Hunt Fish Golf Work

Working Hard so I can Hunt, Fish and Golf

Whether you’re fishing or hunting, public land access is competitive and often challenging. The philosophy is usually first come, first served”. Additionally, the hottest spots are hotly contested. An abundance of fishermen means that the fish see many flies. By definition, they’re challenging to hook. To that point, when you have located a secluded spot that holds an abundance of big fish, it becomes a well-guarded secret.   

My friend, Chad, had told me that his dad recently discovered a barely touched fishery holding a plethora of world-class rainbow trout. Joe had fished the area in late April, and had landed a few bows over ten pounds. With that in mind, we blocked off an afternoon in mid-May to fish the spot. The drive was two hundred and twenty miles, and it had us traversing through some gnarly country. Upon arrival, we noticed a single fisherman making his way around the waterway. A powerful westerly wind forced him to demonstrate his casting prowess. It was not long before we witnessed him skillfully hook and land a few fish. As he made his way to the shore, we asked him a series of questions regarding his success that day. He told us that the morning bite was strong; landing over fifteen fish with sizes ranging from 18” to 22” inches. Double hare’s ears stripped aggressively were the flies of choice.   We thanked the man for sharing valuable intelligence. Then, Chad, Joe and I made our way into the water. It did not take but a few minutes before Chad noticed three enormous shadows cruising just in front of us. As fast as they appeared, they were gone. Chad and I tied on a custom designed crayfish pattern, and Joe decided to throw an olive damsel fly. Given the twenty mile an hour northwesterly wind, I worked hard to make mediocre casts on a forty five degree angle. On my tenth cast my fly was hit hard, but my hook set was late. The fish rolled high in the water column, then disappeared.

By mid-afternoon, the three of us had fished hard, but had no results. The wind proved a challenge, and the morning action had obviously shut off. As Joe was telling me that he was going to take a break, a fish slammed his damsel imitation. A long fight ensued.   Eventually, Joe brought the stout fish to the shore. She was not over ten pounds, but was still very impressive. There was another lull in the action, so all of us made repeated fly changes. Not surprisingly, Joe found a pattern that started to produce intense and repeated action. Utilizing a #12 bead head hare’s ear, and a custom designed nymph dropper, Joe methodically stripped his line. As the flies neared his standing position, he gently raised his rod tip. It was at that point, the trout ate the caddis imitation. Given Joe’s success, I tied on the same hare’s ear with a flashback pheasant tail trailer. I carefully observed Joe’s movements, and I began employing the technique. On my fourth cast I slowly raised my rod tip as the flies neared me, and I felt dead weight, so I set the hook. The fish, only a few yards from my position in the water, moved with purpose to my right. I was able to see her side as she passed me, so I knew she was big. The headshakes became increasingly violent, and I feared the fish would break off. My friend Slade told me to not mess around with big fish, and get them to the net quickly. With his sage advice in mind, I reeled hard, and walked back toward shore. When I saw the leader, I grabbed my net and leaned back, guiding the massive rainbow into my net. The fish was so big, she would not fit into my 26” Brodin. My largest trout on a fly measured twenty six and three quarter inches, and weighed nine pounds. We took a few pictures, and I carefully released her.

We fished for another few hours with limited success. I did manage to hook up with a beautiful twenty one inch Yellowstone cutthroat. A Monster Rehab Green Tea energy drink, along with frequent memories of my trout, made the two hundred and twenty mile drive back seem like teleportation. The secret spot produces, and my Garmin now has the coordinates.                                                                             

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Welcome Home

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For the last six years, early spring has meant a journey to the North Platte River in central Wyoming.  The river is packed with large, aggressive and hungry trout.  The land that surrounds the water has the characteristics of the old west; a limited amount of people, plenty of indigenous creatures, and predictably unpredictable weather.  It’s a unique place that allows visitors to escape life for a brief period of time.

2014 represented an atypical adventure for me.  My fly fishing mentors, Chad and Joe Butler, completed their annual visit just one week prior to my trip.  Additionally, the group that I had invited all canceled just days before departure.  While I absolutely enjoy fishing with friends, this trip is about personal mental relief.  For a few of days, the mobile phone is off, and emails go unchecked.  I become all consumed with pursuing fish.  

Day One

After the five hour drive from Parker, the contents of my truck were quickly unloaded into the cabin.  I slipped into my waders, strapped on my chest pack and rigged my fly rod.  The river is only minutes away, and the anticipation makes it hard to focus on the task at hand.  I had planned to patiently scout my favorite spots along the river, and drop in only when big fish exposed themselves to me.  When I started my truck, the strategy went the way of the dodo bird.  I hit the gas and darted to one of my favorite holes.  While there was not a vehicle present, I witnessed a lone fisherman making casts against the river bank.  A three minute wade put me at the top of an elegant riffle.  My two fly rig consisted of a chartreuse egg on top, and a Slade Fedore designed leech as the trailer.  The initial drift hugged the near seam, allowing the flies to move slowly over the shelf into deeper water.  Stunningly, my indicator pulsed, so I quickly jerked the rod over my left shoulder.  The trout raced across the fast water then headed downstream.  I followed the fish until he moved into an eddy and could be easily netted.  Over the next five hours, I hooked over two dozen fish but I landed only half of them.  There was size to most every trout with the largest equaling 21”.

Day Two

About a month before my vacation, I planned my second trip with guide extraordinaire, Slade Fedore.   Slade is a Casper native, expert fly fisherman, and a great person.  He gives advice without being demeaning, and provides timely compliments, but he is never patronizing.  Slade and I like to get after it early, so we were the first boat to unload on the Reef.  Our initial float produced three great fish.  Heading downriver, we kept picking fish up on both the egg and the leech.  The weather got a bit windy and snowy, but the bite continued to be hot.  The day was highlighted when a gigantic golden eagle plucked a pheasant from the river bank.  Minutes later, a bald eagle flew twenty feet above us, and landed on a fence post paralleling the waterway.  Almost simultaneous to the eagle perching itself, a big trout exposed himself in the middle of the river.  Slade and I both noticed the fish, and I made an immediate cast to a spot ten feet in front of him.  While the first cast was junk, my second cast hit the mark.  Seconds after my upstream mend, the bow slammed my fly, and burned 40 feet up and across the river.  He was big and my heart was racing.  The fish pulled a 180 and screamed downriver stripping fly line off the Bozeman RS Reel.  I applied gentle pressure with the hope he would behave.  Instead of acquiescing, he started to perform violent headshakes and even took to the air a few times.  We managed to get him to the side of the boat, but just out of the reach of Slade’s net.  When he was sufficiently recovered from the initial battle, he cut across the river then back behind the boat.  Only eight feet from me, I saw the hook perilously hanging in his right cheek.  A final thrash dislodged the fly, and the fish disappeared into the depths of the river.  Disappointed, I hung my head, realizing that I had just lost a 23” slab.  We ended an awesome day drinking a few beers while listening to my cabin neighbors perform a bit of authentic blue grass music. 

Day Three

Recognizing that the weekend was approaching, and the crowds would start to appear, I was up early in order to get to a favorite spot.  It did not take long for the river to begin fill up with fellow fishermen.  By early afternoon, I counted twelve rods executing similar nymphing techniques.  In order to experience much needed solitude, I walked to a more remote, but historically less productive area.  While there is no distinctive structure, I found water that supported a steady drift.  Not dissimilar from the rest of the river, I started to frequently hook and land good size rainbows.  As the late afternoon approached, we made a decision to head to a reservoir and fish the ice out.  Reports were that there were huge trout hitting crawfish imitations stripped slowly along the bottom. We talked to some bait fisherman who had picked up a few nice fish during the afternoon, but they told us that fishing was slower than in past years.  Nevertheless, we spent hours casting big streamers around ferocious winds.  As my mind wandered, an enormous leviathan appeared from the depths of the lake and took a slow pass at my bait.  Unfortunately, she did not commit to the meal, and headed back where she came from.  The day ended with only one of us landing a trout.  The lack of action did not take away from the immense splendor of the early evening in the western United States.

Day Four

I decided to cut my trip short by a day. The weekend crowds were amassing, and competing for fish was not a part of the game plan.  There is a great hole downstream that can produce a lot of action, but can also fill up quickly.  To that point, I got up early and made certain that I was the first person at the spot.  While the weather was perfect, the fish were semi-responsive.  Uncharacteristically, I had to work hard to invoke an initial strike.  Four fish later, I began to witness other anglers making their way into the river.  In addition to my fellow waders, there were many boats filling up the most fertile area in this section of river.  I realized that the trip was over, and it was time to depart.

The ride home is long, but full of pleasant memories.  I was able to think about the fish I had caught as well as the many that evaded my net.  After six years fishing the Platte, I have earned veteran status.  I know the water, and understand how to catch fish.  Year seven awaits!

The Video

 

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Our Last Hunt?

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Pride is on the back nine of his hunting life.  He is over ten years old, and has recently demonstrated signs of slowing down in the field.  Despite keeping him in good condition, the grind associated with hunting wild birds pushes him to his physical limits.  At day’s end, he is beyond exhausted, and the body aches are obvious. 

The 2013 – 2014 upland season in eastern, Colorado has been challenging.  The bird population is significantly down from just two years ago.  That said you’re not going to experience success sitting on your couch.  In addition, given Pride’s advanced age, who knows how many trips are left for us?  So when the alarm went off at 3:40 am, I was motivated to make my way two and a half hours east to my favorite grounds in Phillips County.

During my drive, I checked the forecast for the day ahead.  Forty degrees and a steady fifty mile per hour northwest wind were not ideal hunting conditions. 

As I approached our first field, the excitement started to build.  The area is a favorite of mine, but had yet to produce this season.  We made the forty minute walk, but never saw a single sign of a pheasant.  I texted my rancher friend and asked if we could hunt his land.  With permission granted, Pride and I drove the five miles to the property.  The strong winds made our strategy clear; point Pride into the wind and see if we could surprise some birds.  I directed Pride to a series of trees that line the north side of the land.  It did not take long for him to get birdy.  The first hen jumped up about ten yards in front of us, followed by three more ladies.  While we did not find our intended target, the action did get the blood pumping. 

We made our way across the road where the CRP is thick.  A large cornfield neighbors the tall grass, so I decided we would bisect the land and hunt the relevant corners.  As we made our way west toward the corn, I gripped my Beretta a bit tighter as I thought we could see some action.  Pride started to move with purpose as we walked the berm separating the CRP from the corn.  As his pace quickened, I worked myself into position.  The rooster exploded about fifteen yards in front of me, and immediately absorbed the power of the wind.  Although he was close, I was not prepared for the absolute speed, and missed on my first two shots.  HEVI-Shot shell number three clipped his right wing, and the pheasant tumbled to the ground. 

Pride and I enjoyed a water break before making our way to a Walk in Area (WIA) just to our east.  The field has great cover, and feed is accessible on all four sides.  The ferocious wind kicked up significant dust storms, and that made the pursuit challenging.   About half way down the tree line, Pride changed direction, and bounded to my right.  A hen made her way through the tumbleweeds, and stood motionless for about five seconds before flying into the cornfield.  A few “no bird” calls had us back on course marching west.  Pride started to quickly cover ground, signaling birds were on the move.  As I picked up my pace, two hens exploded less than ten yards away from me.  Consciously, I slowed down with the hope that a rooster was being coy.   Within seconds of making the decision to decelerate, a rooster busted from his concealed position just out of my range.  After one futile shot, the colorful bird caught a massive tailwind, and accelerated into the mid-afternoon sun.  Immediately, I second guessed my strategy.

I took Pride southeast in order to better position us to hunt the last corner of the CRP.  During our walk I noticed that my dog was favoring his left rear leg.  I removed some sandburs from his paws, but he continued to limp.  As we approached the corner of the field, Pride started to get birdy.  He circled the field’s edge for almost five minutes before a hen took off into the adjacent cornfield.  Realizing that Pride was either injured or drained, I decided to head back to the truck.

On our way home, I wondered if this could have been our last hunt together.  The bond that Pride and I have developed over the last three and one half years is strong.  Hopefully we have more adventures ahead.    

Video: Pride doing what he does best.

 

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Friends

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I have known legendary gun dog trainer, Gary Ruppel, for almost four years.  My beloved birddog, Pride, comes from his kennel.  When my family was considering adopting Pride in 2010, it was Gary who interviewed us to make certain it was a good match. The man is confident, opinionated, talented, kind, and loyal.  It takes time to earn Gary’s trust and friendship.  It takes even more time to earn the opportunity to hunt with him.

In mid-December, Gary and I were chatting on the telephone about our recent adventures.  I told him that Pride (now 10) was starting to slow down, and he and I should try to get into the field before the 2013 season ends.  I had never hunted with Gary, and I felt that it was finally the right time.  I have evolved into a veteran wingshooter who respects the quarry, the land, and my fellow hunters.  Gary agreed to go, and he suggested we head out after Christmas. 

Our plan, on December 30th, would be to hunt scaled quail on both private and public land outside of Hugo, Colorado.  I had never encountered a covey of quail in numerous upland trips throughout Colorado, Nebraska and Kansas.  To that point, I was excited to pursue the unfamiliar game bird.  Pride would team with Gary’s two English Pointers, Captain and Ashley, who are quail hunting machines. 

During several big game hunts over the last couple of years on the Cage Ranch, I had observed multiple coveys of scalies moving about the property.  With permission from Bob, we started our morning patrolling the different pastures where we thought birds would hold up.  It would be important to locate the game before the day warmed, and diluted the scent of the small animals.  We walked several areas where the cover is thick, and paralleled a food source.  The dogs worked each section of land thoroughly, but never showed any signs of enthusiasm.  As we slowly drove the ranch, Gary would get out of the truck to inspect the one day old snow blanketing parts of the land.  He scouted for the distinctive tracks that would indicate the presence of quail.  

Driving west, we approached a group of cottonwoods adjacent to the road.  As we neared the trees, I pointed to a three grey birds scampering away from our truck.  Gary exclaimed “scalies” and told me to get out.  As I hurried across the road, I loaded my Beretta, and Gary let out the dogs.  The pointers instantly winded the birds and gave chase.  I scanned the earth beneath the trees when suddenly two horned owls took off from their positions in the branches.  The movement startled the camouflaged quail who soared from their concealed location.  I shouldered my shotgun and fired at a single speedy bird that toppled to the ground.  I looked to my right and observed Captain and Ashley on point about fifty yards to the west of the trees.  Gary told me to make my way to him, as the covey was on the move.  Several birds exploded from the knee-high grass, and Gary shot two with his 20 gauge Winchester.  I remained in my position as Gary brought the dogs around.  We estimated that there were over twenty quail in the covey, and some had already fled to our north.  Moving with purpose and determination, Captain and Ashely located additional birds.  One quail jetted from my right at about thirty yards, and I shot him dead.  My execution prompted a sincere congratulations from Gary.  Admittedly, that felt pretty good.  Before continuing our hunt, Gary asked how many birds we had taken.  We counted seven and decided to stop shooting.  Captain and Ashley were still in hot pursuit, so we lowered our shotguns and admired their elegant skills.  We tried a few other areas before heading back home just after lunch. 

As a passionate and improving hunter, I appreciate the time Gary spends teaching me the nuances of the sport.   The sage advice has, and continues to impact my success in the field.  I look forward to spending more time with my friend.

Reviews

Product

Review

Sport-DOG Upland Hunter 1875

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/unlucky-lucky/

HEVI-Shot   Pheasant

Number 4 shot is   overkill for quail.  Unfortunately, I   forgot to pack my number 6 shot.  Birds   went down, and went down hard.

Uplanders Warehouse

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/shot/

Hankook Dynapro ATM

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/shot/

SportDOG Nutrition

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/shot/

Beretta A400 XPLR Light, 12 gauge

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Badlands Birdvest

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Garmin Oregon 450T GPS

&

Hunting GPS Maps

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/bobs-day/

Ram 1500

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/bobs-day/

Cabela’s Active Lite Jacket

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/page/2/

Irish Setter Upland DSS King Toe Hunting Boots

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

 

 

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Another Shot

2 comments

Our initial trek to Eastern Colorado did not produce positive results.  Cover was thin and birds were scare.   We witnessed only a half a dozen birds (one rooster) situated in both walk-in-areas (WIA) and prime private land.  The hunting chat rooms underscored the challenges associated with the 2013-2014 upland season.  Some people found birds, but most struggled.  Not unlike past years, crowds diminish after the first couple of weeks.  To that point, I set up our men’s three day hunting trip for the third weekend of the season.

Four of us headed out to Northeast Colorado on Friday morning.  My favorite field has CRP that abuts freshly cut corn on three of the four sides.  As we neared what I would deem the most productive section of land, I split the group so we could begin to pinch the most dense cover.  Deep snow drifts made it difficult for the dogs to get to the bottom of the draw.  Otis and Pride ran quickly through the hundred yards of prime territory, and the hunters moved into advantageous positions.  Unfortunately, there was not a bird present.  I sent a quick text to a rancher friend of mine, and asked him if we could hunt his property.  He responded positively so we headed north to his house. 

While we were enjoying a vacation day, my friend was hard at work.  I asked him if he needed assistance.  He refused, acknowledging our desire to hunt, as well as his need to get an important project accomplished.  I convinced him that the hunting could wait, and that we would like to help.  The rancher explained that his cows needed to be moved to a new pasture.  We set up an electric fence, emptied and moved water troughs, and then we took the cows from one field to another.  Dave, Jeff, Bob and I actually had a good time completing our tasks.  The time was 3:15 pm, and we had about ninety minutes of hunting time available. 

Just to the north of the residence there is a bit of CRP that extends through a fifty yard tree line.  I told Dave and Jeff to enter the eastern part of the field quietly, and we would start our walk from the west.  As Bob and I drove by the tree row, we spotted two roosters walking into the tall grass.  Soon after piling out, Pride became immediately birdy and darted ahead of us.  As we approached the trees, a hen jumped in front of Jeff.  I yelled to be ready as there were at least two colored birds in our presence.  Pride took a sharp left and moved toward the fence line, so I shouldered my Beretta in hopes that the running bird would rise.  The roosters did eventually take flight; just sixty yards out of our range. 

I took the group into the adjacent CRP strips and formulated a plan.  Dave, Jeff and Otis would sneak to the east and begin to slowly walk to Bob and me.  As the four hunters came within twenty yards of one another I asked everyone to pause.  As we stood motionless, deciding on our next move, a rooster busted from the deep cover.  He flew west then banked a hard left moving toward the south.  Shots rang out as the mortally wounded bird glided seventy five yards before plummeting to earth.  Our dogs marked the downed bird and headed to fetch him.  The first bird of the trip was in the bag, and the last bit of the day’s sun settled in the west.

Day two was cold (nine degrees) and had us patrolling uncharted territory; northwest Nebraska.  Navigating the maps we eventually found the available CRP fields, but there was no sign of birds.  Four hours of hunting, and no opportunities had us heading back into town for some lunch.  We asked the locals for any recommendations, but mum was the word of the day.  As we were leaving, a friendly waitress suggested we try some areas just north of our position.  The first CRP field looked similar to the others, but had some unique structure abutting it.  We piled out quietly, and surrounded the area.  Otis darted up the center, obviously excited by something.  I started to run behind him as my instincts indicated potential action.   Without warning, a hen followed by a large number of pheasants, flushed from the tall grass.  I selected the first rooster and fired.  Unscathed he banked a hard left and moved away from my position.  Fortunately, a second rooster jumped up, and a single HEVI-Shot Pheasant shell downed him immediately.  Birds were still exploding from their position at the edge of the cover, but no rooster was close enough for another shot. 

The next WIA seemed to be untouched as the snow had no visible markings around it.   As we slowed down next to the field, a dozen birds exploded from the pit adjacent to the road.  The guys piled out of the trucks, and moved through the ditch in order to obtain a solid, legal shooting position.  More birds poured out, and headed away from the road.  I heard some shots but I stayed in the truck.  Despite the furious action, no pheasants were taken from the field.  We hunted multiple public areas the rest of the day, but were only able to push up a single hen. 

Day three’s plan would be to visit a few familiar Colorado fields, and hunt them until about ten am.  The first WIA is lined with rocky mountain junipers as well as plum trees.   The area had been hunted in previous days as there were boot tracks everywhere.  We marched the dogs into the wind, and bumped a coyote toward the end of the tree line.  Realizing that the predator would have moved any birds out of that area, we headed back to the trucks.  Our next field was minutes away, and had a few mounds of spilled corn around the contiguous road.  We managed to jump one hen on our walk west.  The wind was blowing from the south at twenty MPH, so we pointed the dogs into the wind and continued the hike.  Otis started to weave quickly on the field’s western edge.  I decided it was best to hasten my pace and keep up with him.  The fifty yard run culminated with two hens flying out of the corner of the field.  Otis’ young nose was on and he was not stopping.  For the first time on the trip, pheasant tracks marked the two-day old snow.  I watched Bob on my left as Pride was getting birdy in front of him.  Otis rocketed east then took a hard right, and moved a rooster out of his concealed position.  Bob and I fired at once, and the bird tumbled to the ground.  We decided to continue our hike toward the east; a mistake, given hindsight.  Almost immediately, Otis and Pride started to sprint after evading birds, and we attempted to keep up.  As we neared the center of the field we witnessed two sets of four pheasants fly across the road.  Admittedly, I make a tactical error.  I should have worked back to the road, and blocked for Jeff, Dave and Bob.  We piled into the trucks, and headed to our final field of the day.  Another forty five minute walk resulted in Pride taking me to the edge of a cornfield where he startled a hen hunkered down in the adjacent ditch.

After a big breakfast, we make our way back to Parker.  Despite the conditions, the second trip was really enjoyable.  I have great friends that stay positive and hunt hard.  While the bird sightings were rare, we managed to execute a few times when opportunities were presented.  There are eight weeks left in the season.  We will look for a significant weather change then head back east to give it another go.

Reviews

Product

Review

Sport-DOG   Upland Hunter 1875

http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/unlucky-lucky/

HEVI-Shot   Pheasant

Six shots, three   pheasants down. I have not had to make an extremely long shot yet (40   yards+).  That said, I am confident of   the lethal, knockdown power of the shell.

Uplanders Warehouse

Visit the site   and get all you need in upland products.   

Hankook   Dynapro ATM

Another 670 miles   of tough driving in 2.5 days.  These   are great tires.

SportDOG Nutrition

SportDOG C9   nutrition keeps Pride in the field.  He   is 10 years old and continues to work all day, every day.  I am absolutely committed to these   supplements. 

Beretta A400 XPLR Light, 12 gauge

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Badlands Birdvest

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Garmin Oregon 450T GPS

 

Hunting GPS Maps

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/bobs-day/

Ram 1500

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/bobs-day/

Columbia Upland   Freezer Long Sleeve Shirt

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Columbia Full   Flight Chukar Pant

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

Irish Setter   Upland DSS King Toe Hunting Boots

See http://www.huntfishgolfwork.com/my-2012-2013-season-ends/

 

 

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