Taking a crippled old dog out fishing

Mark Rinckey (with net) lands a Platte River steelhead for David Richey.

I was dreaming the steelhead dream, and my world was one of rushing river water, a jumping fish hanging in the sky with droplets of cold water hanging of its hard body, and there I stood: looking like a big doofus, with a broad grin on my face, and loving the experience.

Then I came out of my mid-day reverie, shook my head once, and the steelhead tugging me downstream was just a good dream at a bad time. The older I get, the more that some of the mistakes of my youth come back to haunt me.

Forty-one years ago, I fell off a fire escape, caught myself on one of the supports, and hung there 30 feet above a paved parking lot. I managed to climb hand-over-hand up the support to the edge of the fire escape, and pull my sorry butt up to safety.

Injuries have caused a weak left leg and weak lower back for me in past few years.

I'd broken two vertebrae in my spine, ruptured a disc, and when I slammed sideways into the brick wall after catching the support, the impact really messed up my back. Three months after back surgery, I slipped on some ice, fell on a piece of fire wood frozen in the ground, and broke the vertebrae above the first break.

That laid me up for a year, and even though I was writing magazine articles at the time, I had to do some from bed. I spent two or three months in a full-body cast, and finally, I was able to walk around. There's an old adage about outdoor writers having to be tough.

I finally got back to work, fished and hunted while traveling all of North America for magazine articles. My back always hurt, but like is true with hockey players, football players, I had to play with pain - day after day.

Then some joker in a BATA bus pulled out in front of me, and although I had my lap and shoulder restraint on, I had no time to stop. The impact as the car T-boned the bus, banged up my chest and ribs. You guessed it: this car didn't have an air bag. Some broken and fractured ribs happened even though the hospital originally told me there was nothing broken. It just took a couple of days to develop.

So, the last 10 years have had its way with me. My left leg has never really worked right, and was always weak. I compensated for the injury and weakness, and most people never knew there was anything wrong.

I knew, and hid the constant pain, and worked despite it. I retired from The Detroit News in May of 2003, and considered spending the rest of my life doing exactly what I did while working as a full-time staff writer - fishing and hunting.

Two years ago, the pain really started to increase. I had to take the occasional days off to rest my body, and then back I'd go again. Gradually, in the past two years, my left leg got very weak and wading rivers became nearly impossible. There has never been any "give up" in my vocabulary, but river fishing became more and more difficult for me.

I was at the point of forgetting about something that had been a part of my life for more than 60 years. I began trout fishing in rivers at 11 years of age, and now at 72, I was facing the grim prospect of never fishing a trout stream again because of bad legs and a bad back.

Here comes guide Mark Rinckey and my son David Richey to the rescue.

Well, I'm more than delighted to write and tell you that my steelhead fishing trip came true two days ago. My son David, of Sitka, Alaska, came home. I'd talked with guide Mark Rinckey of Honor, Michigan, (231-325-6901) and he felt they could get me out on the Platte or Betsie rivers. Frankly, they were a far more optimistic than me.

Rinckey says the warm autumn and little snow, has put a number of steelhead into the Betsie and Platte river. In the past 10 days, Rinckey's methods for other anglers had produced limit catches some days and only a couple fish on other days. However, during those 10 days, they had landed one 18-pound steelhead, two at 17 pounds and numerous fish up to 15 pound. Me, I'd be more than delighted to catch any steelhead.

You see, my left leg doesn't work well. For 41 years, it has been considerably weaker than my right leg. But, oh how I wanted to go, to catch one more steelhead, a game fish that I've fished for quite successfully for 61 years. I'd come to realize how much I missed the hiss of river current flowing around the end of a sweeper, and the sheer determination and dogged fight with a big steelhead was burning a hole in my heart.

We got to the river, and I pulled on my waders, took a few tentative steps on dry grounds, and I felt "I can do this." I walked at my pace, and they helped me down a short dropoff to the water's edge on the Platte, and we got into the water. Mark walked in front of me, David behind me, and we slowly crossed the river.

Mind you, it was the last day of November but the weather had been balmy. It was a bit cool but we were dressed for it.

He we go, getting The Old Man & his creaky bones into the river.

We got to a wide sweeping run against the far bank. Mark gave David some spawnbags, and he'd been here many times before, and hooked a steelhead right away and landed an 8-pound hen steelhead, all bright silver and glistening in the current. He fought it well, and soon the hook was twisted out and the fish was given its freedom.

We cast and cast, and Rinckey left me in the water near shore, and floated back and forth between my son and I. Eventually, it dawned on us that David had probably caught the only steelhead in that run or all the splashing had put the other fish down.

We crossed the river again with Rinckey leading and David following, and me in the middle. I got up and made my way back to the car, and felt great. I was fishing again, doing what I'd done for most of my 72 years. It was a wonderful feeling.

We drove to the Betsie River where Rinckey guided a client to an 18-pound buck steelhead a week before. He said this is where things will be tricky because the water was up, and the current strong.

"I'll be on one side of you and David will be on the other," Rinckey said. "If you stumble or the current sweeps your leg out from under you, we'll have you."

So, in this manner, we waded across the river in near chest-high water, got up on a shallow sand ridge, and walked downstream. Rinckey gave the instructions.

"David, go downstream 30 yards and cast right up next to the opposite river bank, and let it bounce downstream. This is where Ray caught the 18-pounder a week ago. He also caught two 15-pound here the day before yesterday. There are lots of fish in the river."

He pointed out to me where to cast, and cast the spawnbag out to show me where the spawnbag was supposed to go. I'd fished this hole many times before. I could feel the splitshot bouncing along bottom, and suddenly the line stopped.

I snapped the rod tip back and was into a good fish. The fish ranged about 40 feet, stopped and Mark and I eased down through knee-deep water. I'd eased back the rod, moving the fish inches closer, and he responded by making another short run and a half-hearted leap.

"He's hooked good in the corner of the jaw," Rinckey said. I'd pump and reel, and then the fish would take back the six-pound line. We fought a back-and-forth battle for 10 minutes before I could sense the fish tiring. At just the right moment, I eased the fish across the surface to Mark's waiting net.

The fish came to the net and my guide didn't miss this fish.

"You got him!" Rinckey roared in my ear as David yelped with joy to see The Old Man do again what The Boy had seen done hundreds of times before.

The steelhead, a buck weighing 11 pounds, was lifted from the net and held up for me to admire. It was sleek, with that pinkish-red blaze of color along its sides, and I drank in its beauty before asking him to gently release it.

We fished that hole relentlessly for another hour, and Rinckey asked how I was doing.

"My left leg is really getting weak," I said.. "I know we have to wade upstream, and I suggest we do so while I can."

He whistled up David, and we began the upstream trek, one on each side of me. Sheer determination showed on their faces, and I suspect on mine as well. I climbed out of the river like an arthritic hippo, wobbled a bit on my unsteady legs, and then we walked through the woods and up the hill to our vehicles.

I was choked up with emotion as I profoundly thanked both men for making this trip possible. Who knows what the future may bring when it comes to my lifelong passion of steelhead fishing, but this trip was one of the greatest thrills of my angling career. I also want to give thanks to the steelhead for giving me another thrilling battle on light line. It was a day I will never forget.

George and I hammered the Chinook salmon

My late twin brother, George Richey, leads a big king to net.

Years ago we had an early cool snap, a cold rain fell, and suddenly the Betsie River was awash with fresh-run Chinook salmon. Everywhere one looked were fish moving upstream, their backs creasing the surface.

Brother George and I were fishing two small holes 30 yards apart, and he was casting a wet fly while I was pitching a copper No. 2 Mepps Anglia spinner. It was midweek, and we seemed to have the river to ourselves.

George hooked a fish on a pattern he devised for dark-water, and it was called The Crick. It was basically a black fly with a bit of color, and he was bouncing it along bottom when it stopped and the line switched sideways. There is nothing delicate about setting the hook on a big river salmon. It is a happening!

Hooking two big kings was a special treat for us.

I could hear him grunt as he muscled back to pound the hook home. I took two turns on the reel handle, and a king salmon tried mightily to wrench the rod out of my hands. I urged him into a fighting mood with a hard double hook-set, and there we stood, 20 yards apart, the Richey twins, each one tight to an angry king salmon.

My fish started downstream, and jumped almost into his back pocket, and George spun around, glared at the fish heading out into midstream as his fish ran upstream away from the splash. His fish jumped out in front of me, and we both had to get moving to avoid tangling our lines.

He shuffled upstream while I moved down, and we had the two fish separated by 20 yards when his big king swapped ends, and headed downstream behind me as I scrapped with my fish in the deep hole. I stepped backwards, stepping over his line, and then we stood there, our backs almost touching, as we tried to beat up on those fish.

"Having fun yet?" he asked, knowing I was.

"Nothing better than a 25-pound king trying to rip the rod from your hands," I replied. "Waited a year to do this again."

The silence of the moment was hushed by splashing fish, and then George's fish headed upstream, and our two fish were as close together as we were, and both were struggling upstream, fighting the river current and our heavy rod pressure.

Fighting both salmon, with each going its own way, was a hoot.

"Could get a bit tricky soon," he noted. "If both of them come down together, it will be interesting to see if we can get out of the way while keeping them separated."

The Chinook salmon apparently read his mind or heard his voice, and like two submarines heading for two troop ships, here they came. One fish stayed deep and mine was near the surface, and I pulled from one side to upset his travel pattern. George and I always seemed to read each other's mind, and he did the same except he pulled in the opposite direction.

The fish hit the air, both in half-hearted jumps, and it was as if we were in a ballet on water. We reacted in unison without discussing it, and his move and mine complemented the other. The kings, reacting in a somewhat predictable manner, responded in kind. This was a battle of two twin men, working on two adult Chinook salmon of equal size, and it couldn't have been choreographed any better.

My fish cut between me and shore, spinning me around as it charged downstream. George's fish peeled around him in midstream, and now both fish were wallowing on the surface.

My fish was just half-a-shade lighter in coloration than his but it played out faster on the spinning tackle. I led the fish to shore, grabbed it by the caudal peduncle (the wrist-like narrowing just ahead of the tail), lifted it out, reached for my long-nose pliers, and twisted the treble free and released the fish.

Tailing a big Chinook salmon is easy if you know how and hang on.

I grabbed my camera and began clicking photos of George as he landed his 25-pounder. There was a bit of color in the background, and he held his fish aloft for two or three photos.

He bent over, released the fish with the dignity it deserved after putting up a valiant fight, and we were off looking for another adventure.
Those were the days when George and I lived our lives to the fullest, guided fishermen, and traveled Michigan's rivers together as we did everything else ... together, and as a team.

Today I was on the Betsie River again, and my thoughts of George were wonderful as I looked for fish below the old Homestead Dam. I found a few fish but they weren't hitting. The river water is still warm, and oddly enough, there were no people where I was at.

I cast to several fish but the fish were really spooky. One cast, and they would head into a timber-lined hole. The last thing they seemed interested in was flies or spinner, but it was a good day for remembering my twin brother.

I still think of him daily after almost eight years since his premature death, and although we hunted together as well, it was on those early salmon and steelhead trips that we became almost welded together, inseparable as two peas in a pod. I miss him, and just remembered this story today as I tried to recreate that day, and it's one of my favorites.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

When Steelhead go wild, Part II

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in. "Somebody has to do it," he said, wading in. "Might just as well be us."

The fish were like young baseball players: they often went for our first pitch. Kerby hooked up, and 10 seconds later I was into a bulldozing steelhead that ran at me, jumped clear of the water, and doused me with cold water from three feet away. It took 15 minutes to wear him down.

My philosophy is to beat 'em up. I seldom keep spring fish, and want them to spawn, so a long battle saps their strength, builds up lactic acid and they may die later. If they jump, I pull them off balance. If they dog it, I get below and make them fight the rod and current.

If they run at an angle I pull from the opposite side. It breaks their spirit, and I can usually land fish within five minutes. They recover faster than those landed after a prolonged struggle the current and rod pressure.

The sleet quit but the temperature dropped. Kerby tripped while chasing our 91st steelie, got soaked and once he landed it, he quit. The number '100' never came up but we both knew what the day's goal would be.

The 92nd steelhead was my smallest, and it took my fly so deep in its gills it would die even if released. It was stringered. Paul was soaking up car heat, and the wind began blowing upstream as it steadily grew colder.

The next six fish came easy, and were released. I was chilled through and shaking like an aspen leaf in a strong breeze, but would catch two more fish if it took all day. No. 99 grabbed a No. 6 Platte River Pink as it scratched along bottom. I saluted it with a snappy hook-set, and released it three minutes later.

The eternal fisherman question: Stick with the 'old reliable', or switch to a new fly?

New fly or old for Number 100? It was an easy choice; I'd use the same fly because my fingers were too numb to knot on a new one. My line flicked back over my shoulder and shot forward as I drove the fly above the school of fish that seemed to be growing larger as the minutes ticked by.

One cast, another and a third but no takers. Keep trying, give up or try a new fly? The body shaking was almost uncontrollable as another cast shot upstream, and stripped slowly with my left hand that had been wet all day. The fly ended its drift, and the line twitched and I set the hook.

This fish hit the air like an acrobat, tipped nose down, and sliced into the river like a high-board diver. The rod was up, throbbing from the run, and I stumbled downstream on leaden legs into the strong wind, trying to keep up. The fish slowed at the next small hole until I caught up, put more pressure on him, and he jumped again. This one, a chrome bullet of 12 pounds, leaped again before ripping off on a short run.

I caught up and sensed the fight was over. I was beat as it tried to tug the line under a bush, and I pulled it back and it rolled over in submission. I eased the rod back, and used my pliers to twist the hook free.

It was done. Two angers had caught 100 steelheads in one day. It was so cold, and I was shaking so hard, that it was all I could do to untie the small keeper fish and walk to the car. I opened the trunk, laid the fish on my raincoat, put my fly rod away and looked up to see the local conservation officer pull up.

"How's fishing?" he asked as he looked into my trunk. "Can I see your license? Cold, huh?"

I nodded, too beat to talk. I fumbled out my license, showed it, and he nodded. "Cold," he said, "it looks like the fishing wasn't very good."
"No," I said, the cold and weariness showing, "it wasn' good..."

He was walking back to his car and didn' hear the rest of the sentence because it was lost on the keening wind "...it was absolutely wonderful. It was the best steelheading day of my life."

STEELHEAD INFO SHEET

What: Steelhead fishing.

Where: The Platte River near Honor, Michigan. This stream flows into Lake Michigan's Platte Bay north of Frankfort.

When: The best spring steelhead normally occurs in late March of early April and continues for two or three weeks in the river downstream from Platte Lake. Anglers can find some fish in the upper river (it opens April 1) into early May. The best fall action is in October and November, and it peaks with the Nov. 15 firearm deer season opener.

Equipment: Anglers must match equipment to the area being fished. Some spots are wide open to allow for traditional fly-fishing with a floating fly line or a sinking-tip line. Other areas are so tight that flies may be used but splitshot is needed to take them to bottom. Fly rods and reels with fly lines must have at least 100 yards of 20-pound-test braided Dacron backing.

Approach: Polarized sunglasses are needed to cut surface glare to spot fish in holes or on spawning redds. Whenever possible, walk the banks to locate fish. Once fish are found, the trick is to get close enough to cast a fly with accuracy. Start downstream from the fish and move up one slow step at a time. Watch, and if they begin darting back and forth it means they are spooked. Stop, and if necessary, stand motionless for 10 minutes until they relax before moving closer. Move too fast and all fish will leave.

Flies: No. 4 or 6 unweighted or weighted flies are used. Two fly types exist. They are attractor or imitator patterns. Attractor flies are tied in bright colors like orange or yellow while imitator flies look like dark Hexagenia limbata mayfly nymphs. Some of my Great Lakes Steelhead Flies limited edition hardcover books are still available, in an edition of 900 numbered and signed copies and in mint condition, are still available from me at:

Scoop's Fishing & Hunting Books
PO Box 192
Grawn, MI 49637

Personal or business checks will be accepted, and a book will be sent once the check clears. The cost for a Mint copy is $60, postpaid
This book is the first ever published about Great Lakes steelhead fly patterns. The book, published in 1979, is long out of print, and difficult to locate.

Casting: Pick out one fish. The best choice when fish are on spawning redds is to fish only for male steelhead. Why? If the angler hooks a female, and it is landed or lost, the attraction for males is gone. Fish only for bucks, and quick repetitious casting to the same spot is needed to tease spring fish into striking. Don' expect hard strikes: spring steelheads pick up the fly and drop it.

Often, all the angler sees (in clear water) is a head movement as the fish picks up the fly and drops it. A fly line twitch indicates a strike, and some anglers use a brightly colored strike indicator to alert them to a take. Very few spring steelhead strikes on flies will be felt.

Catch and release: I've eaten some spring steelies and find them strong. One exception is with a two- to four-pound male. They can be tasty, but most of my fish are released gently without taking them from the water. These tips from a longtime fishing guide can help dispel rumors of the steelhead mystique. They will hit but an angler must fish hard, keep the fly near bottom, and recognize the strike when it comes.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

When Steelhead go wild, Part I

Sleet as hard as No. 4 buckshot pelted us as we waded into the lower Platte River.

It was late March, and winter wouldn't die. It was 15 above, the water was 33 degrees, and the wind-driven sleet was as subtle as a body slam.
We chose a hole that was good when I was a fulltime steelhead guide years ago. The water curled to the far bank, bounced off a log-jam, and punched through the tail-out. A hooked fish would be downstream in a heartbeat.

We eased in, studied it, and it hit me: what I thought was bottom was moving around, constantly shifting positions. The slow submerged movement rocked me to my numbed toes.

"Whoa," I muttered softly. "Paul, we just found steelheading's Mother Lode."

"Say what?" he asked. "It's too cold to stand here and tell fish stories."

"No, look!. Watch the water. This hole is wall-to-wall with steelhead."

Paul Kerby of Mancelona needed little persuasion to fish. He knotted a Platte River Special to his six-pound tippet, shook out some fly line and cast above the huge pod of fish. The fly drifted down along bottom, and a lively six-pounder took the fly and Kerby buried the hook.

The fish bounced into the air like a kid on a trampoline, and began a long run downstream. Paul, a veteran of many such battles, stayed close so he could steer it away from log-jams or other obstacles.

"Later," he said, running through thigh-deep water after the wild fish that was bolting downstream.  Orange was hot because they were silver fish from Lake Michigan. An orange fly would imitate free-drifting salmon or steelhead eggs.

A Dave's Special, another orange-colored fly that my brother George invented years before, was tied on (see sidebar). The fish were still milling around. The hole met their needs; it was six feet deep, 600 yards above the mouth and hooked fish would run down toward Platte Bay.

The line was lengthened, and shot forward so the fly landed six feet above the fish. The line was mended once to allow the fly to sink. It twitched and I set the hook. Suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as cold as before.

We did a lively dance downstream. The trick was to stop it before it got into the fast chute of current near the boat launch. The fish, a bright buck, its cheeks and gill covers colored like orange pineapple ice cream, was a fat 10-pounder. Fortunately, it tired rapidly and was quickly released.

"Get him?," Kerby asked as he followed another fish downstream.

"Yeah, a 10-pound male. Unhooked him and let him go. You?"

"Turned him loose. It's too cold to keep fish. The only way to get warm is to follow them and wade back up. Doesn't warm the toes, though."
My next turn was like before. A cast with an orange fly, a sideways line switch, a hook-set and another jog behind a strong mint-silver steelhead.

We landed fish on a nonstop basis until 11 a.m. We quit, went to a local restaurant for hot coffee and chow. Kerby was in a pensive mood.
"How many fish did you land this morning?" he asked. "I hooked 26 and lost four so I landed 22 steelhead to 12 pounds. You?"

My score was just a tad higher with just two lost fish. My biggest, a broad shouldered buck with a kype like an arthritic little finger stuck on the end of its lower jaw, was 31 inches long and weighed 14 pounds.

"Hooked 27 fish and landed 25," I said. "One that got away weighed 15 pounds. I stayed clos to ite, but it still took me into the brush and broke off."

We traded stories and decided to try the Betsie River. We fished a mile of river below the old Homestead Dam and saw only two fish. We worked them hard but they soon disappeared into a deep log-filled hole.

We headed for the Platte River again, looked at each other, and he said: "You know, we'll never have another day like this. We've landed 47 fish so far. Think our friends are home and will want to come out and play?"

Did I? The car, like a horse heading for the barn and a ration of oats, took us back to our hotspot. We didn't see anyone earlier and no cars or anglers were around.

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in.

"Somebody has to do it," he said, wading in. "Might just as well be us."

TO BE CONTINUED....

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

TresAmigos: Fly-FishingGuides

Those anglers who began steelhead fishing in the last several years missed some of the finest river fishing ever seen back in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Good numbers of steelhead were being planted all around the state, and the Betsie and Platte rivers offered great sport that was certainly was as good as it could ever be.
There was some natural steelhead reproduction 40 years ago, and the DNR was planting fish as well. The number of anglers who knew how to catch steelhead were few, and the fish numbers were very high.
My guiding career began in 1967, and brother George joined me in guiding fly fishermen to salmon, steelhead and broad-shouldered brown trout. John McKenzie became the third member of Tres Amigos, and we cut a wide swath through runs of spring and fall-spawning salmonids.

Left-right: George Richey, John McKenzie and Dave Richey -- the Tres Amigos -- years later.

Snagging was rampant  in those days, but not for us. We fished with No. 4, 6 and 8 single-hook flies, and it may sound like bragging but it's not: we were good anglers and guides, and there was no need to snag fish. We fair-hooked fish on a regular basis. The sheer numbers of fish meant if we spooked fish in one spot, a short hike upstream or down would show us other willing fish. Spook one, and it was easy to find others in different locations.

The steelhead runs were huge in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and I can remember days on the Little Manistee River when we could hook 30 steelhead in a day. Not all fish were landed, but George and John tied the flies we used while I handled the guide bookings for all three of us.
We were a busy bunch, and were on the river every day. We knew where the salmon, steelhead or browns would be found from day to day, and we had little competition. We came and went, and sometimes Tres Amigos were all on the same stream, and at times we would be spread out across three different rivers. We'd compare notes at night, and decide who would fish where the next day.
John, 13 years younger than George and I, was a good-looking guy. I often paired him with husband-and-wife teams or father-and-daughters, and his great talent -- besides catching fish -- was being able to teach people how to fish. He was patient, and clients easily learned from him.
George and I were older, and by nature, seemed to attract the older anglers or the chief person who brought a crew up to fish with us. We treated everyone the same; we'd fish from sun-up to sun-down if clients wanted to spend that much time on the river, and we cleaned and froze fish at night and would be up early the next day.
Guiding fishermen was a way of life for Tres Amigos, and we were very good at what we did. We could spot fish, coax anglers into putting the fly in exactly the right spot so it would be scratching gravel when it passed the fish. They would hit, and we'd have a big fishy battle on our hands.

John McKenzie unlooks spring steelhead for client.

One thing captivated the three of us: putting people into big fish for the first time. The smiles that crossed their face when they fought a 15-pound steelhead for the first time; got hooked into a 30-pound chinook salmon; or was trying to land a big hook-jawed male brown trout weighing 12 to 18 pounds. It's been many years since those faces broke out into a smile, but we vividly remember most of them.
There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for each other. John was known to tie flies by hand on the river bank if we ran out. George was always there to coax anxious anglers into following a big fish downstream, and I was the guy that made it all work with the precision of a fine Swiss watch. All of us had a job to do, and we greeted each peach-colored dawn with a smile on our face and a jump in our step.
For 10 years we were Tres Amigos -- three friends -- who made a living in the best possible way -- being outdoors, on the river, and with a client holding tight to a big fish jumping in the river.
We often went without eating, found ourselves upside down in the river current trying to net a client's fish for them, and we looked out for each other. We also paid attention to our clients, catered to their every wish that was ethical and legal, and we coaxed more out of our client's skill levels than they knew they possessed.

George Richey nets a 25-pound chinook salmon in fast water.

We put people into fall-spawning rainbows that had tiny tails, fat waists, and a 23-inch fish would weigh 13 pounds. The browns, especially the big males, were a golden-bronze with big spots; the steelhead were mint-silver and high jumping; the chinook salmon were avid tackle busters, and some mighty battles would cover a half-mile of river. The coho salmon were seldom finicky about a fly: put it to them at their level, and they would hit.
It was a magical 10 years, and now brother George is gone. John McKenzie still avidly fishes, and he and I occasionally take trips down memory lane. We were there for the finest salmon and trout fishing this state has ever seen, and we pride ourselves on being the first river fly-fishing guides during those halcyon days.
And that, my friends, was pretty heady stuff years ago and it's something we'll never forget.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors