Lord, grant us some cooler weather

Kim caught a Flathead catfish and Kay netting the fish
photo courtesy Dave Richey Outdoors ©2012

The idea of going fishing today was just an idea. It quickly faded as the temperature crawled steadily upward from 85 degrees to top out in the mid-90s.

The heat index in Traverse City was 105 degrees, and I had a doctor's appointment. There we were -- Kay and I -- in a car when the air conditioning decided it wasn't going to push out any more cool air. At best, it just kept the warm air circulating around.

Kay and I were in thick stop-and-go for a minor accident meant less circulating air, and the 15-minute ride to the sawbones took a half hour. I quit thinking about fishing in 100-degree temperatures.

Me and high temperature levels have never gotten along well

It hurt my head to think about being outside, on the water, fighting the heat, the broiling sun, the reflected sunshine off the water, and gave it up as a lost cause. Memories of countless days like that came to mind, and most of them were in the late 1960s and through the 1970s when, as a free-lance outdoor writer, it was write and sell stories or starve. There was no choice one summer. We had to tough it out.

That summer, Kay, my daughter Kim and I traveled all summer hoping to catch fish. We were all over Canada, northern Michigan and Wisconsin, and throughout the mid-south. Everywhere we went that summer the temperatures were in the 90s or higher, and fishing was horrible.

We spent a great deal of time on the water from before dawn until 9 a.m., and from 7 p.m. until dark, and it was still sweltering. I remember a northern pike trip to Quebec's northern area, set up shop behind one of their new hydroelectric dams and fished the flooded timber. We barely caught enough fish to eat, and for those of you who read the outdoor magazines, no one is interested in hammer-handle pike stories.

We fished for jumbo walleyes in some of the TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority) lakes in Tennessee where 10-pound walleyes were reasonably common. We never saw one, nor did we catch a walleye. The unbearable heat took the fish deep, slowed their metabolism, and it was another busted trip.

There was a big-bass bite going on in a Georgia lake for a bit in the spring, but by the time we got there, no bucket-mouth bass had been caught in two weeks. The weather hovered near 100 degrees, and then at mid-day, it warmed up.

I was as brown as mahogany, and we dipped our hats and shirts in the water and put them on again. Thirty minutes later we were dipping them again. We'd start the day with two 10-pound blocks of ice in our cooler to keep beverages cold.

The old-fashioned cooler gave up its ghost in short order

Forget it. We had melted water within three hours. Coleman had yet to invent their famous cooler that keeps things cold for nearly a week at a time, regardless of the outside temperature.

We went to North Dakota to fish their reservoirs, and did catch a few early-morning sauger and walleyes, but the fish were small. The bigger photo fish were conspicuous by their absence. Another story idea shot down.

We came home, fished for Lake Michigan salmon, and early morning and last-light seemed to be the only productive times. We did manage enough big kings for a feature story, but all of the other feature stories for Outdoor Life, Field & Stream and Sports Afield were a complete bust.

Strange thing, this free-lance outdoor writing business. Get the story and great photos, and everyone wants to buy stuff. If you can't catch cold in the heat, and the photos are of small fish, no one is interested. It turned out to be absolutely the worst summer of my writing career. It was a major skunk job for that summer. This year is much the same.

Fishing skunks are never fun but broiling heat makes them worse

Were there some hot tips? Everything was hot, but the tips were only lukewarm. Fish early, fish late, fish when the sky was overcast, put in the time, sweat a lot, and go home empty-handed. Get up early the next morning and try it again.

Fishing, normally a contemplative sport, became very boring that summer. The scarcity of willing biters, and constant battering of a hot sun on our bodies, slowly took its toll.

We finally cancelled some of our summer trips, and doubled-up on the fall trips in hopes of recovering some lost income. It worked, up to a point, but one thing about a broiling hot sun, you can never make up everything you've lost.

We well remember that summer when we boiled in our own juices. I mean, really, how could we ever forget such a pitiful summer? Such trips, hopefully, are a once-in-a-lifetime affair. But, if things don’t change soon, this could be another scorcher, and as I grow older, my appetite for heat vanishes.

I wouldn’t mind a foot of snow about now.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Beating up on the salmon

Hundreds of coho salmon were holding in the clear current of the Platte River near Honor, Mich., and as guide Mark Rinckey and I looked around, we never saw another fishermen.

Anglers were conspicuous by their  absence. He handed me a jar of spawnbags, and take my choice. The jar contained pink spawnbags and yellow ones.

"Take your pick," he said. "Yesterday's guide trip produced lots of salmon on the yellow bags. Pick your favorite."

Pink or yellow-mesh spawnbags work best.

So my choice was pink, and I hooked a two-pound jack coho (a precocious two-year-old fish) on the first cast. The fish fought the limber rod and four-pound line before coming to the net.

"These silvery youngsters are really good to eat," he said, unhooking the fish and placing it on the string. "We're catching a mixed bag of Chinook salmon, cohos and the occasional steelhead. The best of the steelhead fishing will begin in about 10-14 days as the salmon run ends.

"For now, it's mostly salmon. Once in a while we catch some adult 9-10-pound cohos, and they are pretty wild.

We were using lightweight 10-foot rods, the four-pound mono and a No. 8 hook with spawnbags. Two or three small splitshot are crimped to the line about 18-24 inches above the baited hook.

I baited up again, and sticking with what worked before, threaded a pink spawnbag on the line. It took several casts before an adult coho picked up the bait rolling along bottom, and as a tap was felt on the line, the hook was set.

An adult male ripped off on a 20 yard run, jumped once, turned and ran back downstream, switched directions again, and headed back upsteam. He wallowed on the surface, and unexpectedly the hook pulled free.

Hard hits and short runs are the rule right now.

"I haven't had a strike on yellow," he said, "pink seems to be the color. I'll keep trying it because I know it works."

I was into another jack coho, and this guy was two pounds of high-stepping dynamite and fought like a fish three times his size. One thing is true about river guide Mark Rinckey of Honor: it's possible to get ahead of him, but look out when he  works things out.

We never compete against each other when we fish on a busman's holiday -- a day when he doesn't have a trip -- but the man is a magnet for fish. He promptly hooked a big adult male coho, fought it hard for 10 minutes, and then it burrowed into a beaver house along the bank, crocheted the line through a maze of small alder sticks and broke off.

"I lost a coho and Chinook salmon to the beaver house yesterday, and if a big fish wants to go there, it's hard to stop them on four-pound line. Many of the adult fish are still silvery from Lake Michigan. The trick, if possible, is keep the fish away from debris in the water."

He then hooked another jack, fought it to a standstill, netted it, and added it to the stringer. I then hooked another good fish, and lost it after a five-minute struggle as it rolled in the line and broke free.

Seven fish for four hours, and several lost fish, is common.

Time passed as we went through one dry spell after getting hits and failing to hook up. The salmon were cooperating, but were hitting light. The soft takers were hard to hook well.

The sun was well up in the sky, shining bright and full on the water, and the wind died for a spell. Action slowed until the wind picked up slightly, riffled the water, and the salmon began hitting again.

We fished hard for about four hours, and landed seven salmon including one of about eight pounds. The jacks averaged from two to three pounds, and we danced with the fish during the morning. Eventually, as with many things in life, all good things must come to an end.

Dances with salmon can be a pleasant interlude for river fishermen before the fall steelhead runs pick up in a couple of weeks. Until them, anyone looking to book a guided salmon trip on the Betsie or Platte rivers, can call Mark Rinckey at (231) 325-6901. He also is booking steelhead trips for late-September, October and November.

Light line, nice fish and autumn color go together like bacon, eggs and toast. Some dates are still available, and anglers are advised to call soon to arrange a great fishing trip.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors