded places for hatchery fish, give the Jordan River a try some time. Believe me, you'’ve never fished anyplace like this before!Capt. Tony Petrella is a Coast Guard-licensed guide in southwest Florida for tarpon, snook and redfish during the winter and spring. He floats and wades Michigan’'s finest trout streams during the summer, and guides grouse/woodcock hunters in the fall. He can be reached at 231-585-7131, or tightloops_peoplepc.com
3rd Tale
Steelhead SwimmingBy Capt. Tony PetrellaMorning fog was still lifting off the Pere Marquette River when I heard a hideous scream that sounded like the chattering falsetto of a wounded gobbler. It was high-pitched and pathetic. A combination of shock, anguish and humiliation. And it apparently was coming from me. The human bobber, in a river already laden with leaden chunks of ice on this stygian steelhead excursion, had spoken. Of a fashion.As the water rushed me toward the next downstream bend, I looked back, almost accusingly, at Harry Barnes. He stood on the edge of The Whirlpool and waved his fly rod like the calm conductor of a mad watery symphony. Easy for him to stand there grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I thought, he’'s not the one being swept downstream! So, just to seem even more pitiful, I let out another yell…“Aaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhh that’s COLD” (or something less PC) rose from the depths of my very soul as the ice cubes rattled around inside my brand new, nylon lightweight waders, instantly freezing my chest hairs, defibrillating my heart and more or less playing the bongo drums with--…well, I guess you understand. And there was good old Harry standing upstream, smiling and waving for me to simply stand up on the sand bar and walk out of the river. As if nothing whatever had happened. As if I hadn'’t turned into a specimen from an arctic expedition. Cook and Peary probably would have considered my predicament a minor inconvenience. But I was freezing.Regretfully, I do have to admit that being a whole lot younger at the time and full of bravura if not brains, I fleetingly harbored the thought, after removing several gallons of water from my nether reaches, of staying there above the Basswood Run to look for steelhead."“How much colder can I get than I already am,"” I reasoned. Until I stepped back into the PM and the water reached my, uh, waist. "“Oh, THAT much colder!”" So, I did a sort of Frankenstein lurch to the water’s edge and wondered what came next, since my knees were pretty much frozen in the open position and simply wouldn’t bend. I looked upstream at Harry, hoping for some help, but he was romancing a hen and wasn’'t paying the slightest bit of attention to my situation.“"Think! You were a Boy Scout! One more merit badge and you’d have been an Eagle. So quit acting like a turkey!" I guess I did a pretty good imitation of a drunken man trying to grope his way around a corner as I struggled to turn myself around. Then I flung my fly rod into the weeds and simply fell down onto the riverbank.It actually was sort of pleasant, lying there looking up at the blue sky and puffy white clouds. The sun had burned through the morning’s overcast, and the temperature probably had skyrocketed all the way up to 35. Of course, my legs still weren'’t working, which made it a bit inconvenient, but hey—--what a great day to be on/in the river!Eventually, my knees thawed enough to let them hinge, so I found my rod and Pinocchio-walked my way through the sloppy black muck that traced the river toward the Green Cottage access site. Being a wise and experienced steelheader, Jim Jarrett had expected that somebody would go swimming that morning and had thoughtfully left a spare key behind the right front tire of his van.The heater was working overtime, and I was peeling off my sopping skivvies when I heard a thump. John Ecklund was leaning against the side panel with his face smeared across the window. "“Llll-lll-lll-lllemmme in,”" I thought he shuddered. His bottle-bottom glasses were fogged over, and water dripped from every crease in his coat. He looked so miserable I fleetingly thought he'’d been shot. "“Not till you get out of those clothes!"” I yelled over the roar of the heater, and slapped down the door latch into the “lock” position. "“'I’ve already been as wet as I plan to be. Strip down, then I'’ll open the door!”" "“I ha-ha-have whi-whi-whisky,"” he said, almost pleadingly. Ahh!Maybe it was the nip of Scotch. Or, maybe, to paraphrase that line from the movie Top Gun “"we regret to inform you that your son is soaking wet--—again—--because he was stupid." It’s like this. The bunch of us had finally decided it was time to leave the river and head to the lodge we’d rented in Walhalla. We were making the last river-crossing single-file when Howard Woodbury started floating downstream to a deep hole at the head of a small island.Howard somehow got turned around and was facing me with a sort-of pleading look on his face. So, I inched downstream and stretched out my hand. At which point we did a pirouette that would have made a couple of Bolshoi ballerinas proud and now I was the one heading for the hole.Howard wasn’'t about to be out-manned, though. "“C'’mere, dangit!"” he yelled. I stretched out my arm. He stretched out his. Our fingers locked, and he pulled me upstream."“Thanks, buddy,"” I said, and promptly tripped over a log and fell face-first into the river, five steps from dry land. It got quiet then. Real quiet. In fact, it was mostly quiet for the next 30 minutes during the drive to Barothy’'s Lodge. Except for the suppressed titters of laughter, of course.
slide 5
Tricky TroutFly fishing downstream is tough catchBy Eric SharpDetroit Free Press Outdoors Editor"What the heck are you doing?" Tony Petrella asked in amazement as I missed yet another nice trout that struck the fly drifting 30 feet ahead of his boat on the upper Manistee River. "How many is that that you've missed?"Pondering a miserable effort so far, I said, "I'm 3-for-22. I can't figure it out, but I've missed 19 strikes. I guess I'm just not reacting fast enough."Simply getting all of those strikes in a couple of hours was remarkable. We had launched after noon at Whispering Pines Campground near the 612 Bridge, planning to float about four hours downstream to Long's Canoe Livery.The Hexagenia hatch was on, and while most anglers were concentrating on the big flies at night, we figured we'd try midday to see if any fish were still looking up.Petrella is one of the state's most experienced guides, fishing trout in northern Michigan in summer and tarpon and other saltwater species around Sarasota, Fla., in winter.Usually we do well when we fish together. But on this day I was having trouble hooking fish on everything from a hopper pattern to a beetle to a Hex emerger Petrella invented.I cast the emerger along some logs on the left bank and managed to hook and release a fat 10-inch brook trout that shot out from under the cover. A minute later another fish hit the emerger as it drifted across a deep pool, and again I missed.Petrella was watching from the rear seat of his Au Sable riverboat. He said, "I don't think you're late. I think you're striking too fast and taking the fly away from them."The next time a fish struck I hesitated a bit before lifting the rod. Bingo! Fish on.My normal hookup rate when fly fishing is about 80%. I'd like to say that after Petrella's observation I returned to it. Unfortunately, it didn't happen.Petrella tried to commiserate, saying, "That Hex emerger isn't easy to fish from a boat. You're getting some strikes as it sinks, and they're hard to see."But that wasn't the problem. Thinking about it, I realized that 99% of my fly fishing for trout is done while wading upstream. The fish are facing away most of the time. When they take a fly and turn down, the hook is pulled back into their mouths.But when we're fishing downstream from a boat to trout facing us, there's a good chance that striking too quickly will pull the hook out of their mouths without sticking them.When we started the float, skies were overcast and we saw a few dozen big Hexagenias hatch on the river in front of us. Every one was picked off on the water by a swallow or just above the river by a waiting blackbird. But we didn't see any taken by the trout.That's why we decided to start with the hopper and beetle flies, which had moderate success. Then the sun came out and Petrella said, "Try this Hex emerger I came up with. From the rise forms, I think most of these fish are taking nymphs."He said that because the few trout we saw rise weren't hitting splashily, which would signal that they were snatching hatchers off the surface. Instead, they created swirls and boils as they grabbed nymphs just under the surface.Petrella's CDC (cul de canard) emerger mimics a hatching nymph. He ties in it different colors and sizes, and he thinks the mottled gray marabou overwing is the key."I'm convinced that's what makes it work so well," he said. "It wiggles like a hootchie-cootchie dancer. I like to give it a little twitch with the rod tip every now and then, and 90% of the time the strike comes right after a twitch."Being a dry-fly hardhead, I false cast a lot to dry it off so it floated in the surface film. I got a lot of strikes that way, but I got more when I let the fly sink a few inches and used Petrella's twitching technique.Petrella certainly held up his side of the team. We had 42 strikes in 4 ½ hours, and the tally included 11- and 10-inch brookies, a 10-inch brown and the rest mostly 8-10 inchers.But I missed three fish that would have gone 14-18 inches, and it was hard not to think about the 29 misses rather than the 13 caught. My glass on this day definitely looked half-empty.
slide 6
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 7
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 8
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 9
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 10
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
Page 11
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
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1st Tale
A Guides Worst NightmareBy Capt. Tony PetrellaWhenever a man or woman decides to earn a living by taking other men and women hunting or fishing for pay, theres always a certain amount of trepidation and uncertainty.Sometimes, its euphoria. Other times it can be an outright calamity.Take last week for example. Please!Mike Lazorchak, a New York City banker, drove 13 hours from his home in New Jersey to chase trout and grouse with me for three days. Man, does he have stories to tell all of the guys back home. Some good, someActually, everything started off beautifully. Thursday dawned crisp, but wonderfully sunny. A classic October day in Michigans northwoods. The colors were spectacular and some of the leaves even had begun falling (at last!) because of a hard frost the night before.Ghost, my 12-year-old English setter was Game On. We flew ten grouse and ten woodcock over her, but Mikes bag was only one woodcock. And a very strangely-colored one at that. Very pale markings. Almost like an albino.Alas, my two-year-old setterHeartran hard but never found a bird. How was I to know that it was only the beginning of our problems.Friday morning I hitched the Au Sable Longboat to the back of my truck and met Mike at DJs IGA store in Waters. He followed me to my good friend Jim Powers house. We unhitched the boat and hunted Jims 20 acres of riverfront property. Nothing.We drove down the road to a favorite spot of mine and put Heart on the ground. He ran hard, covered ground and found no birds.Lets head a bit north, I suggested. We crashed through one low spot filled with water. No problem. However, my overconfidence in the Tahoe let me down on the next one.SPLASH!!!!! Followed by the sickening sound of spinning tires. Yep. I was up to the runningboards in water. After a lengthy call to a young lady who undoubtedly was in Bangladesh, as Mike put it, I made contact with a local tow operator.It quickly became evident that I was dealing with people who didnt have many branches in their family tree. Fortunately, I was able to call Jim Powerswho lives not far from where I was mired. He drove onto the road and intercepted the tow truck driver, who was completely discombobulated about where I was and where he was supposed to be. Finally, two hours after my rather indelicate miscalculation, we were back on the road to Jims house and my riverboat. At eight that nighttwelve hours after Mike and I had metI pulled up to Jims dock. We had raised precisely four fish in nearly six hours. It was pitch black. It was cold. And then I found out that the left wheel hub of my trailer wouldnt rotate.Marvelous!Okay. Leave the boat and trailer at Jims. Well deal with that later (maybe next week?).Since Mike wanted to concentrate on grouse, Saturday morning found us in one of my grousiest spots with Ghost scouring the ground. Nothing. Which really surprised me. This is a hotspot.Lets go. The next place is always a winner. Twenty minutes later I put Heart on the ground for his turn and he spent three hours running hard. Unfortunately, only one of them was with US.We were almost back to my Tahoe when he went over a ridge less than a hundred yards from me. Bingo! Gone with nary a hint of sound from the beeper collar. Wonderful. So, for the next two hours Mike and I (he was really a good sport about everything that subsequently happened) drove the two-tracks listening for the beeper.Finally, we drove to the nearest house and Louie Johnson answered my knock.Nope, he said, havent seen a dog but Ill be working outside quite a bit today. Ill keep an eye out.So, we drove back to the original spot where wed parkedwhere Id left my hunting coat on the ground. No dog.Lets put my spare beeper on Ghost and walk the woods, I suggested. At least that way you can hunt and maybe Heart will either hear the beeper or pick up our scent.A good plan in theory. Except it didnt work. No birds and still no Heart.Lets drive to some of the other houses, Mike said.Okay.And as I pulled into the next house down from Louies, he barreled into the driveway.Hes someplace over behind my barn, Louie said. I saw him, but he wouldnt come to me.Back at Louies we jumped into his golf cart and started driving down all of the lanes hes cut through his 80-acre parcel.This is my 600-yard target range, he said at one point. Ive been a competitive shooter since 1981. Then he stopped the cart and I whistled and called out. No Heart. No heart. On we wound through the woods, finally getting back to his house.Some people in orange just went down the road, his wife called out from the doorway. Maybe hes with them.Off we drove in my Tahoe, only to find two women and a young girl on horseback.Have you seen an English setter? I asked.No, but my horse has been acting sorta strange. Maybe he smells your dog. We have English setters, too. But mine are tied up.Mines wearing a beeper, I said.Ill bet he hears it, she replied. Horses hear a lot better than we do.Then my cell phone rang. Your dogs just east of our house, Louies wife said. And almost simultaneously one of the woman called out Theres the beeper. Hes right down here in front of us, And darn if he wasnt heading for our original parking spot and my red hunting coat.I got out of the truck and stepped into the road. He was sorta shuffling toward me about fifty yards away. I raised my arms high and he sorta wagged his tail. Then he broke into a run when I whistled. When he was in my arms I looked deep into his eyes. He looked balefully at me. And then I loaded him into his crate where he gratefully ate a handful of Alpo Snacks and curled up with a deep sigh, snuggling into a welcome setter-of-sleep after yet another Great Adventure.Of course about that time my good friend Bill Ross arrived. Hed driven up from Grayling to help in the search for Shorty Pants, as he had dubbed Heart when he was a mere puppy. No problem, Bill said. I was worried sick about him. Better that I be here to see that hes alright.Billalso infamously known as Magoohad a few choice words for the puppy. Which I judiciously had deferred. Heart looked pretty chastised, though. I dont really know if it was my lack of words, or Magoos scolding. But Shorty Pants has been pretty agreeable ever since. If only itll last!Anyway, off we went to another cover, with Ghost on the ground again. Three woodcock and zero grouse later the wind was gusting so hard I suggested that maybe it was time to call it a half-day. She couldnt hear me whistle and I could only occasionally hear her beeper.One lost dog a day is more than enough.I drove Mike back to Northernaiere Resort, where he watched college football games the rest of the afternoon while the sleet and snow squalls started pelting us in heavy wind. I got everybody back home safe and sound. Kate had dinner ready.Ah, yes. Just another nightmare in the life of a guide. But, hey. I COULD be riding a jackhammer for a living. Now THATS work.
2nd Tale
A Fantasy Comes TrueAt Hapgood RanchBy Capt. Tony PetrellaIf you’ve ever read books by O’Connor or Churchill, or have hung out at big-time gun clubs, then you probably know about two guys who ruled American skeet shooting throughout the 1970s. Frank “Bubba” Wood and Ricky Pope each grew up in Texas, several hundred miles apart in mileage and circumstance. But by 1980, they had so thoroughly dominated the sport that both ultimately were inducted into the Skeet Shooting Hall of Fame. At first, they were rivals at the big-money shoots that took place almost weekly throughout Texas. Today, they are the best of friends. And one November day a few years back I spent the Texas quail opener at Hapgood Ranch, where the Wood family has held a lease for more than 70 years, shooting with them.I had flown to Dallas to meet with Rick on business. Imagine my shock late that first afternoon when he casually mentioned “we’re hunting Hapgood tomorrow with Bubba.” You must understand that shooting with Bubba and Rick is like fishing with Lefty and Flip; a home run derby with Ruth and McGuire; one-on-one with Michael and Magic. Was I intimidated? Naw! Terrified is more like it.To say that I was unprepared both mentally and technically is a vast understatement. Rick took care of the “technical” part later that evening in his “gun room.” Shotguns in every length, gauge and configuration were pulled out of closets and safes. “Try this one for fit” became a redundancy.There were cornshuckers, over/unders, even sidebys with elaborate engravings of birds and dogs. When I said “this one seems to come up real nice” warm smiles and old Scotch whiskey were produced. The shotgun, by now almost an afterthought, was zipped into a handsome leather case and carefully propped in a corner with several others.Rick tossed so many boxes of 20 bore hulls into yet another grip that I wondered if we were going dove shooting in Mexico. Fortunately, I remembered an old maxim: “Let a fool hold his tongue and he may pass for a sage.” Next came the matter of clothing. Boots, hunting jackets and various oddities related to a day hiking the quail fields of North Texas materialized from yet more closets. It was like being at Abercrombie’s in the Golden Age. Flannel, waxed cotton and leather all mixed to create that ambrosial aroma only an upland gunner truly appreciates. The mental part was going to be much harder to deal with, I knew. Because that was up to me alone.A little bit after dawn I tumbled out of Rick’s truck to handle Gate Duty. As it squeaked open, Bubba’s beloved English setter, Maggie, leaped majestically out the window of his Suburban. She was ready for business.I’ll never forget that first covey as long as I live. Two English pointers and Maggie were painted against the blue Texas sky. Time stood still right along with them. Then Bubba stepped forward and dozens of little dark shapes zigzagged through the air like a meteor shower. Two shotguns roared. Then again. Three dogs raced out to claim a prize. Rick or Bubba picked up the other quail.Me? My thumb never even touched the safety catch. In fact, my brain hadn’t come close to registering all the screams for action that my eyeballs had been shouting at it. Welcome to North Texas quail hunting!The day finally ended with everyone appropriately exhausted. It had been warm and dry, with very little standing water, and I understood why a dozen dogs had to be rotated on an hourly basis. Back at the “picnic ground,” Bubba’s dogs were staked out at discreet intervals on a long chain, licking sore muscles and pawing the air sleepily. Throughout the re-kenneling process, Bubba apologized profusely for such a poor hunt. “I can’t believe,” he repeated several times, “that we only flushed 13 coveys and picked up just 37 birds. That’s awful!”I raised my eyebrows and started to speak. Then I remembered the part about fools and their big mouths, so for one of the few times in my life I said nothing.I later learned that by Hapgood Standards it had indeed been a slow day of gunning. We’d missed our limit by eight birds. As we drove back to Dallas, I thought about the fact that I had just been afield with two of the finest wingshots in the world. Men who never miss when they pull a trigger. Men whose names are forever etched in the annals of shooting history. I leaned back in the passenger seat and closed my eyes. I hadn’t shot Rick, Bubba or a dog, and actually picked up a few quail of my own. As far as I was concerned, life was good. Very, very good.
3rd Tale
Hearts Great Adventure(Or)How a Puppy Goes HaywireBy Capt. Tony PetrellaSEPTEMBER 18, 2008a date that will Live In Infamy for Manistee River Heart!Ghost had hunted in the late morning, pointing two grouse and one woodcock to go with the four other wild grouse flushes. I bagged one for her, just as we were calling it quits after a 30-minute hunt because it was getting pretty hot. Heart moped around the house all day because he didnt get to have any fun in the woods, so I decided to take him out hunting around the house at 5:45pm.Everything started out fine. He even put up a grouse in the thicket just north of where all of the pipelines cross the Manistee River.He got into the woodcock cover south of the crossing, and worked the thicket by the big oak tree. Then his spring sprung and he vanished into the jackpines.I went all the way down to Norwaywhere the road ends amid a huge growth of Norway Pines and the swamp begins. Nothing. I circled around the edge of Frenchmans Creek. Nothing.So, I cut back toward the river and headed toward home. When I got to the thicket where hed put up the grouse I thought I heard his beeper. Then I heard Ghost bark. A-ha, I thought, hes back home.Nope.I set about cleaning out the truck, and heard the beeper. Sounded like point not very far away. So, I geared up and went looking. I got close. The bell was loud. But when I called and whistled he started moving. Away.I went home.By now it was full dark and Heart was nowhere to be heard. The phone rang. Kate answered and started laughing. Its a guy who found Heart. He swam the river and hes over on Deward Road.I drove to the other side of the river, down Deward Road about a half-mile past our house. A truck was stopped. Young guy standing in the road. No dog.He ran off. Oh, shit!I saw him sitting here in the road and thought he was worn out. I petted him for a while, then he jumped up and ran off into the woods about five minutes ago.Im in a tee shirt, shorts, and boat shoes. No compass. Just a leash and flashlight. Off I go to the sound of the beeper (Charge to the guns, men!).By now Heart figures Im so mad that Ill kill him (Yeah, like hes ever been struck with anything harder than a pillow he chewed up!), or hes confused by the echoes of my whistle and voice, or hes terrified because its pitch black and hes banged and scraped and bruised and hungry.FINALLY, the flashlight beam pins his beady little eyes and he freezes long enough for me to grab his collar and fasten the leash.Now, I just have to get out of the woods.OK. Ive gotta brag just a little bit here. I looked at the sky, took a dead-reckoning course, and several minutes later we came out on the pipeline. Not wanting to press my luck, I walked north to where I knew there was an old access track.Yep. Here it is. A few minutes later Im back on Deward Road and my truck flashers are just 30 yards to the south. Whew. What a welcome sight.I literally toss Heart into his crate, climb behind the wheel and turn the key. Grrrrrrrrr. Grrrr. Grr. Sigh. Fortunately, Ive got my cell phone. I try to speed-dial the house. No signal. I dial the number. No signal. I get out of the truck and redial. No signal.Its now 9:10 pm. I walk 30 yards back to the access track, where the tree canopy is open over the road, dial our number and stick the phone as far into the air as I can reach.Tight Loops Fly Fishing, this is Kate.Red,bringtheJeepdownDewardRoad. Batterysdead. Heartgotaway hadtochasehim. Silence. Can you hear me????Im on my way.Thirty minutes later, the Tahoe is purring and were bouncing home. I leash-walk Heart directly to his bedroom crate, turn off the light and close the door. Kate had heated up chili. Heart was going to bed without supper, but I certainly wasnt.This morning Heart went back into basic training on the 15-foot orange lead Magoo bought for him last fall. Whistle. Right Here. Whistle. Right Herefor nearly 30 minutes. Later today well repeat the drill. And then again. And then Saturday, Sunday, and in the evenings after my fishing guide trips Monday and Tuesday.Whistle. Right HereGood Boy!!!!!!!I hope.
slide 5
The CabinBy Capt. Tony PetrellaA doe and her two yearlings had materialized out of the mesquite thicket on my left. Almost like David Copperfield had come to do his magic in the Texas Hill Country. It was just a few minutes after daylight when they casually strolled past the front of the blind. Now the kids were far off to my right munching on sagebrush or something. Mom kept nervously looking over her shoulder. A light crunching noise made my eyeballs swivel back to the left, and sure enoughthere was Romeo. It didnt take long to determine that he was a two-year-old, wearing a pitiful little rack that clearly told the world he wasnt running anywhere near the front of the herds gene pool. In fact, he was precisely the sort of misfit that Rick Pope wanted culled. The rules at his dads ranch have always been simple and direct: shoot a trophy and you MUST have it mounted; eliminate the undesirables and you get a heartfelt thank you and a freezer full of venison. Because my intentions strictly involved grocery shopping, the decision was easy. But, at the moment, my shot picture wasnt.The little buck hesitated for an instant, staring wistfully at the doe. Then his biological urges took over and he started to trot. Since my mind was made up that this fellow was destined for a tall live-oak tree and a stout rope, I had to make a quick decision.So, I did something that I had read about in magazines many times but never really believed.I whistled at him.In all honesty, the sound that came from my lips was a barely audible, pathetic excuse for a whistle. But doggone if he didnt stop and curiously look around to see what had caused that ridiculously strange sound. The .264 whuuumped once and Romeo did a somersault before landing on his chin smack in the middle of an old tote road. Took me fifty years to figure out that it was smartest to kill em near the road, Dick Pope, Ricks father, would say later that day. A big grin seamed his grizzled jaw as he slapped the steering wheel of his battered old pickup truck. His hand is thick and calloused from years of ranching and farming, and big as a calfs head. Yep. Sure does make it a heap easier to get em back to camp that way.I grinned and agreed wholeheartedly. After all, it is his ranch! Besides, it was one of those days when my left knee looked like the football that killed it, and felt as mushy as an overcooked sweet potato.I had felt a little guilty calling Rick on the hand-held radio to bring the truck (a mans supposed to drag his buck back home, isnt he?) but those pangs quickly passed as I limped toward the little seven-point. It was a long way back to the cabin. The cabin. Ah, yes. As I stared down at the pitifully antlered buck, my mind drifted back more than twenty years to an old forgotten place that had literally been falling apart when I first saw it. My dad let some of his hunting buddies from Bellaire build it in 1938, Bruce Miles told me that summer afternoon. The deal was, he retained all rights to the land plus whatever they built.It didnt take a whole lot of money to bang together a rough twelve by-twenty-four building in those days, so Bob Doty and his pals thought the whole idea was pretty swell. World War II soon intruded on their idyllic little cabin that nestled under a cluster of towering white pines. One by one they went off to war. Some came back. Some didnt. And after a while even Bob quit making the 25-mile drive.I guess, his daughter told me many, many years later, it just stopped being fun without his old gang hanging out with him way out there in the boonies.By the time I saw the place it was a real mess.The narrow door was hanging from one hinge, and all of the tiny windows had been busted out. There was a hole in the roof a grown man could fall through, and the bunk room in back was filled with a pile of mouse-eaten mattresses and an Outdoor Life magazine dated 1957.There was a tiny sink, but the well pipe was clogged with sediment. I ultimately solved that problem by blowing out the bottom screen with two rounds from a .38 Special.We finally found an old pitcher pump to mount on the pipe. It spewed icy cold water whenever the leathers didnt leak, but we learned to keep a fresh set handy. Redundancy, I learned later in flight training, can save yourSame thing with the delicate mantles for the Coleman lanterns we used for light: always one or two spare packages, along with a backup generator pipe for the camp stove I used to cook our meals, brew coffee and boil the mandatory cleanup water. I didnt much care if the guys washed up, but pots, pans, dishes and utensils got put to bed before anyone else except me (the camp cook never does dishes!).It was mighty rustic, but The Shack, as we eventually came to call it, had a couple of very special things going for it. First, the upper Manistee River flowed just outside the door, and it holds all of the fat, feisty brown trout and gorgeously-colored brookies anyone could ever hope to catch. Second, it was surrounded by several thousand acres of state land that was home to grouse, woodcock, black bears, turkey and deer. Not to mention coyote, coons, and the occasional bald eagle. Our closest permanent neighbors, on the other hand, were nearly three miles away. It was ideal.Like Bob Doty had done more than 40 years before, I put the question to a couple of pals and we went in partners. We got a deal on four big new windows, replaced the rotten roof boards, nailed T-111 exterior siding over top the floppy old tarpaper, and trimmed out everything with cedar shakes. And we bought a proper door. Thatfast (sort-of), we had a Camp. When we werent exhausted from pounding nails we chased brookies and browns during what was left of that first trout season. But already, cousins and uncles and people we barely knew were asking about sleeping arrangements for the coming deer opener. Fortunately, November 15 fell midweek that year and my pals already had made other plans, so three of my uncles and I fit comfortably in that one room. And the outhouse was a two-holer in the event of dire emergency.Of course, comfort is a relative term. There wasnt any insulationhell, there werent even any interior boards on the living side of the 2x4 framing studs. To make matters worse, the oil heater wed scrounged from some junkyard only ran for a few hours at a time before the fuel line froze. That meant somebody had to go outside with a candle or cigarette lighter to thaw it out so we could get enough heat to fight the wind slicing in through the walls. We apparently had never heard of caulking. Or larger diameter fuel lines. Finally, we simply gave up and crawled into our sleeping bags. My uncle Joe gratefully cuddled up with his Doberman and later claimed he actually got a good nights sleep.But he was so happy to get up and moving the next morning that he forgot his knife. While he came looking for me to help him with the field-dressing, some other hunters dragged off the deer hed shot.As the years passed, my cousins reached legal age and the guest list grew. We planned menus and scouted hunting spots and built blinds wherever we saw two intersecting game trails. Cousin Kevins first deer camp was a classic.For a full eight-hour day we drove down myriad two-tracks and hiked along the river, looking for sign. Kevin never complained as we battled through tag alders and climbed up and down hillsides. Briars tore at his pant legs and bloodied his arms. We covered a lot of miles. In the end, he finally decided upon a spot about a half-mile from The Shack. His dad and I looked knowingly at each other and hid our grins even as Kevin resolutely started gathering dead branches for the framework of his very first deer blind. When we were finished, I took a long drink of ice water and looked at Kevin. So, when its four in the morning and pitch black and youve only been here once before, how are you going to find your blind? He stared back and looked somber, thinking real hard. Maybe, I suggested, you could fix this tree as a landmark and then count your paces out to the road, find another landmark out there, and then count your paces back to camp.He never forgot that piece of advice. But I did, one year when I foolishly decided to hunt the Lost Lake Swamp. Its only a mile south of the cabin, but the very name of the place tells you everything you need to know.Id been huddled up against the trunk of a big, fallen cedar tree for two hours when daylight came stretching and yawning its way over the eastern horizon. The deer obviously had a lot more sense than I did on this raw, snowy morning, and were comfortably bedded down somewhere far, far away. When my stomach started growling like a black bear, I decided to go home. Only one problem. When I stood up and surveyed the jackstraw of fallen cedars, latticework tag alders and rotten stumps that I had threaded through in the moonlight, I wasnt real sure just were home was. My cousin Larry had a blind in the hills a couple of miles west, over toward Blue Lake. Kerry was wandering around well to the north, and Herman was probably still asleep. Nobody would even consider looking for me until dinnertime. Since I was always the camp cook I knew they would come looking, but the humiliation of having them save me would be far more than I could bear. Grimly, I set a course for due west and started walking toward what I could see of the sun through the falling flakes.When I finally got back to the cabin, the oil heater actually worked and there was hot coffee. Larry had miraculously shot a deer, which we eventually found the next morning about the same time the crows did. And Kerry lost at poker. Again.A lot of people hunted out of The Shack over the years. There were all-night card games, plenty of empty whiskey bottles under the porch, and some true confessions that maybe were best left unmade. A few guys came once and then went elsewhere looking for more luxury. Other guys came once and never were invited back.The sound of a truck motor pulled me back into the present. Memories are important. So is reality. Kevins now a Senior Pilot with one of the major airlines. The Shacks been bulldozed. Herman dies last winter.I looked around at the South Texas Hill Country while Rick eased over a particularly rutted part of the road. Then I filled out my kill tag, loaded the little buck onto the game grate and headed back to the cabin.
slide 6
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 7
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 8
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 9
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
slide 10
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
Page 11
Stumbling Off the PathBy Jack HelderMay 7, 2011About 35 years ago, I started fly fishing. After a few years of reading everything I could get my hands on and learning from better fly fishermen, I was pretty good. Tied my own flies. Built rods.Then I got distracted: I became a dog person. Serious dog person. Bred dogs, showed dogs, hunted with dogs, judged field trials. Enjoyed the competition and driving all over hell’s half-acre to hunt or show. Put 30 years into it, fly fishing maybe two or three times in a year, at best. One of those rare fly fishing outings took me to Michigan’'s "“Little River,"” the Little Manistee. It was a perfect day, with warm slanting sunlight sparkling the riffles. Wading wet, casting slow and easy, the best part of me enjoyed every single moment and nuance. It was a meditation, rudely interrupted by catching and releasing the occasional rainbow or brown. I wanted to do this forever. So my dogs became pets. I started to go fishing more and more, and realized I knew less and less. It struck me that fly fishing is a lot like a foreign language--"use it or lose it."Faced with relearning what I had forgotten, I was depressed for about five seconds. Then I realized how much fun lay just around the bend.
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