Dave Richey Outdoors: spooky

Big browns like this come along often.

There are times when I've had my act together. One special night on the Sturgeon River between Indian River and Wolverine was a very good example, and it occurred after the major insect hatches had ended.

I'd waded down through a deep, slow stretch of water during daylight hours because I'd seen a big brown raise to the surface like a lazy whale broaching the surface, drifted downstream and submerged. His approximate weight at 15 yards was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

Home for this brute was an overgrown edge of brush on both sides of the river. At its deepest point, the water was seven to eight feet deep, and a big stump was wedged on bottom in mid-stream. The current picked up some speed as it split and flowed heavily around the obstacle, and on my side of the river, the water was about four inches below the top of my waders.

The snag-filled hole was the perfect spot to find a big native brown trout.

The deep water shallowed up a bit on my side but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an expressway. The water flattened out, and it was here I felt the brown would feed that night.

I wanted to cast a big bushy white mouse pattern, but the brushy banks and overhanging tree limbs made fly casting a bit hazardous after sundown. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning rig and a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to always be prepared. When fishing for big fish, after sundown, it pays to use a large fly or lure, and line heavy enough to give the angler some semblance of equality. A light tippet in such places is just asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak as well.

The August evening was dark, the moon that curious yellow it gets when atmospheric conditions are just right. The evening was warm and the river flowed with a hushed sound that could barely be heard. One step into the current told the real truth: here was water that could be dangerous to an unwary wader.

I stood silently, just upstream of the submerged stump and waited for the sound of a big fish as it began feeding. The river was just a murmur, and I was content until, with some unease, I felt eyes on me in the gathering darkness.

It's a spooky feelings one has when they feel someone looking at you.

The feeling was as subtle as a freeway crash. Someone was watching me, and they were very close. I could feel the intensity of their eyes boring into my back.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby and was watching me. My senses are fine tuned to such things, and it's something I've cultivated over many years. I had no clue whether this human presence was predatory and dangerous but after two minutes of feeling his presence, I decided to push the issue.

"What's happening?" I asked in a conversational tone, my back turned to the stranger. "Fishing or going for a walk? Walking around here, if you don't know the river, could lead to an unplanned swim."

A chuckle was heard, and a voice from the darkness said: "I can walk up on 99 percent of the people who fish after dark, and they never know I'm there. How did you know I was standing behind you?"

"I felt your presence," I said. "I felt you two or three minutes before I said anything. You fishing tonight?"

Still a conversational tone. Nothing confrontational. Just two anonymous anglers talking while waiting for a big brown trout to begin his evening feed.

"I'd planned to fish here," he said. "You beat me to it. I'll hit another spot down-river. What do you know about this spot? Fished it before?"

"Know it's got at least one big brown. Saw him earlier today. Guessed him at 10 pounds or so. How about you? What's your take on this spot? I figured this would be a key spot to stand and wait for him to start feeding."

"He weighs 10 pounds," the sneaky stranger said. "I've hooked him twice in two years. Had him close earlier this summer but he got off. It's a big hook-jawed male with spots that look the size of dimes. He's a river fish, not a silver one from Burt Lake."

The unseen stranger knew about the fish and where it held in the hole.

"It makes sense to wait him out for a bit," I said. "If he doesn't start feeding by midnight I'll work a Rapala through there. It's worked for me in this spot before."

"Good luck," the visitor said, and was gone without making a sound. The man moved with all the stealth of a second-story cat burglar.

An hour passed, and feelings of wasting time washed over me as the mosquitoes found new spots to drill for food. A pesky skeeter was boring my ear when I heard the fish move. It wasn't a splash, but more like a heavy ripple a fish makes as he shoulders through the water before gulping down a hapless minnow.

I waited another five minutes before he moved again, and although I couldn't see him I knew where he was holding because my ears pinpointed him. I uncorked a 20-foot cast, and started the retrieve before the lure hit the water. That kept the line tight, prevented the hooks from catching the line, and began the lure working as it hit the water.

The big brown came to me with a hard strike in midstream.

The lure swung in the current on a tight line, and I felt a solid strike, and I pounded the hooks home. The fish ran downstream, and then back up, apparently not wanting to leave the pool. It jumped twice, took line three times, and slowly the battle began to turn in my favor.

The fish was in the heaviest current in this spot, and it took every bit of my concentration to focus on keeping him from going farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy.

"Need a hand?" asked the stranger just as I felt his presence.

"Nope, this is between me and him. I've done what I set out to do, and that was to hook him. Landing him would be neat but I'd return him anyway."

"Want a look at him?" he asked. A cloak of darkness surrounded me, the stranger and the river, and that's the way I wanted it.

"Saw him earlier today. Know what he looks like. Got a hooked jaw sticking up like a broken little finger. Big male!

"That's him. He's a dandy. Go easy on him now. He likes to bore into that brush close to shore. Get ready, he's going to..."

I didn't want a light on the water. It was just me and the fish, and the stranger.

The fish took me into the brush about six feet away and weaved back and forth and then broke the line. I reeled in the slack line, and turned on stiff legs to climb up the bank.

I waded ashore to meet the midnight stranger. "Hey, c'mon up and shake hands. I'll buy you a beer down at the Meadows Bar."

"No thanks," he said. his voice growing distant. "I know who you are, and wanted to see if you fish as well as you write. You measure up, and we'll meet again on the river and perhaps one day I'll introduce myself. Too bad about the fish, but that one is hard to land here. See you when the wind shifts."

I've known but one man that said goodbye like that, and the voices didn't match.

I don't fish the Sturgeon River as often now as I once did, and I've never ran into the Midnight Stranger again. I've had that feeling once or twice over the year, and once I spoke: "C'mon down for a chat."

A soft chuckle would be heard, but he never responded. It's been one of life's big mysteries about his identity, and one I've yet to solve. I think about it, and feel writing might bring an e-mailed "hello." Time will tell if he'll speak again after all these years.

Sharing a night on the river with an unseen stranger might be a bit spooky for some people. It didn't bother me, but it would be fun to shake and howdy at least once with him. Until then, all I can do is write about the Midnight Stranger, and hope he responds with an e-mail. It would solve a longtime on-the-water mystery.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tonight wasn’t a big buck night for anyone I know.

I guessed that deer hunting should be good tonight after a day of cold weather and last night's snow and high winds. It was, but no deer were taken.

My gut instinct told me that with the air temperature at 20 degrees, and light snow falling, that the deer would move. Some did but not many came past me or my neighbors.

Gut reactions, instinct, call it what you will, but hunters have these thoughts or premonitions of what an evening hunt might deliver. Trying to second-guess the influence of weather causes all of us, including the weatherman, to incorrectly predict what will happen.

Another wrong guess on tonight’s deer movements.

Sadly, all of us miss the boat on occasion. I saw a couple deer right at the end of shooting time, but none close enough to shoot, and the deer movement wasn't nearly as intense as my instincts told me it would be.

One man saw a small buck tonight, and not a single doe or doe fawn, and he allowed it to walk on by. Another man and his son sat about 500 yards apart in different tree stands, and both saw deer but not in any numbers or size. It was as if most of the deer were waiting until long after full dark before moving from thick cover.

Another man, a guest, saw two does and fawns but none offered a broadside or quartering-away shot. He didn't shoot.

Tonight was one of those nights, like high-school graduation night, that seem to hold so much promise but then it fizzles out. There wasn't much activity, and everyone was in place by 3:30 p.m., long before the deer moved, but this evening seemed to be the night for few deer.

Some nights, I learned long ago, are best suited for small deer while other nights are key times for big-buck movements. The latter seems to come during the rut when a severe storm blows through, but that doesn't mean that a similar night can't or won't occur sometime during December.

There are big-buck nights and small-deer nights, Tonight was the latter.

I hunt more than most people, and that many people have daytime jobs that start early and end late, and prevent midweek hunting. For those people, it's difficult to see the logic of my next statement.

The more nights a bow hunter is afield, the more likely they are to be present when the big-buck travels take place. I have to be really sick to miss a night of hunting, but there are many nights when I think I'd been better off being inside.

Whitetail hunting is more than just something to do for me. It's a major part of my life, and if none of my friends don't hunt, it doesn't bother me to be out there alone. It gives me the choice of one of about 10 coops and tree stands to choose from, and I go hunting.

There is something about being afield, with bow in hand, that is very meaningful. I enjoy the weather, revel in seeing deer, love to spot a trophy buck I've never seen before, and get a kick out of watching the antics of fawns, and the aloof but hyper attitude of a wary old doe.

I like reading sign in the snow, see a track heading into an area where tracks have never gone before, and that instills within me a spirit of adventure. I want to know where that single track is going and why. Solving whitetail mysteries has become a defining role for me, and answering such questions becomes a meaningful experience.

Just seeing deer is an enjoyable. There’s not many around now.

Above all, the challenge of hunting a single buck to the exclusion of all other bucks is a magnificent thrill. Sometimes I take that buck, and quite often a particular buck will win this matching-wits experience.

Hunting means being afield with bow in hand. It means trying to outwit a deer that is at home in the woods and fields, and learning to solve these hunting puzzles can be a big thrill.

It happens just often enough to keep me coming back for more. Bow hunting for bucks is a challenge, make no mistake about it, and the bucks usually win. And I wouldn't have it any other way.