2019

CODE NAME: CAMP TRAMP

It is mid-November and yours truly the outdoorsman; code name Camp Tramp, is on the prowl again. Recently, I returned from my first jaunt dotting the country side in two states and three camps over a long weekend spreading fishing and hunting love wherever I was. Day one was at my own camp. Granted a true camp tramp shouldn’t have his own camp but then again camp trampers break a few rules or we wouldn’t be so trampy. I spent the first day turkey hunting, with a quick lap around the edges of the forest then returning for lunch. Lunch turned into a long nap…you always have the second day...right? However, the first night turned into sailing with Captain Morgan. I didn’t just sail with the good captain, I keelhauled him. What can I say? It’s been a year since last November. Actually, I managed to fair better than the bottle…I mean Captain’s ship.

I was back out for archery hunting early the next morning. Not early enough to see the sun rise but late enough to realize I didn’t have a bow. So, more turkey it was. The new snow though, cursed for being too early, didn’t give away any bird sign. So, back to camp where I had a big lunch and listened to the tragic ending of the Penn State-Minnesota game. Then it was time for the tramp to move on.

Off I went to my buddy’s camp where we indulge in what is referred to as “Advanced Training”. We are retired, but this gig started when we were employed and we continue to train even after our careers have ended; dedication or something. There, I experienced a sight I had never seen before, one of my hunting buddies actually hunting. It was amazing, I never knew he could do that. Of course, that was reason to celebrate with the other members who normally hunt. Our training went to the wee end of two in the morning that night. Then it was up for Bloody Mary’s and a camp breakfast, being Sunday there was no added pressure of hunting. So being ex-professionals, we added pressure. Another buddy was coming in with some advanced training fluids for Sunday evening, known as “communion”. I escaped just in time. What I learned at advanced training camp was how to make doe urine a trading commodity. I think that’ll come in handy.

It was time to travel to upstate New York for some salmon fishing. I’ve never fished up there before but I am familiar with Erie steelhead. I asked my hosts if there was a specific rig that I should bring. My answer was, “Bill, (I didn’t interrupt to correct him with, “call me Tramp”) when I get into a fifteen-pound salmon, I like to bring medium heavy gear.” Now by that statement I thought that would mean the host had caught a fifteen-pound salmon so I acted accordingly. I stripped down all my steel head gear and beefed up for really big fish. When I got there, I found out my host was only imagining what it would take to catch a fifteen-pound salmon and in fact had never even caught a five-pound steely. My fault for jumping to conclusions and not asking specific enough questions. My hosts had not caught a fish the previous day and had no wisdom as to how to catch them the next day. I managed to figure out pretty fast that I had to re-rig for what I knew about Erie fish.

In defense of a number of spinner fishermen; let me tell you a little secret about stream fishing. Fly fishing, “elite” guys: They have nimble fingers. They seem a fairer type; not that there is anything wrong with that. They have a lot of stuff. What they don’t seem to have is stiff, previously broken, size thirteen ring fingers which are not straight at all that have lots of numb spots from scars. Some guys didn’t grow up using fingers for video games, they used them for pitching hay and swinging hammers. You can figure out who is who and please don’t judge but some spinner guys don’t like rigging and re-rigging line, it takes a finger dexterity that escapes them. This is why some guys are spinner fishermen and some guys are fly fisherman - it is more than just taste that separates us. So, there I was tying on a line in thirty-degree weather, 6lb flouro leader, #18 fly etc. which takes a monumental effort. I got it done though and got my line out. Then I got it out again and again and again. No bites. My hosts had no bites either, keeping their two-day streak alive. The water was big, dark and deep. We couldn’t see the fish but by reading the water then flogging that area brought no action. We only saw two fish caught all day. Both were from guide boats in our spot that we were working from shore.

I sought the wisdom of a guru. He asked what size main then leader, swivels, hooks I had. To every answer he nodded, “That’s good, ok, that’ll work...” Then he stopped me and said, “Most guys that come in and ask for help don’t have anything right, I don’t know why you’re not catching fish.” Great. He did make some minor improvements to my rig by suggesting a couple special flies, a 10mm bead which was pinned two inches from the hook, and changed some of my weights. My original bead was too close and not pinned and I had too much weight on. As I thanked him and left; forty-five dollars lighter, he said, “At least you won’t get snagged! If you do at least you won’t lose the whole leader!” “Funny”, I thought, “I didn’t say anything about snagging, I haven’t lost a rig all day.”

I got back to the stream with two hours left to fish. It took my fingers almost a half hour to manufacture my newly weighted and pinned bead configuration and tie on the special fly. I pranced down the creek and cast. The line swirled, stretched and sunk perfectly across the eddy I’d been eyeing.

Nothing. I retrieved and hit it again, nothing. I retrieved and repeated and BAM! My line grabbed something, I pulled it taut! It was a stick. Three casts in and I hooked a stick. I got to the right angle and popped my line to free the fly. “SNAP” came my line. The entire rig and leader were gone, even the swivel that transitioned the leader to the main. I calmly packed my gear, went down the creek and thanked my host for a good time. It really was a good time with him and I was determined to keep it that way. It was time for the Tramp to return home. I can still handshake well. It was time to head home, prepare for hunting season, and head to Michigan for deer season.

See you along the stream.

Hunting Hobo: II

So, I adjourned from salmon camp to return home for a brief respite. Then I packed the kid, my boy Nick, a hobo camp tramp in training and off we went to celebrate the Michigan deer opener. As usual it was extremely eventful. The first event was surviving a massive vehicle brake down that included a loss of steering, on the bridge over the Allegany River. Never to be undaunted by bad luck or lack of steering, I changed the radio channel, turned around and drove back home with my Son hanging on to the door with an amazing death grip, laughing all the way.

Within a couple hours we were back on the road for Michigan, now too late to make it to our pre-season festivities but not too late to make it for the opening hours. There was one problem though. Hunting license purchase, a technicality but a big one, a license is required to hunt and we didn’t have one. There are stores up there that provide twenty-four-hour service but nowhere near where we hunt. We do make drive right by a Cabela’s though, however Cabela’s closes at 9:00 pm sharp. We made it there by 9:01 sharp. However, they held the door for us so we could purchase our licenses and we were back out the door by 9:03…ish, pm.

We finally pulled into Muddy’s place in time to un pack our gear and get ready for the coming early opening day morning. That is when we found out we wouldn’t be ready for opening day morning. In all the confusion we left the bag containing all of our ammo for both guns in the truck, the truck back in Pennsylvania. I checked to see if it was legal and probable to beat a buck into submission with the butt stock of a gun, then extrapolated that was probably not our best option.

Once again, it was Muddy to the rescue, pulling extra shot gun shells out of his pocket. However, they are for a smooth bore shotgun and I had a rifled shotgun. For Nick, the Wizard of Oz-deer told him, that he didn’t have enough parts to load his muzzleloader but he did have a spare shotgun and ammo for that. Just like that, we were at least able to make a big noise on the opener if we saw a nice buck. So, out we went to face the perfect for deer hunting elements.

There was seven inches of soft snow and the temperatures where in the teens with a gentle south east wind. Luckily, on the first morning we didn’t have to threaten the deer with a big bang because we only saw button bucks, a half dozen of them to be specific. During the late hunt, Nick watched a big ol’ eight point lay down in front of him but without confidence in his borrowed gun he just watched it and hoped it would get ridiculously close. Eventually, the buck got up and ambled away. Meanwhile I tried using the smooth bore shot gun shells on another high eight point and as the theory maintained its hypothesis that big bangs don’t drop bucks. What did come of that was that come dark we promptly loaded up the vehicle and went to a sporting good store to get all the appropriate ammo and gear.

Of course, the next day, apparently with all the deer knowing we could now launch the appropriate projectiles at them; stayed clear of our view. We did scare the crap of a ten point that was out of the memo loop, yet he avoided being shot too. On the last day, when all we had left to hunt was a few morning hours the conditions had changed somewhat. While it was still cold and snowy the snow now had a nice crunchy icy hard surface. Upon that cracker crunching crust fell a blanket of crunchy oak leaves that lay perfectly distributed upon the snow where ever we needed to walk. We sounded like a marching band wearing corduroy getting into our position that morning. True to form to how weird and contrary this season had been a buck emerged from behind Nick’s position and waltzed right in front of him. Nick decided enough was enough and put the buck down to start the season off with meat in the freezer.

Next trip will be our Pennsylvania deer on the first Saturday opener here in a long, long time, which has us already scrambling to make new arrangements and try to fit a square peg into a round hole.

See you along the stream