Missing my twin brother

George Richey, holding his former, 2lb. 7oz., Michigan State Record pink salmon.
photo Dave Richey ©2012

It was one of those mid-September days when it felt right to be going through my deer-hunting backpack and sharpening broad-heads. It was something to do while waiting for my next trout fishing trip to arrive.

So I was puttering with my bow quiver of sharpened heads when a memory jolted me as it entered my mind without me thinking. It was of brother George, and he was coming down the Little Manistee River in high water in early April with a rampaging steelhead on his line.

"Try and get a net under this guy," he hollered. "I hooked him a quarter-mile upstream, but he's riding the current broadside. Stick your net in the water, and I'll put him head-first into the net. Ready?"

We'd done this for each other and both knew what to do

My net was pulled from under my belt behind my back, and my rod butt went in underneath the belt. The fish was 10 feet upstream as my net went into the water, and George leaned back on the rod to get the fish up onto the surface, and just at the right time, he dropped the rod tip and the fish dove right into the net. My job was to lift it from the water.

"Good dip," he said, as we waded ashore. The steelhead, a red-sashed male with bright cheeks and gill covers, was 16 pounds of broad-beamed raw power. George worked the No. 4 wiggler fly free, eased the big guy into the river, and with a mighty splash it was gone.

Another time George and I hunted Le Chateau Montebello, a famous resort in Quebec. We were there to hunt deer, and the guide told us we would be lucky to see a deer. If we did, he said, it would be a shooter.

The guy put on one-man drives, and I've been involved in deer drives for most of my life. I can tell good from bad, and this guy was an expert. He walked softly, yipped like a beagle puppy on occasion, and he never hurried the deer. They just moved slowly ahead of him.

We driven deer for years, and this guy was the best I'd seen

Far off, on the third day, I heard him yip softly to let us know he was coming. It was a large area to watch, but 10 minutes later a white-antlered 8-pointer eased from the woods and stood, side-lit by the afternoon sun against a pine, and he was a beautiful sight to behold.
He turned to look the opposite way at George, and I slowly raised the rifle and aimed. He went down at the shot, and George almost beat me to that buck. It was the only deer either of us saw on that hunt, but he wasn't disappointed not to get one. He loved listening to the wolves howl at night, and was happy that one of us shot a good buck.
"Good shot, good buck, and where's the guide?" He asked. "This buck weighs well over 200 pounds, and we will need help to move it far."
The guide showed up, we boiled a kettle to have hot tea with our sandwiches, and then had us a four-mile hike back to his truck and he drove up to the dead animal. It is the only whitetail I've taken in Quebec, but it's important to me because George and I shared the hunt in a unique part of Canada.

Ours was never a competitive thing. We just had fun

Neither of us have ever been truly competitive with each other, but years ago before I wrote the first story about runs of pink salmon in Upper Peninsula streams, George was with me to share what might or might not be an adventure. We didn't know if we'd find the pink salmon.

We would fish pink salmon in the morning and hunt bears in the afternoon, and we found some fish in the Big Huron River. They usually spawned during September on odd-numbered years and we found hordes of them on the first gravel patch above the river-mouth.

We'd been guiding river fishermen for a few years, and started catching pinkies of flies. An orange fly tied on a No 6 hook seemed to produce best, and they were some of George's tried-and-true steelhead and salmon patterns. The fish weren't big but they were aggressive.

"Here's another one," he said. "I'm taking it in to the store to get it weighed. I figure it to be just over two pounds. There's no state record for these fish so one of us should set the record."

Back he came, and it weighed 2 lbs., 3 oz., and so I tried to beat him. Mine weighed 2 lbs., 4 oz. The next day we caught fish of 2 lbs., 5 oz, and then 2 lbs., six oz. It was on the last day that George caught one that weighed 2 lbs., 7 oz., and it became the state record that held up for many years.

I was tickled for him, and he got a Master Angler award, and the mounted fish hung in the DNR offices in Lansing for years before his record was broken. He didn't care. He'd had his "15 minutes of fame."

And that was the neat thing about brother George. He could go with the flow, be happy doing anything outdoors, and greet each new day with a smile on his face. He had the capacity to make people feel good.

He's been gone for nearly nine years, and I miss him greatly. I'd trade many of my tomorrows for a single yesterday, doing something outdoors with him.

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