11 November

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: PHASE 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

DOG-BIRD HUNTING

It is upland bird season and I have a dog that is bred for bird hunting. I spent a long time taking the circumventors route to avoid saying bird-dog for a reason. My dog is not a bird dog, she is more of dog-bird hunter. You see, Delta, as she is named is certainly no alpha. She looks like a white German short hair mixed with a Holstein cow and Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. She is, however, fully trained in bird hunting. It is a tool and skill she doesn’t brag about. Kind of like the guy that does home improvement and gains a construction skill but found it such a negative experience that he hires out next time.

She likes the idea of bird hunting as long as there are no guns involved. She also is very wary of birds. She avoids them if there is no handler around. When she catches scent of a bird, she usually leads me away from the trail and not to the bird. That’s the type of bird hunting she likes.

For small tweety type birds, she is far more comfortable seeking and chasing those…as long as none of them attempt to hold eye contact. So, to get my fill of bird hunting, I have to let the birds hunt us. We sneak up on birdy areas and when the birds flush, we run away. If we can hold our ground for a few moments and watch the birds fly off- that is a bonus perhaps even to be considered a ‘bagged bird’ in our world.

Once Delta has been flushed by a couple of birds, she is content to return home and resume her guard duty on the couch. She also, doesn’t like to get involved with briars, wet grass, stiff winds, high humidity, low humidity, too overcast or too sunny conditions when hunting. The good news is that, with our unique style, we can hunt year around.

I maintain a two-acre parcel for her to be hunted on. I let the Timothy and Johnson grass get tall there. Of course, it is only a few minutes’ walk from her couch. She does get excited and wants to go to the patch when she senses it is time for a walk. We sneak over to the patch and creep along the edges until the birds fly out and then she crouches until they fly off. Once they are gone, she is exhilarated that she survived.

Occasionally, I force her into the grass itself to flush out even more birds. She doesn’t like it but goes in thinking maybe the grass will give her cover and the birds will not notice her. With tail down and ears draped over her squinting eyes, she doesn’t like the grass touching her face and she doesn’t like her paws touching anything. She high steps and tip toes through the grass covering her face making me feel as guilty as possible for making her act like a dog. When the birds flush, she bolts out of the grass right back to me and wipes her paw over her sweating brow and breathes a sigh of relief.

After a flush or two she is ready to head home. If I don’t take her directly back home, she will act like she is all excited to hunt more. In actuality she is only trying to get out of sight long enough to slink and circle behind me and once she thinks she is clear; she will bolt for home. I am used to this ruse and go along with it. It is one of the few ways she gets any exercise at all. When I arrive on the porch, she will be laying there in front of the door, pretty proud of herself and expecting a treat.

If I am ever to pick up a gun, she gives me a dirty look and turns her back on me. Carrying a gun on a hunt with her is a definite no, no, even though she is afraid of the birds. I also, can’t pick up a bow, a pistol, a knife or a letter opener over two inches long or she will go on complete strike. Not a hunger strike mind you, just a strike where she lays on the couch and won’t even be concerned if someone steals it. If that happens, I believe her plan would be to stay on the couch as the couch nappers pick it up to weigh it down and perhaps get a belly rub from the criminals.

If you would like a dog like this, I am afraid you maybe out of luck. We can’t breed her; she is afraid of puppies.

See you along the stream.

REGULATORS! HOOK UP!!

I know it is archery season and Pennsylvanians demand an incessant number of personal antidotes on deer herd population conspiracies but I’d like to pause a moment and mention that it is also steel head and salmon season. I will resume my patrols for the elusive trophy white tailed buck next week after I make a quick salmon run.

For this trip, which is out of state and new to me, I have so many questions. Fishing is not what it used to be, just a trip down to the pond with a bobber and hook. Thanks to bucket biologists, the angling world is fraught with regulation, laws, social mores, culture, tradition, habits and the occasional fish caught. Immediately upon being asked if I’d be interested, I said, “Yes”. Then the questions started: Can we wear felts? Are we allowed to wade at all? Can we snag? What are the line regulations? What are the bait regulations? Are any extra stamps required? Are lead sinkers allowed or must we use steel and tungsten? This was just the beginning. The resounding answer to all of my questions from my experienced host was, “I don’t know!” Then I strongly suspect the next question among my other hosts was, “Who invited this guy?”

I’m sure these guys had not been paying homage to biologists and just having fun all these years fishing their own way. Then I come along and muck it up with the knowledge that others do possess the power to govern our fishing habits; breaking the innocence so to speak. I’ve known several biologists before and they have a way of making the simple very complicated. Like two coaches, one comes in with ten pages of all the hundred plays a team runs and wants the kids to formulate and memorize. Another coach comes in and breaks it down into four keys and each one tells you which way the ball is coming. A biologist is the first guy and thinks it is dumb to make so much information simplified. You only look like you’re working and competent if no one else understands it, even if no one understands it because it just doesn’t make sense. That is how a lot of fisheries guys think…it’s not all their fault, they work for government; so that’s how they get promoted.

Maybe it isn’t that they are biologists at all. Maybe it is just the nature of fishermen. I asked around for a friend’s best salmon rig. My oft mentioned buddy “Muddy” (as usual) had a matter of fact, practical, answer when I texted him, “What is your favorite salmon rig?” His response was simply, “Legit or illegal?” At least someone was finally being specific about tactics for this sport. Muddy; feared by men, loved by women and salmon die for him. He’s the guy to go to. He even seems to know when he is being legit or illegal and the difference!

I’m sure it is legal to still enjoy yourself while fishing. I’m sure I’ll be allowed to sit on the bank and enjoy the view periodically. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to heft a large fish for a picture and I admire its effervescence as the water and sunlight cascade together briefly in the open air. Maybe it will even stay that way if I’m being dragged off the river for wearing the wrong waders, too tight, or the wrong color while standing in a no catch zone and eating a baloney sandwich in a PB&J zone. Those things were probably all good to do before I showed up. Then I come with my questions and my regulation books and worries about conservation catastrophes and payment of extra fees. Well, get out the handcuff keys and bail money; I'm hitting a new stream!

See you along the stream.