Savor the memories of those now gone

George Richey with a nice Texas whitetail and a ghostly image
photo courtesy Dave Richey Outdoors ©2012

A number of people who have been near and dear to me may have taken life for granted at one time or another. Most of them, in the final days of their life, realized their mistake.

In other situations, some of us don't take things for granted, but life can still step up and blind-side us.

None of us are infallible, and none of us are invincible, no matter how strongly we believe it. Life can begin and end on a moment's notice.

The death of a person can come suddenly; without notice

My life has been blessed in so many ways, and I took my vision for granted until I began losing it. Now, every day is a precious commodity to be wisely considered and lived with a fervent passion.

The problem is that none of us know how much time we have to live. My father, who died of old age, had prostate cancer for years. It didn't kill him but 94 years of life did.

Twin brother George lived life to its fullest. He did nearly everything in life he really wanted to, and learned one Saturday that he had incurable cancer and he died the following Wednesday.

He didn't go to his Maker kicking and screaming. Hours before he passed away, he told me: "I have no regrets. I've lived a good life, and now I'm ready to go."

Life is meant to be lived to its fullest; Death is permanent

A good friend of mine died two days later in Oregon. He had made it through perhaps ten years in a wheelchair, and died after having lived a full life before a stroke kept him from walking.

Brother George had seven different kinds of cancer, and his pain levels were mild compared to that of others. Why does this happen? Why do so many people die of this disease in agonizing misery while others have an occasional ache or twinge of pain?

My aunt, who died years ago at the age of 84, was a very religious woman. She never smoked or drank, but battled cancer for many years. She attended church two or three times a week, and still the disease finally wore her down.

My first wife died at the age of 40 from cancer. She didn't visit the doctor as often as she should have, but no one deserves such a painful and undignified death.

Three good friends died early. Two had families, but died of self-inflicted gun-shot wounds. Only one was physically ill, and he had inoperable cancer and chose his own time of death.

I talked with him three days before his death

All of these people, with the exception of the two suicides, had cancer. It wreaked havoc on their bodies, and in the end, the pain and the debilitating effects of chemotherapy and radiation probably hastened their demise.

My good childhood friend Fred Houghton died quietly. He loved to fish for walleyes and yellow perch on Saginaw Bay, was married the second time about four years before his death, and kept himself in great shape.

Physical conditioning doesn't bar the way to cancer. It can come calling, as it did with him, and now my old friend is gone. I remember many fishing days from when we both went to Clio High School, and we spent many days over many years hunting ducks and geese.

He lived a good life, retired fairly early, and had everything going his way except for a cancer he didn't know about until it required surgery. He was pronounced cancer-free, as he told me several months before his death, but the disease took him from us all too soon.

I attended a birthday party for a friend who just turned 90 years old. I've thought about him and another 90-year-old friend all day, remembering their contributions to my success as a photographer and writer. One man died 30 minutes after me and my wife visited him.

I remember while duck hunting on Wigwam Bay near Standish in the late 1950s, when brother George and I were hunting from a sneak boat. My childhood buddy was hunting in the cattails, got cold and tried to climb into our boat.

It didn't work, and the boat finally sank beneath the waves as he tried to clamber aboard. I was the only one without waders (who knows why) but I went down with the ship, and got soaking wet and cold during an early November storm.

My buddy always had a much different version of that story, and we argued long and hard about the merits of his or my version. But the boat went down, and in a good-natured way, I always told him it was his fault. He blamed me, and we both had a good laugh about me getting wet.

That story, now that he is gone, was part of the glue that held us together as friends for over 60 years. As is so true with all of us, one day we will all have run our race.

Fred's race sadly ended early, and I shall cherish his memory and that of my brother and father. He was a good man, a kind and considerate friend, and cancer took him much too early.

Ted Trueblood was an outdoor writer of note and a wise man

I will miss my dear friends, family and relatives, even a man named Ted Trueblood, who was one of my childhood heroes as a kid. I found myself in Boise, Idaho one day, and on impulse, looked in the phone book. There was Trueblood's name and number, and I called him.

He was affable, but told me he could only talk for a few minutes because he had cancer, and had to take pills for the pain. We talked for about 30 minutes, and he knew who I was. We chatted about outdoor writing until he had to sign off. A few days later I read where he had died suddenly. I think of him often, and wonder why some people must die of dreaded diseases.

All of these people, both relative and friends, are now gone, and those of us who remain behind, are stuck with good and sad memories. So I enjoy them as memories are meant to be cherished, with great fondness, and leave the sadness behind where it belongs.

Savor the memories of friends now gone

George Richey unhooking a fly that he used to catch fish

Life is guaranteed to no one. Life can begin and end at a moment's notice. Make time to savore the memories of friends while you can.
photos Dave Richey ©2012

A number of people who have been near and dear to me may have taken life for granted at one time or another. Most of them, in the final days of their life, realized their mistake.

In other situations, some of us don't take things for granted, but life can still step up and blind-side us.

None of us are infallible, and none of us are invincible, no matter how strongly we believe it. Life can begin and end on a moment's notice.

The death of a friend or relative can come suddenly,without notice

My life has been blessed in many ways, and I took my vision for granted until I began losing it. Now, every day is a precious commodity to be wisely considered and lived with a fervent passion.

The problem is that none of us know how much time we have to live. My father, who died of old age, had prostate cancer for years. It didn't kill him but 94 years of life did.

Twin brother George lived life to its fullest. He did nearly everything in life he really wanted to, and learned on a Saturday that he had incurable cancer and he died the following Wednesday.

He didn't go to his Maker kicking and screaming. Hours before he passed away, he told me: "I have no regrets. I've lived a good life, and now I'm ready to go."

Life is meant to be lived to its fullest, Death is permanent

A good friend of mine died two days later in Oregon. He had made it through perhaps ten years in a wheelchair, and died after having lived a full life before a stroke kept him from walking.

Brother George had seven different kinds of cancer, and his pain levels were mild compared to that of others. Why does this happen? Why do so many people die of this disease in agonizing misery while others have an occasional ache or twinge of pain?

My aunt, who died years ago at the age of 84, was a very religious woman. She never smoked or drank, but battled cancer for many years. She attended church two or three times a week, and still the disease finally wore her down.

My first wife died at the age of 40 from cancer. She didn't visit the doctor as often as she should have, but no one deserves such a painful and undignified death.

Three good friends died early. Two had families, but died of self-inflicted gun-shot wounds. Only one was physically ill, and he had inoperable cancer and chose his own time of death.

I talked with him three days before his death

All of these people, with the exception of the two suicides, had cancer. It wreaked havoc on their bodies, and in the end, the pain and the debilitating effects of chemotherapy and radiation probably hastened their demise.

My good friend, Fred Houghton a friend since childhood, died quietly. He loved to fish for walleyes and yellow perch on Saginaw Bay, was married the second time about four years before his death, and kept himself in great shape.

Physical conditioning doesn't bar the way to cancer. It can come calling, as it did with him, and now my old friend is gone. I remember many fishing days from when we both went to Clio High School, and we spent many days over many years hunting ducks and geese.

He lived a good life, retired fairly early, and had everything going his way except for a cancer he didn't know about until it required surgery.

He was pronounced cancer-free, as he told me several months before his death, but the disease took him from us all too soon.

I attended a birthday party for a friend who just turned 90 years old. I've thought about him and another 90-year-old friend all day,

remembering their contributions to my success as a photographer and writer.

I remember while duck hunting on Wigwam Bay near Standish in the late 1950s, when brother George and I were hunting from a sneak boat. My childhood buddy was hunting in the cattails, got cold and tried to climb into our boat.

It didn't work, and the boat finally sank beneath the waves as he tried to clamber aboard. I was the only one without waders (who knows why) but I went down with the ship, and got soaking wet and cold during an early November storm.

My buddy always had a much different version of that story, and we argued long and hard about the merits of his or my version. But the boat went down, and in a good-natured way, I always told him it was his fault. He blamed me, and we both had a good laugh about me getting wet.

That story, now that he is gone, was part of the glue that held us together as friends for over 60 years. As is so true with all of us, one day we will all have run our race.

Fred's race sadly ended early, and I shall cherish his memory and that of my brother and father. He was a good man, a kind and considerate friend, and cancer took him much too early.

I will miss my dear friends, family and relatives. They are gone, and the of us who remain, are stuck with memories. Enjoy them as memories are meant to be cherished, and leave the sadness behind where it belongs.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Not the right night to shoot

Bucks often bed down in open grassland where visibility is good.

The buck minced along a fence line in no hurry to enter the field before dark last night. It stopped every 10 feet, lifted its head to look around and sniff for danger before moving slowly toward the dinner table.

The day, still warm but overcast, threatened rain. The buck, more wary than it should have been, wasn't in a rush to leave the heavy cover. It poked along, feeding along the edge of a corn field, after leaving a thick swale where it and several other deer had been bedded down.

The buck, sporting six points in a small basket rack, was only 1 1/2 years old. It was plenty old enough to know enough to stay with other deer his age and not get mixed up with larger, older bucks. However, he had taken to hanging out with some big bucks.

Looking for a good buck, not a 1 1/2 year old.

My stand was 15 feet up a towering maple. The buck was still on the same path it had used during August, September and October, and apparently saw no reason to deviate from its chosen course.

Would it follow the same trail again? Yeah, it would because he always traveled the same morning and evening routes, and it would soon pass within easy bow range of my tree stand. My stand wasn't too far from my wife's covered pit blind.

The does and other yearlings had already passed by and continued on into an open field 200 yards away. The buck, moving slowly and daintily like his feet hurt, was taking all the time in the world. He was in no rush to go anywhere.

Many things would have to come together before a bow shot could be taken, and I knew I wouldn't shoot him. The buck seemed to be buddies with some trophy bucks. Now, some of those boys were shooters.

The problem with hunting big bucks is few shooting opportunities.

Would I be ready if one of the big bucks showed up? Daily practice and well over a half-century of studying big whitetail deer at close range had chased away any possible jitters. My mind and gear was ready.

The buck moved a few steps closer. He stopped to sniff where his sister, mother and cousins had paused, and the young buck looked around as its mother had done countless times before. He wasn't running with Mom now but was in the big leagues with the big guys.

My bow, sighted in to be dead-on at 20 yards from 15 feet up a tree, was waiting. An arrow was nocked, and it was ready to use when and if the right time arrived. I was ready for one of the big bucks, not Junior.

The six-pointer hopped over a single strand of barbed wire, and paused again to study the upcoming terrain. Other deer, 300 yards away, were heading out to feed as the sun began to sink in the western sky.

It would have been an easy shot on the little guy.

And then I saw them. Three big bucks were using an adjacent trail. They were only 40 yards away from me but the thick brush would deflect any arrow sent their way, and besides I don't shoot that far.

The young buck turned again, and slowly stepped a few feet closer to my tree. Its head came back, and its nostrils flared as it snuffled the air for danger. None was detected, and satisfied, the buck began to move again, now toward the big bucks.

My tree stand was directly downwind from the buck, and it couldn't smell me. Rubber boots and a downwind position and my Scent-Lok suit kept the buck from detecting my presence.

The buck bent forward, nibbled on a few sprigs of grass, and moved again. The buck was only 20 yards away and quartering toward me. It wasn't a shot I would take even if the buck had been huge. Patience would now become a factor as I waited for the animal to turn and head for the other deer. I could only hope a big buck was lagging behind.

I'd watched that small buck walk to that exact place many times before, and knew he would turn slightly and offer a quartering-away shot at 10 yards. I didn't move, and the buck followed the same pattern he had traveled for months.

The buck slowly turned, quartering away, and my bow came up. It felt like an old friend in my left hand, and as it came up the arrow was cautiously drawn back as my eyes tracked the buck.

An easy shot but again I passed on this buck.

The bow was held back at full draw, and my sight settled low behind the buck's near-side shoulder. One more ounce of pressure on the release would send the Maxima carbon arrow through the buck's chest.

He stopped momentarily to look around, and my finger softly caressed the release trigger without applying the pressure needed to send the arrow on its deadly flight. Slowly, as the buck began walking off again, I eased up on the bow and let the buck walk away, unaware and unharmed.

No other bucks came along that trail. For whatever reason, the bigger animals had taken a different route and were far out of range.

Patterning this animal was easy. His buddies were much more difficult.

I really didn't want to shoot, and patterning this six-pointer and his friends had been relatively easy. Trying to work a bit closer in the days and weeks to come was on my agendam and hopefully one of the bigger bucks would mosey my way..

This exercise was good practice. It provided me with superb outdoor recreational experience, numerous deer sightings, and the chance for a close shot at a nice young buck.

Who knows? Perhaps next time my finger will put that extra ounce of pressure on the release trigger. And then again, I will again choose not to shoot but wait for a larger animal.

It's always this unknown question: whether to shoot or not to shoot, and it's my deep respect for the deer I hunt, that allows me the wonderful opportunity to acknowledge the magical difference between hunting and killing.

For me, on this hunt, it just wasn't the right time or right deer to shoot.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Cruising to spot gobblers

One thing about turkey gobblers always holds true. There are far fewer big longbeards running around northern Michigan than jakes.

The other day I spotted a huge longbeard in a field 15 miles from Traverse City. The bird was wandering alone although two or three hens weren't very far away.

What struck me about this bird, besides his larger than normal size, was his beard. The beard was at least 10 inches long, and appeared to be as wide as a big paint brush. It hung ponderously off his chest, and swayed from side to side as he walked.

The beard doesn't show in this photo but it's there and it's big.

I noted the time of day, drove a half-mile down the road and out of sight of the gobbler, turned around and drove past him for another look. From this angle the bird looked even larger, and the beard was dragging the ground whenever he bent over to feed.

This was a gobbler of extraordinary proportions. Such birds are difficult to keep hid because he seemed bound and determined to stand out in the open where he could be seen by every vehicle that traveled the busy road.

We drove away, and the next day we went back looking for this Monarch of the open fields. Sure enough, he was in the same field, walking the edge of a wood lot, and about 100 yards off the paved road.

The question is how long will he stay there? If he keeps showing himself, every turkey hunter west of Interlochen and north of US-31 will be trying to hunt him. The bird is on private land, and seems enthralled with the area.

It's my assumption that the big gobbler and some hens are roosting nearby. I see him about two hours after sunrise, and the birds never stray too far from this spot.

Company came from Wisconsin and spent three days here, and I didn't have any chance to go out checking on the big gobbler. I know for certain that at least two other hunters know about him, and suspect he has been seen  by many more people.

Too much traffic will spook birds.

The burning question is whether he will still be around when turkey season opens. I spotted another car parked along the road, and figured he was watching the bird.

He had binoculars to his face when I pulled up. He turned, saw me and whispered "Big bird." I nodded in agreement.

The bird walked off into the woods, and he asked if I had known the bird was there. I told him I'd been watching the gobbler for a few days.

"Are you planning to hunt him?" he asked. I told him that I might if he sticks around.

The burning question about this gobbler.

"Do you think he will still be in this area when the season opens," he asked. "I just spotted him on my way home,  and I've never seen a beard like that before."

His was a valid question. Would this bird still be in the area when the turkey season opens? It's not very likely.

"I doubt if he will still be here then," I said, being honest with the guy. "A bird that big attracts a great deal of attention, and I suspect people pressure will force him to move on.

"How far he and the hens will move is just a guess. I'd expect him to breed those hens before the season opener, and then he will be off in search of other hens. He could be several miles away when the season kicks off."

Would I hunt him? Certainly, if I could get hunting permission for that land. However, my guess is he will be gone in a week or less because other people now know where he is, and if cars continue to stop and watch him, the pressure will force him to get on his way.

And, perhaps that is a good thing. Such big birds are tempting, and poachers often figure a way to shoot such birds out of season. That is one reason why I didn't say how far west of Interlochen Corners or how many miles north.

I may go looking for him again tomorrow, but it wouldn't surprise me if he is gone already. Perhaps I'll be lucky and find him again, and then, I may never see that gobbler again.

The next time I spot him, if there is a next time, there will not be any notations in my blog. The only reason I've written about the bird is because of his size and because I know he won't hang around there long.

He will shove off, move elsewhere, and it's likely he will take over the hens of a smaller gobbler, and soon he will be following the hens. They will keep him moving, and the more nearby eyes and ears there are, the safer that bird will be.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors