How NOT to wade a steelhead stream

Larry Winans once posed for photos of an out-of-control angler.

 

Water is great stuff. It's wonderful to drink, the right stuff for showers, great to wade in, fun to fish in, and a necessity when hunting ducks in the fall.

However, it is not fun to swim in at cold times of the year. Here's what happened when I needed a story and photos on short notice for a newspaper story. It turned out to be a great column..

The Betsie River has strong currents in certain locations and dark water. High early spring  water complicates things even further because it dirties up once the spring run-off occurs. Seeing bottom can become nearly impossible.

Certain areas can only be waded with extreme caution. I knew where two early-spawning steelhead were spawning on a bed, and proper positioning had me in the key location to cast a wet fly. Time after time the fly passed their nose, and time and again the male and female parted to allow the intruding fly to swing past.

It may have been the 50th or 60th cast when the male separated early, moved toward the fly, and sucked it in. The hook was promptly set and the fish jumped once. It darted upstream, and fought hard until it began to tire.

The buck steelhead, his cheeks and gill covers the color of orange-pineapple ice cream, put his broad side to the heavy current and started drifting downstream. I was fishing a familiar area, one I knew like my backyard. Or, so I thought. I had forgotten to take in mind the higher water level and that brush could have washed in.

It was necessary to stick very close to the bank, and with the river swollen with run-off, I knew it would be tippy-toe as the fish tugged its way downstream. The first six steps took me into waist-deep water.

"Cool," I thought. "This isn't too bad. The bottom shelves up 10 feet from here."

 

That 10 feet was a real treat. Five feet into it my toe bumped against a submerged log that had washed in on the high water, and with the water pushing hard on my back, over I went with a mighty splash. I never felt bottom again for nearly 150 yards.

The strong current turned me upside down, rolled me around, sent me feet-first and then rump-first, down around the bend. The fish was still on, tugging at my rod as it was held up out of the water, but a one-armed breast stroke just wasn't cutting it. The river carried me another 100 yards around the bend, and as I came to a shallow gravel bar, I heaved my rod up on shore.

My waders were filled with water, and the current ground me into the gravel bar with considerable force, and finally I was able to get to my hands and knees and crab across the gravel to shore where I floundered like a beached whale. I grabbed a sapling, pulled myself to my feet, and bent over to dump out  some water.

My butt plunked onto the bank as I pulled my waders off, and emptied them back into the river. The temperature was in the mid-20s with a 10 mph breeze, and I had to get my rod and head for the car. Shivering had already set in.

My rod was pulled from the brush, and as I reeled in my slack line, the rod came alive in my hands. One hundred yards downstream the steelhead bolted into the air, flipped its tail like a farewell salute, and we came undone.

There was a steep hill to climb, and as I reached my car another angler stopped to ask about the fishing. He then noticed I was soaking wet.
"Fall in?" he asked. Here was a man with a magnificent grasp of the obvious.

"Nope," I said, "a big steelhead took me water skiing. The problem was he couldn't pull quite hard enough to keep me up on top. He got away, and all I got was a short but wet and wild ride down the river."

It had been a neat experience. Mind you, but it's not one I wish to try again anytime soon, but one that has carved a special niche in my memory.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Heavy snow hits the gobbler woods

Gobblers often head for bird feeders following a spring snowstorm.

I knew last night that my chances of seeing any turkeys to photograph today would probably be a gigantic waste of time. The forecast called for heavy snow, and at midnight last evening it was a near-blizzard.

The idea of going out today in the heavy wind, and sitting in eight inches of very wet snow didn’t happen. I got up this morning, shuffled through the snow to pick up my wet newspaper, and kept my head down against the snow that was still falling and wind that was still blowing.

Mind you, I’ve spent lots of days hunting deer in snow and wind, but I’ve never found the turkey hunting or photographing wild turkeys in such weather to be much fun. Often, the day is wasted while waiting for the birds to make their appointed round. Often, they stay roosted longer than normal, fly down late, peck around for a bit, and stay fairly close to their roost trees.

There are exceptions to all rules, but rarely will turkeys move well in heavy snow.

I heard no gobbles or yelps, saw no birds, and never saw a single sign of a turkey-bird, regardless of sex. Periodic snow fell today from leaden skies, and although the temperature warmed a bit, it didn’t melt much snow. Tomorrow doesn’t look like it’s going to offer very good hunting conditions, and this first season really points out the hazard of hunters choosing the first hunting season. All too often, the weather falls apart like it did today.

There was a pretty good lightning storm last night as it snowed, and thunder rolled through the North Country as the front moved through. Flashes of lightning could be seen last evening as the snow piled up on my deck.

So, does that mean hunters should apply for the short second season in Area K or go for the lengthy last season? I usually apply for the second season because I usually draw a tag. The third season can provide some of the most suitable turkey hunting conditions of all, but there are some problems with this late hunt.

Hunters have most of May to hunt, but that means mosquitoes as the weather warms. It also means morel mushroom hunters to share the turkey season with, which can lead to some unusual encounters with people who have no clue that turkey hunting season is open.

All they know is somebody in camo clothing is roaming the woods wearing a face mask and carrying a shotgun. Some people seem distressed by such a sight. However, for those who are willing to share the woods with people looking for morel mushrooms, it can provide some very good turkey hunting.

For me, I’m not sure how my second season will pan out but I’m hoping that we are far enough along in our spring weather that we won’t be fighting heavy snow storms. But then again, who can be sure with the crazy weather we’ve had so far this spring.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Forget the Weather: Go Hunting

If nothing else about turkey hunting holds true, there is one thing that does: wild turkeys are hard to hunt on windy days like the past two. My hunt doesn't begin for a week, but lots of first-season hunters hope tomorrow morning's wind is not gusty and strong.

There are days when it doesn't pay to dress in turkey hunting togs. Once, a few years ago, was a day when a guy really didn't want to spend all day hunting gobblers.

In fact, most people didn't want to spend one hour sitting outside in hopes a longbeard would come calling. The weather was just too cold and nasty.

I'm living proof that it's impossible to shoot gobblers from bed.

I got up in the dark, leaving a warm and comfortable bed, and could hear the wind whistling outside. My eyes were wide open, my ears cocked toward the bedroom window which I reached up and opened, and I began a private fight with myself.

One part was clamoring: "You fool, it's impossible to shoot a gobbler while laying in bed. Get up, and get out there into the woods. Your last days of the spring turkey hunting will soon end. Forget the weather and get with it."

The other part, the more logical side of my brain, argued the other side of this problem. "That may well be true, but tell me when have you had a good turkey hunting day in really windy weather? Huh?"

It seemed a standoff. Both sides of the problem made some valid points, and both sides had a strike or two against them. Both made sense, in a rather twisted kind of way, and the final decision had to be made by the guy laying in a warm and comfy bed.

Deal with the weather, get out in it and hunt up a gobbler.

Recognizing the problem, I made my decision. I rolled over, closed my eyes, dozed and dreamed of a fanned-tail gobbler marching to the call like a good little soldier. He came, head-up, wary and looking around, and I woke up again just as the Day-Glow bead was settling on his noggin.
It was still dark, but graying up toward dawn. My watch said 5:45 a.m., and I decided to let my ears do some work for a change. If I heard a bird gobble, I'll hit the floor moving, climb into my camo, grab the cased shotgun and my hunting vest, and head out.

I laid there for almost an hour, and heard some robins and other song birds outside, but not one gobble was heard. Up I come, jumped rather slowly into my pants and shirt, and went out for the morning paper. I'm listening with both ears cocked, hopefully in two different directions,  desparate to hear a gobbler beller from yonder woods.

No such luck today. The paper was eased out of the tube, and I stood there for 20 minutes in 40-degree windy weather and listened. I can hear a gobbler a mile away, and so I'm covering nearly four square miles with my ears.

There was nothing but the sound of wind whistling through the trees. I spotted a doe, her belly heavy with fawns, cross the road a quarter-mile upwind of me as I stood motionless and silent. The old girl moved rather sluggishly, and it was apparent this year's litter of fawns would be born very soon.

Michigan's weather often changes. Hunt and hope for the best.

In the house I go, my mind now on the next Detroit Red Wings play-off game. That line of thinking made me happy, and I began having turkey hunting thoughts again.

My mind conjured up many past turkey hunts, in my younger days when time was limited and I hunted regardless of the weather. Thinking back, I've shot a couple of gobblers in a heavy rain when they looked like giant two-legged, water-logged rats coming to the call.



There were days when the Toms roared, and days when they snuck in as silent as drifting fog. Some of those days I shot a gobbler, other times my wife did, and on many occasions, whoever was hunting with me popped a cap and took a grand longbeard as he raised his head to look things over.

I've also hunted enough to know that some of this turkey hunting business, and the weather conditions we encounter during the season, are rather meaningless. For every rule, there seems to be an exception.

The rule holds true with many things. Normally, I would have been out there looking for gobblers that don't gobble. It's mighty difficult to really get cranked up, but I donned my clothing, grabbed my venerable Model 870 Remington, stuffed three magnum loads of No. 5 copper-plated shot into the old cornshucker, and headed out into the cold morning air.

I moved often, called sparingly, covered a mile of terrain, and never saw or heard a gobbler or hen. Once, I thought I heard a hen mouthing off at my calls, and moved in that direction.

I gave it a few minutes of rest, and tried again, now about 200 yards closer to where I thought I heard the hen. I tried calling again, hoping for some word from a tired old gobbler who still had enough in him to want to breed one more young hen.

No such luck. It may have been the wind or just wishful thinking, but nothing came to the call in that morning's wind. However, there is always tomorrow and with luck the wind will die and the gobblers will gobbble like we expect them to.

Based on tonight's weather of cold temperatures, rain and snow, the prospect for tomorrow's hunt may not be everything we hope for. But, one can always hope. Right?

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors