Who me, superstitious?

The author took his Black Beauty to New Zealand for this brown and it performed well.
photo courtesy Dave Richey Outdoors ©2011

We've all seen the antics of baseball, basketball, football and hockey players. Each sport has their own little personal quirks and rituals.

Call them superstitions if you will. The world is full of baseball players who refuse to step on the first-base or third-base line or some other bit of foolishness.

Some baseball pitchers won't shave the day they pitch, and I've heard and read of players who feel compelled to pull the right sock on before the left. Ben Wallace always seemed to wear his hair tight for one basketball game, and big and wide for another while playing for the Detroit Pistons. Who knows why.

Most people have quirks or superstitions in their lives.

Others use a certain color of toothbrush on game day while some won't talk to a reporter if they pitch that day. The world of major league sports is filled with such idiosyncrasies. Some folks
would call them superstitions.

We all know not to walk under a ladder ... but why? Then there is the black cat theory, and "step on a crack, break you mother's back" song sung by girls playing a sidewalk game back in the old days.

Some of these things border on being compulsive, obsessive or superstitious while others border on doing something based on something that happened in the past.

Years ago, when I fished Cheboygan County's Sturgeon River, there were no beliefs based on superstition. However, if the fish were in the river, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, it didn't matter where I was at. I was on the move.

I'd make a mad dash for the car, and head for one spot. This certain hole didn't look like much to me or anyone else, and most people ignored and never fished it, but by chance or luck I learned that if a steelhead were in that hole just before the rain fell, I could catch it.

Why, I have no clue. But it paid off for me so many times, that it became a ritual. If I could smell rain, I headed for that hole, and sometimes would get only one cast before the rain began to fall. That one cast would hook a steelhead nine out of 10 times.

For many years, my trademark was a red Jones-style hat that I wore. It was with me on more adventures than I can remember, and whenever I was wearing it, we'd catch fish. I decided after Kay and I were married that it looked better on her than me, and she began wearing it and my luck continued to hold even though I would switch hats. As long as one of us wore the hat, the fish bit and the game moved.

Is this coincidence? Is it luck? Or is it a figment of my imagination? Who knows or cares, because I've never tried to root out the reasons why such things work or don't work. If wearing that hat led to better catches and more photos for a full-time free-lance outdoor writer, why not wear it. Why step on the third-base line if you don't have to?

Years ago I had some skin-tight Gortex rainwear. I began wearing it in Wyoming's Big Horn Mountains while hunting mountain lion. There was a great deal of walking in deep snow, and a lot of sweating, and I wanted something that would keep me warm and dry without wearing long underwear, jeans and other clothing. It worked perfectly, and my lion was shot with a bow at six paces as it was bayed on the ground.

That rainwear was like a lucky rabbits foot for several years until I took it to the Northwest Territories' Little Martin Lake for a Central-Canada Barren Ground caribou hunt. I wore it on that hunt, killed a caribou bull that at thee time was No. 9 in the Boone & Crockett record books. My guide wanted the rainwear, I wouldn't give it to him but gave him a hefty tip. He happily took the money, and helped himself to the rainwear when I wasn't looking, and then I began shopping around for something else that would work.

Who? Me being superstitious. No more than most people.

Do I consider myself superstitious? Nope, but some good things happen when certain types of equipment are used. I own a pre-1964 Winchester Model 70 in .264 Winchester Magnum. I used to handload my own ammo for that rifle, and it can shoot straighter than I can hold it. I've killed plenty of game out to over 400 yards with that rifle, and although my handloads are now made to perfection by a friend, that rifle has been with me on many fine hunts.

During my 10 years of guiding fishermen, a Shakespeare Black Beauty fiberglass fly rod was the main tool of my trade. It was a sweet rod, tough as nails, and over 10,000 (that number is correct) big browns, salmon and steelhead were landed with that rod. Several years after I quit guiding, I took an old client fishing, and hooked a big Chinook salmon.

I heard a soft ominous creak in the rod as I led the big fish to shore, and once the king was unhooked and released, I headed for the car. My buddy asked where I was going, and I told him I had just retired my favorite fly rod. That rod now hangs in a special place of honor, where it is rightfully recognized as one of the most fish-catchin'est fly rods in history.

Perhaps there may be a little truth in my beliefs.

It's a funny thing though. I don't catch as many fish now as I did when I used that old fly rod, but I blame that not on the rod, or bad fortune, but on my poor vision. We all need a good excuse at times, and this is the best I can come up with on short notice.

There’s a kind of hush ...

The Betsie River flowed smoothly downstream toward Lake Michigan, and acted as if it was in no big rush to get there. My wader-clad legs had carried me into thigh-deep water, and the comparative coolness of the water felt refreshing.

There was a trout rising near a sweeper but I had to move six inches deeper in hopes of putting the fly just upstream from the current seam the fish was feeding in. One step, and another, and my boots put me into the sweet spot.

Some fly line was pulled through the guides and the river murmured around me. The sounds of river music began washing away the dog-day blues.

A silent and stealthy approach, and a well-placed presentation, was needed.

A No. 12 Adams, my go-to fly when I don't know what else to try, was knotted to my tippet after several frustrating minutes of trying to  push a 4X tippet through the eye of the hook. Tying the leader to the fly line is easy and could be done in the dark but tying tippets to flies is a major challenge these days.

The fish rose every few minutes, but he wasn't willing to take my offering. Meanwhile, in preparation to cover that fish, it was time to soak up the sounds of silence.

The river, in this location, made little noise. No audible gurgles, no hissing of water around the tip of a sweeper, and no rushing water sounds. There was a kind of hush all over the river as if even the birds and insects felt it was a time not to be very active, and they got no argument from me.

Hot summer days wear me out. High temperatures and high humidity combine to sap me of any excess energy. The same results occur with strong windy showers like we had today.

Casting in the wind wasn’t easy but most of the gusts were missing me.

My thought was to reach the river,  pull on my warm-weather waders, step into the knee-deep water, hitch up my waders like an old lady pulling on her girdle, and then put together my rod.

It was shady here, and it was a blessing of sorts. I stood, listening to the music flowing through my head, studied the stream flow, listened to the water dripping off the pines, and spotted a rising fish. A few steps closer and then I stopped.

A few more steps, and I stopped again to tie on the fly, and then I was within easy and accurate casting distance. I stood, silence wrapped around me like an invisible cloak, and made one false cast and the leader rolled over and the fly landed four feet above the riseforms I'd seen earlier.

The line was mended once, and the fly drifted past his feeding spot. Another false cast to shake a bit of water off the hackles and tail, and another cast was made to the same spot without a rumble.

Five casts were made, and it was unlikely that any wading noise had spooked the fish. A sixth cast was made, and again the fly was centered in the seam of current where he fed.

Too big, I  thought, thinking perhaps a smaller fly was in order. One size smaller to start, I thought, and a No. 14 was tied to the tippet after a 10-minute battle with a hand-held magnifying glass, my reading glasses and a lot of luck.

All the other paraphernalia was stowed in my fly vest, and then a 10-minute wait for my eye to regain its proper perspective for the scene in front of me,  and then a cast put the fly in the right spot. It was difficult for me to see the Adams, and it sat astride the surface in a perky sort of way.

Switching to a slightly smaller size proved to be the right move.

Nothing happened, a roll cast, once to dry the fly, and it was laid back in the same spot. The line was mended, and then the fish hit. Mind you, it wasn't a smashing strike but more of a sip of the fly off the surface. A soft salute with the rod tip caused the fly to bite home, and then came that old familiar  bend in the rod that felt the soft touch of an old friend.

The river brown wasn't big but he had been out-thought, and had responded to a quiet approach, a change in fly size when it became apparent the larger fly wouldn't work, and besides, in the  deep shade of the cedars and pines where I stood, the rain seemed a long ways away.

I tussled with him going at it mightily when my rod pressure was calm, patient and with just enough pressure to make him do all of the work. He came to me reluctantly, and it was a male of about 14 inches. Not a lunker but good enough for the present day.

I didn't want to work too hard with a really big fish. Calm, easy, and no sense in working too hard after taking a tumble in my back yard. Out came my hemostats, and they gripped and twisted the fly loose.

He swam off, free again, and setting him free made me feel  good. I stood for a few moments in the cool of the shade before wading ashore. One fish was enough to keep my hand in, and it satisfied any need I had to fish for trout on a soggy, rainy, windy day.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Rain can produce good fishing

Many people who live around Traverse City know that when it rains hard, and the water level in the Little Betsie River rises, it washes worms into Green Lake.

The author (left above) plays a jumping brown trout,.

There have been times in the spring when the worms washed out of the banks of the swamp, and when they are swept under the little bridge on Diamond Park Road in Interlochen, there would be basketball-sized wads of worms drifting down to the waiting fish.

I'd wade down the tiny creek, reach down into the water for my bait, and hook the worm lightly through the nose. I'd cast it out on 4-pound line without weight, and as it washed over the steep dropoff into Green Lake's deep water, a brown trout would nail the worm.

I seemed to have had that secret spot to myself until more people moved into the Interlochen Arts Academy, and soon I'd have others fishing there beside we. We treated each other with respect, and if the browns were biting, we'd catch a bunch of fish.

I can write about that little spot now because browns are no longer being planted in Green Lake although some lake trout have been. I suspect it would still pay off with other game fish now, and a few years ago I caught a 5 1/2-pound smallmouth bass there along with several others of lesser size.

The West Branch of the Sturgeon River was somewhat similar in its downstream reaches, and it was a veritable gold mine for trout. I could catch brookies, browns and rainbows there during a soft rain. If it rained too hard, the shallow stream would be pelted hard and most of the trout headed back under the river banks to wait out the storm.

This hotspot was lost to homes & road improvement.

The upper part of the West Branch of the Sturgeon River, several miles south and west of Wolverine, was a hotspot for brookies. One would fish between their feet in the little jump-across creek. The small brook trout would hold among the root wads, and the water was gin clear and very cold. A rain upstream seemed to put the fish on the prod, and it produced some spectacular fishing.

That area is now all built up with homes and no trespassing signs, and although it may still hold a few brook trout, it's not worth the hassle of trying to stay in the creek and not trespass on someone's land.

There have been countless other days when a good rain put the trout on the feed. I remember one evening right at dark when I waded slowly down the upper Rifle River near Selkirk, and was fishing a four-inch Rapala on a tight line as the stream grew dark and closed in around me.

The Rapala was flipped up tight to the far bank and rain drops trickled down my back, and I closed my open-face spinning reel. I took two or three turns on the reel handle, and a brown trout of great length and girth inhaled the lure and the hooks were buried.

This was a fish around which legends are made and fishing dreams are made. It was well over 10-pounds, and even though I was using 8-pound line, it didn't seem strong enough. That fish rolled on the surface, and headed downstream.
Losing a big brown trout.
I'd been down through this stretch many times and knew where to wade. I stayed close to the fish, jacked him around whenever it seemed possible to gain some leverage, and we were still at it when we passed under a bridge in the darkness. Fortunately, I was able to steer him away from the bridge pilings.

We made it another 200 yards downstream, and by now the after-dark fight had covered nearly a half-mile of river, and the stream was barely lit by a quarter-moon. The wheels fell off this brown trout parade when he hung the line on a wood stob protruding just out of the water.

I eased out slowly. and had just reached the line on the wood, when the big fish made a thunderous splash near a shoreline brush pile. I knew he had woven my line around the drowned branches, and the line popped with a crack like a .22 rifle going off.

Me and rain have always been buddies on the trout streams. I knew that when the rain fell, worms and other critters would wash into the river, and it turns the stream into a smorgasbord of food for large fish. When it begins raining about dark, forget about watching sleep-robbers on television.

Grab a rod, some bait or lures, and head for the closest river. You might be surprised at what you might catch.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Remembering George ...

Thinking of George is always a pleasure. We shared so much as twins, and our mutual love of fishing and my thoughts of him, keeps his memory alive and fresh in my mind. Some favorite memories include:

*A day many years ago when we were fishing the Sturgeon River. I hooked a nice steelhead, and followed the fish downstream to the upstream lip of a deep hole. I tip-toed out as far as I could, and battled that fish to a standstill.

There I went, downstream in the heavy current, as George raced ahead to catch me.

Suddenly I could feel the sand washing out around my wader-clad feet, and knew I was going for a swim. I tried to back up but the current was too strong, and there I went, trying to swim with my rod hand. I hollered at George as I washed through the hole, telling him to grab me at the next shallow riffle.

He ran ahead while I foundered, and I hit the shallow gravel upside-down, and he grabbed my wader straps and hauled me upright. I was thoroughly soaked on a very cold day, and five minutes later I landed the fish and headed for the car for dry clothes and a warm towel. If any one cares, the steelhead weighed 5 1/2 pounds.

*Another time he was wading a soft place on the Platte River. I'd warned against it because of the soft marl bottom, but he got out and into the current, and then both feet got stuck. He was in waist-deep water, and if he fell over, he'd drown because the current would hold him under.

I dropped my rod, grabbed a long and limber tag alder limb, and waded out toward him. He wasn't panicking, but knew the consequences if he lost his footing. I was right on the edge of firm footing and soft, and still 10 feet from him. My branch was about nine feet long. I knew I could stretch out two more feet, and his arms would reach two feet without having to move his body, but I wanted him to get a firm grip.

One good turn deserves another as I pulled George from boot-sucking mud.

"All I can do is pull," I told him. "No sense in both of us being stuck in midstream. Grab hold tight, and I'll push slightly, and hopefully it will give you enough leverage so you can keep your balance while pulling one foot clear of the muck. Take off your wader belt and shoulder straps, because if you lose your balance I'll try to pull you out of your waders."

He got a death grip on the limb, as did I, and I pushed slightly to help him maintain his balance. He worked feverishly on the foot closest to me, and got it free and took a two-foot step. That foot went a foot down in the muck but landed on a submerged limb. He worked on freeing the other foot, and even though it took a half-hour, we got him up onto firm footing and to safety.

*One night we were fishing Manistee Lake at Manistee in August for big walleyes. Back then some big freighters would move up the lake, and throw a huge wake. I hooked a big walleye, and got it close to the boat, and this was bigger than any of the 12 and 13-pounders we had landed.

"He's huge," George said in an understatement. "I'll put the flashlight in my mouth, and try to net him." He did, and just as the net went under the fish, the wake from a passing freighter hit us. The lure hooks tangled in the net, and the fish lay delicately balanced across the net.

We missed a huge walleye of 15-16 pounds on Manistee Lake.

He did the only thing he could, and tried to keep the walleye balanced on the net frame. He got the net and fish over the gunwale before the walleye flipped once, tore the hooks free, bounced once off the gunwale, and I grabbed for the fish. It slid through my hands like a greased pig, and got away. We estimated his weight at 15-16 pounds.

*George loved fly fishing and tying flies, and I remember one of the last brown trout he caught was with the late  Frank Love of Frederic. They were fishing the upper Manistee River near the 612 bridge from Frank's riverboat, and George hooked the fish just after dark.

It jumped and splashed, and George was making the woods ring with his whoops and hollers. He fought that fish well, giving line when needed and taking line when he could, and several minutes later George landed a 22-inch brown.

He admired it briefly, leaned over the edge of the longboat, held the noble brown trout into the current until it pulled away and swam back to his home under a log jam.

That was George Richey. He loved life, loved trout fishing, detested crowds of people, and thought kindly of many people. He loved trout and trout fishing enough to release the larger fish, and many people should emulate his actions. He fished for fun, not for food, and that makes me miss him even more.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Playing A Hunch

Fishing guides are smart. If they stumble in the brains department, they often are out of business within a year.

Guides know when to make decisions. and then proceed with an action plan. That plan may not always produce the desired results, but I'd rather have a guide who is willing to make a sound decision based on his experience than fence-straddle all day while nothing happens.

Arnie Minka of Grawn and I had booked a steelhead trip with Mark Rinckey of Honor (231-325-6901) a few years ago. Fishing had been extremely slow, but it's been too nice of a day to reschedule a trip. We were committed to it even though we knew steelhead fishing had been unremarkably dismal for two weeks.

"We are going to try something new," Rinckey told us when we met in Honor at 5:30 a.m. "The water level flowing over the rivermouth where the Betsie River flows into Betsie Bay has been so shallow that few steelhead are moving upstream. We're going after them in Betsie Bay."

Rinckey has been guiding river salmon and steelhead fishermen since 1977 when I first started fishing with him. He's come up with some strange ideas in the past, but they often pay off. Minka and I would go along with this venture with great anticipation.

A hunch paid off with this steelhead for Arnie Minka (left) and Rinckey.

We got to a spot that borders the Elberta side of Betsie Bay, walked to the water, and stuck short sandspikes at the water's edge to hold the rods. Rinckey began rigging lines with a quarter-ounce pyramid sinker, a four-foot leader of four-pound test, and a No. 8 hook. Spawnbags would be used for bait.

The first bait hit the water, and Rinckey was rigging the second rod, when a steelhead rattled the rod. I grabbed it, set the hook, and held on as a fish powered off on a 20-yard run. Five minutes later an 8-pound steelhead was skidded up to shore.

Rods No. 1 and 2 was baited, and Rinckey was working on Rod No. 3, when the second rod dipped toward the surface, and Minka grabbed it and held on as another fish powered off on a short but determined run. That fish was soon landed, the line was baited again, and we soon had five lines in the water before the sun rose above an eastern hill.

Guides often have hunches and they often produce fast action.

"This is the first time I've fished this spot," Rinckey told us during a lull in the action. "It made sense to me because the fish often follow the dropoff as they move upstream, but I think these fish are stranded here because of the extremely low water just below the M-22 bridge. Very few fish are making it upstream through that skinny water.

Another strike, and this was a 10-pound male for Arnie. I hooked an 8-pound silver female, fought her and she was soon released. The strikes weren't coming too fast, but every 10 to 15 minutes, we'd have a bump or a hook-up and it kept our attention level high.

Boats were trolling the harbor but the action was slow for them. For us, we seemed to be in the right place at the right time. And frankly, folks, that is why people hire fishing guides to show us how and where to fish.

The fishing often slows about 8 a.m., but not today. A bright, sunny day, and the only thing that changed was the fish went slightly deeper. We'd make longer casts, allow the sinker and line to sink to bottom, tighten up the line, stick the rod in a sandspike, adjust the drag and wait for a nodding rod tip to signal another biting fish.

Rinckey with a nice spring fish.

Other steelhead were caught, and then Arnie landed a seven-pound brown trout. The fish fought hard, stayed deep, and was a lovely specimen. It was quickly unhooked, held aloft for a photograph, and quickly released.

"Hunches do pay off," Rinckey said. "I've had a few that didn't work, but often a hunch is based on fishing knowledge, an analysis of existing river conditions, and a small portion of good luck. I thought about this spot last night when I was trying to fall asleep, and it proved to be a genuine hotspot."

He said that tomorrow's fishing at the same location may not produce a fish. If so, then a good guide refers his clients to Plan B.

Rinckey doesn't need a Plan B very often. He knows spring steelhead, and is adept at helping clients catch them. A 10-fish catch and the release of six fish over a half-day of fishing should be good enough for anyone. It was certainly good enough for us.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors