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Traipsing with Charley
By Tom HayesI offer my apologies to the memory of John Steinbeck.
I just got home from a trip to the Black Hills, traipsing with Charley. As usual, he gave me a lesson on how to catch trout. I got my customary few. Charley brought several real dandies to hand as a matter of routine. He is gracious about it and makes it seem like he was just lucky.
If it weren’t for Charley taking me under his wing, I would probably not have developed an interest in fishing the streams and rivers with a fly rod. My old man was a warm water fisheries kind of guy and had no time for “them little fish” and “messin’ with all that arm wavin’”.
Charley started taking the neighbor kid, Chris, and me fishing when he was in his prime and we were little kids. He knew the nooks and crannies in the Black Hills and the little pools and runs that held the trout in the creeks around the Central Hills. Before anyone, except ranchers, had 4-wheel drives and the Forest Service had no reason to close roads to protect the countryside, Charley used the trails that did not even look like trails. We drove in as far as we could go before deadfalls or rockslides stopped us, then headed out on foot until we got to some remote stretch of creek.
He showed me how to get a fly to drift under cut-banks and grass sweepers and around dead logs and boulders in the water. He showed me how to hit the head of a pool from below without spooking the inhabitants and how to mend the line as the fly drifted toward us. After the first two trips, the lessons ended and when we hit the creek, he would announce he was going up-stream and that I should to go the other way and that we would meet “back here at dark.”
I became expert at laying a fly gingerly into a stand of stinging nettles and perfected catching poison ivy plants. Back casts were my nemeses. I single-handedly decorated Black Hills Spruce trees with tiny bits of fuzz all along Castle Creek, Rapid Creek, Slate Creek, Ditch Creek, and Prairie Creek.
Charley used to love to fish brookies in the beaver ponds along some obscure stretch of creek. We crawled on hands and knees up to the pond and flipped out a fly and let it drift around in the crystal clear pool. We would catch a fish, at most three, before the disturbance spooked the rest and the bite would stop. In a good draw, though, there might be as many as four or five beaver ponds so we could hook a lot of fish. We did catch and release before anyone called it that (we just “threw ‘em back”), but and would keep a couple then head back to the truck and go make a camp and eat trout and fried potatoes.At first Charley had a Chevy pickup with a slide in camper that became his pride and joy. The first time we took it out, he explained to Chris and me that if either of us screwed up the camper we were no longer welcome. We lived in fear of loosing our ticket to the woods.
Eventually, though, the camper got beauty marks. One morning when I was frying eggs in a skillet bubbling with bacon grease and looking out the back door. Somehow, I managed to hit the handle on the skillet and flip hot bacon grease and partially cooked eggs all over the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the cupboard fronts, my clothes, and Charley. I spent the whole morning cleaning up while Charley and Chris went off to catch trout leaving me with the challenge that “this place better look like new when I get back for lunch or you are never coming again.”
Chris was left to do breakfast dishes while Charley and I went out on the ice at Deerfield Lake to fish. Hours after Chris had joined us on the ice, Charley went back to the camper in the late afternoon and did not come back. Apparently, the sink drain hose had clogged with grease when Chris let the dishwater go. Chris went outside, put his mouth on the hose and blew it clear. The problem was that Chris had blown the hose off the sink flange and all the greasy, soapy dishwater drained into the cabinets and under the sofa / sleeping cushions. Charley got to the camper about the time all of it was freezing up. He was mad enough to melt the ice with his forehead, but he didn’t stop taking Chris or me to the lakes and streams. I think Charley might laugh about it today but have not tested this assumption.
I burned a quarter-sized scar on my back up against a lit propane light fixture. We got stranded on Deerfield Lake one weekend when the unofficial temperature at Sawyer’s Deerfield Store hit minus 52 degrees. We got snowed in and stuck for an extra day on Spring Creek on a road that hadn’t been a road for 20 years. We made fudge, we cooked spaghetti and we ate fresh fried fish and spuds.
Last month Charley and I got to share a nice stretch of creek together again, but the water was low and the fish were scarce and spooky. Even on the backside of 70, he can still hike off a cliff and wade and fish all day. He can guide a fly around mid-stream rocks and limbs as if by radio control, and still has good reflexes when it comes to hooking the fish. He watches his line and the moment it behaves unusual at all, he tightens it up and flicks the rod tip. If he hooks up, so be it, if not, he just mends and just restarts the drift a few feet upstream from where he stopped.
Fly-only fishing is noble and worms will make sure nobody goes hungry, but late in the summer, we fished with grasshoppers. Charley and I would catch hoppers and float a few down a run to see what was feeding. After we had located active fish, we would try to catch specific fish at those spots. I still like to use this spot and stalk technique. I have figured out that if you feed a fish a couple of real hoppers first, they get bold and will grab a fly with impunity. Cheating to be sure in the world of the dry-fly purists, but fun in my book.
If I had to pick one time that was the most memorable, it would be one late evening on Rapid Creek on one of the gulches above Pactola Reservoir when we caught and released trout for about two solid hours using little white fuzzy flies that looked like Wooly Buggers. We released most of them anyway. At dark thirty, we stopped fishing, fired up a skillet and had fried potatoes with onion, whole kernel corn, and freshly caught trout that would be the envy of anyone. There are another hundred trips that are all tied for a close second. If I had only one more outing, and no more, before I cashed in, I would choose a day on the creek with Charley.
Nutmeg
by Tom Hayes
(posted 10/11/04)“Meg”, as she was known throughout her long and happy life, was born on a farm in eastern South Dakota, near a little crossroads called Junius. There were 8 or 9 siblings in her litter. The breeder put all of his dogs out with families with children because he wanted his name associated with dogs that were people friendly.
Mayo Kellog seemed to have developed a pretty good bloodline in his Labradors after working on it as second generation from the start his Dad gave them in 1927. “Pointing” Labs was where he had taken the line, being one of the first if not the first breeders to really try to enhance that non-Labrador instinct.
When Meg came to our house, she was all Labrador and other than raising a foot at a rolling ball until she learned the beloved game of “Fetch”, she never showed any sign of pointing. Nope, to her a bird that would sit and wait was a fetch in the making. Dead, wounded or fully alive, it didn’t matter to her.
She seemed, to be especially prone to grabbing young hen pheasants in roosters-only areas. In a drainage ditch in Kansas on a late fall afternoon Meg picked three late hatch hens out of the air and dutifully brought each one to hand, scared but unharmed. To turn them loose required tossing them high into the air and letting them take wing. Meg just could not compute that. Nope. It totally befuddled her.
Her first honest hunting retrieve was on bobwhites in Oklahoma in the fall of her first year. Born in April, she was only a little over seven months old when quail season opened. There were a few birds around that fall for a change. The Okies were all skeptical hunting with a dog that doesn’t point. They had all earned their stripes with English pointers and their whole approach was based on dogs that got up and flat run.
The way the game is played is the dogs are turned loose and then the hunters hunt the dogs. When it all works the way it is supposed to work, the dogs will locate a covey of quail and hold them steady until the hunter walks up on the point and then sends the dog to flush them. The dog is then expected to fetch up the dead and then begin to hunt the scattered singles across the grassland and rabbit brush cover.
Of course that is not the way it works at all with a Lab. The dog has to be taught to stay fairly close to the hunter and the human better be ready to take the birds on the rise whenever the dog hits them. It is definitely not as efficient as hunting with pointers, but in the opinion of many, a hell of a lot more fun!
The other thing about a Lab compared to a pointer is that when not hunting the Lab is a joy to be around and, arguably, a pointer is mostly a pain in the ass. The same get up and go wide open that makes them good at being a pointer keeps them wired up tight most of the time. They just do not do well at sitting and being petted or lying on the floor in front of the fireplace taking a nap beside their master.
Most dogs are dogs. Labradors are dog-people. The best ones far prefer the company of their hunting buddies to the companionship of other dogs, barring of course, at breeding time. Meg fit the mold exactly. She was curious about other dogs and would socialize, but when there was hunting or fetching to do or walking with the Old Man, to hell with other dogs.
Later in life, at age six, Meg was bred to a nice big black male out of a Texas kennel and whelped a litter of eleven. Six were still born but the remaining five, two blacks, two yellows and one chocolate, all grew up to be good dogs. One of the pups, the runt of the live ones, stayed on and kept her Momma and the people company.
Mother and daughter hunted quail in Oklahoma and Texas; pheasants in Kansas, Iowa, South Dakota and Wisconsin; ducks in Manitoba and Wisconsin; sharp-tail grouse in South Dakota and ruffed grouse in Wisconsin. They put on a lot of miles and got a lot of birds in the six years they were able to hunt together.
Old Meg, by all reason, should have died four seasons earlier due to a bout with a very aggressive breast cancer. The biopsy confirmed the worst, but the old girl managed to hunt another three seasons in good health and with difficulty, most of a fourth.
Things just got to wearing out on the old girl. Arthritis set in and began to limit motion in the hind legs, especially. Back problems beset her and eventually x-rays showed an enlarged heart, which explained the withering hindquarters due to poor circulation. Then came the wheezing as lung congestion followed.
Her last night before the final trip to the Vet, she lay on her pillow and struggled to find a way to hold her body and her head that would allow her to pull in enough air. Her abdomen sank with each attempt to inhale. It had been coming for a while and the question, “when is the time”, hanged ever-present for several months. The question began to answer itself as was hopped for.
It is a sad day when a close friend and hunting companion have to go away. Nothing makes it easy. Reflecting upon the good times and the trails walked helps, along with knowing that it was a good time for all.
A new puppy in the yard before that final day arrives does prepare the way to some extent. But the new dog-person does not fill the hole, just the same. There is comfort in knowing the memories will persist as they have with the ones who came before Meg. There will be more fields in the fall and more birds in the brush. There will be more flushes, shots, hits, misses, and retrieves. And the game goes on with new generations as it has for untold thousands of years since man and wolf developed the arrangement.
Farewell Momma dog. I love you.
Bow Hunting can be like that.
By Tom Hayes
(posted 9/23/04)Archery deer hunters used to be a rare breed back in the days of stick bows. To be able to take a deer with a bow meant hours and hours of practice and being in the exact right place at the exact right time with the deer looking the other way when it came time to draw the bow. The invention of the compound bow has allowed bow hunting to become a mainstream activity since with a good set up and a bit of coaching, almost anyone physically capable of seeing and drawing a bow can become sufficiently skilled shooting a few times a day for a couple of weeks to be able to take a deer. With the “let-off” that comes with a compound, there is time to draw well before the moment of truth, get a good sight picture with fluorescent pins and a peep sight and let fly with a mechanical release that makes the shot more like firing a rifle than releasing a bow string.
This is not about how things should be like the good old days or any defense of modern archery equipment. As far as I am concerned, we need lots of hunters going to the polls so if the modern equipment puts more of us in the woods who will also go vote, then bring on the technology. Up to a point, anyway. While I thoroughly enjoy shooting my recurve, I do not take the time to stay sharp as an instinctive shooter and if it were all I had, I would probably not go bow hunting out of respect for the animals. I practice with my compound and have no doubt that if I take a shot, it will be a good one and I will either miss altogether or be hanging up a deer in an hour or so.
Still, there is something to be said for having to invest a lot of time and effort into honing ones skills then putting them to good use in the wilds. I do know that, as with many archery hunters, the need to get close and be patient has made me a better hunter in general, and probably a better person. I still do enjoy the gun season and shooting rifles and I always will. Given the choice, however, between putting a trophy on the wall with a gun or a bow, I would take the bow as my weapon of choice for the greatest personal satisfaction.
Back in the days of my long gone youth, I hunted deer exclusively with a rifle and reserved shooting my bow (a true stick-bow, not a recurve) for plinking and hunting small game such as squirrels and rabbits. Fred Bear captured everyone’s imagination as his bow hunting exploits became more widely publicized so it was inevitable that I, too, would try bow hunting for deer.
It is worth noting that with my old stick-bow, and later my recurve, I was no slouch, but certainly no Robin Hood, either. I did hit a cottontail running full out one time with an arrow, but most of my successes came on critters sitting quietly in light cover and thinking they were hidden. The reason for making this comment is relevant as this tale unfolds.
One of my really good friends got into bow hunting a year or two before I did and convinced me that it would be worth a try since it would give us another whole month or so of time in the woods chasing deer. He had relatives who owned a ranch up in the Black Hills and their alfalfa field was the target of countless deer at evening. His uncle and aunt felt like the whitetails were eating up all their bales so they made us very welcome to come up any time to hunt the vermin. My buddy, Vern, hauled me up there and we stood quietly in heavy stands of dog-hair pines along the edges of the hay fields waiting for venison on the hoof to come wandering out close enough to be shot at. It never happened that way.
The year things started to look up, Vern’s uncle had made several small stacks of bales around the edge of the hay field so we would sit on top of those and deer would often come to chew on the bales. We were both holding out for bucks so did not shoot anything. About the third week of the season, Vern’s friend, Mike, got hurt playing football and was out for the season. Mike was taking it pretty hard and Vern offered to help him get into bow hunting. We came up with a loaner bow, some arrows and a glove and gave Mike some lessons one evening after school. He was a good athlete and his hand-eye coordination gave him a leg up on getting the hang of it. The weekend came and Friday after school, we all headed out to the hay field to sit on stacks and see what might happen. Just about the time it was the last of shooting light, Mike shot a nice 4X4 buck that came to eat off his hay stack. Vern and I, of course, had to shoo the does away to go help Mike out. Mike’s only comment was, “that wasn’t so hard.”
There were a couple of days in October that the teachers had meetings or something so we had time off. Vern and I decided to get a very early start and try something different. We took off and drove up into the Hills and were driving some forest trails trying to decide where we might want to try our luck. We spotted about 10 deer feeding along the roadside at daybreak. The deer didn’t seem to be paying any attention to us so I figured, why not try to drive up close enough for a shot, slip out the truck door and fling an arrow at one of them if it will stand still.
Actually, it worked surprisingly well. They were all does, but I thought what the heck, eased out the passenger door, and threaded up an arrow. I drew the bow back and got a sight picture on one of the does standing there broadside. Just as I released, all heck broke loose. My bow made a horrible cracking sound, arrows from my bow-mounted quiver clattered all over the road, and the deer were running every which way. Vern was laughing out loud and I stood there trying to figure out what had happened. As it turns out, I had strung the bow in the dark and did not quite get the string all the way down into the grove on the top of the bow. When I released the arrow, the string came off, the quiver spilled its arrows, and I split the upper limb of my bow. That was the end of my last stick bow. I scrounged up some cash and went out and bought my first recurve.
A few days later, I was sitting in the roots of a fallen tree watching across a little field between two timbered areas. Three does came out of the far woods, walked across the little opening, and came right by me within 20 feet. Much to my delight, a buck stepped out of the far timber, stood there for an eternity, and then started to come along the same trail the does had used. I was too exposed to draw my bow without being seen so I decided I would wait until he got even with me, draw and shoot in one smooth and quick motion then I would gut and tag my first bow-buck.
Great plan. Finally, the buck did come across the field and just as he stepped into the woods on my side of the field, I started the draw, he spooked, I released, and the arrow sank head-deep in the big Ponderosa Pine right behind where the buck would have been if my shot had been a split second sooner.
By then, though, I was hooked. I liked the idea of being out in the woods totally quiet and having deer come so close. I went on to get a nice buck that fall with my ’06, but the memory of that buck 20 feet away, just beyond the end of my arrow, was the thought I kept going back to for the next 10 months.
‘Tween
by Tom Hayes
(posted 7/29/04)Twice a year it happens. I am caught ‘tween. One season has more or less moved into history and the next is only here in anticipation. March is one. August is the other.
So, here it is, the summer ‘Tween of naught 4.
I spent about 40 minutes on the phone with one of my buddies this morning. After we had recapped our respective latest fishing trips, mine to the Black Hills for a week of trouting and his to Canada for a week of Bronzebacking, we found ourselves talking about hunting seasons, upcoming. Last year he and I got to spend one week together archery elk hunting then went on to a week of mulie stalking with rifles. Unfortunately, this year, we will have to share our separate memories by phone since we could not line up anything that would work for both of us. We are fortunate guys, though, as we share several really first rate friends and are able to work out some trips with the others.
I call him Sagebrush. He calls me Two Dogs. I am not sure how he got his name, but mine came from owning two Labs at any given time. For about ten years, I have been Two Dogs, except for about 6 months last year when my new puppy came to our house as my old reliable girl was in her final decline and I temporarily became Three Dogs.
Sagebrush, Tire-Tool, Deadeye, Rogain, Rockslide, Three Fingers, and Slim Jim are all headed to the great Out West to hunt mulies, without me, this year. Naturally, it is time to consider the finer points of cartridges and loads, so that went on for several minutes of ‘tween time. Everyone uses hand loaded Hornady Ballistic Tips but they have been experimenting with Accubonds. Experimentation to this point suggests that at the same chronographed muzzle velocity, the Ballistic Tips fly about 4” higher at 300 yards than the Accubonds. Most hunters would not consider this a big deal, but these guys are INTO DETAILS, which is also why they always come home with wall hangers. Currently, they plan to test wind drift to see if there is a difference there. My guess is that if the Accubonds don’t show improvement in that department, they will all be shooting Ballistic Tips another year. I took the easy way, and just told Sagebrush that when they get it figured out, make sure I have a box and a half of the loads of choice by next summer to see how my rifle eats them. Sagebrush and I shoot the same kind of rifle and same caliber and amazingly enough, I have not had to refine his loads a bit to run good in my rifle.
Then there is the matter of dogs. Sagebrush had his bird-dog escape from the kennel last year and is in the unenviable situation of being dogless. I, on the other hand, have one good dog and a puppy with good potential. It is time to start the fine-tuning on my puppy. She has a good grasp of basic commands but still delights in some annoying habits that I must focus on correcting. Stopping on command and coming to me no matter what are at the top of the list of “to-dos”. Tire-Tool told me the reason I am having problems getting these through her doggy head is that the dog is smarter than I am. Likely so. At any rate, discussing my training woes with Sage B took up some more ‘tween time. As did him telling me how glad he is that Boots ran off and saved him the cost and inconvenience of having to knock him in the head – or having him ‘”put down” as the more refined would say.
I am hoping that I can get in a couple of sharptails hunts in out on the West River and have at least one weekend on the calendar for a trip to the woods in Wisconsin to hunt ruffed grouse with Tire-Tool and Bee-Dee. All of this, of course, is practice time for the puppy in preparation for pheasant hunting. Sagebrush lives down South and has his finger on the pulse of the Bobwhite population in his part of the world, but again this year he is advising against planning a trip down to hunt them. In his country, the Bob population seems to be in the dumper and showing no signs of coming back which is why he is not out shopping for a new Pointer. I will go water fowling at least once or twice despite the duck count numbers just so my dogs remember they are Labs.
‘Tween is time for writing lists, too. I think I spend more time writing lists than I do working on the things that are on them. Without the Western Hunt, I have a lot less to do this year and therefore am at least one page of list short of an average year. I still am not without tasks, though, as much of my equipment will roll West to help make Mulie Camp hospitable again this year. I seem to be whining about not going mulie hunting. It is perhaps worth mentioning that the reason is, my wife and I are going on a trip together that does not involve any hunting or fishing (although I am keeping my options open in hopes that a _ day of guided fishing might avail itself).
Then, there lingers the hope that in between bird hunts and archery deer hunts close to home, I might get in a couple more fishing trips. Real fishermen swear by the fall walleye bite. Despite my intentions, I never do seem to get into it. Once a hunting season opens up, I put away the rods and jigs. This year, though, I am promising myself to be sure to go at least once, even if I have to tack it onto a trip that includes some kind of hunting.
I glanced up from the keyboard a few minutes ago and saw three fawn whitetails standing at the open gate to my wife’s garden. Rather than thinking, “aren’t they cute?” my thoughts immediately turned to the fact that I want a new single-cam bow. Still, I hate to have to start all over setting up a new bow since the bow I have shoots like a dream and I have at least two dozen arrows for it. (Note to Self -- Add to the list: move archery target, set up foam deer, set up foam turkey, replace arrow rest, sharpen broad heads.)
So much to prepare for, so little time. I do not know how I would manage without ‘Tween to get my affairs in order. Oh yeah, and in ‘Tween, there are eleven months of Honey-Dos that have to be squeezed into a few short weekends. Not all of them, just enough of them to quiet the complaints until Hunting Season opens – in four weeks, three days, 11 hours and 13 seconds.
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