Outdoors With Dave Richey

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Hunting The Late-Season Gobbler

Two gobblers crossed the road ahead of our car as my neighbor and I headed for town. Both birds had long beards, and were traveling together. Twp buddies in pursuit of a willing hen.

We had to get to town but I thought of them for four hours. They were heading fowardr a distant woodlot, and it’s likely both gobblers will roost in that woods tonight. Would it be possible to call one in tomorrow?

It would be a last-ditch effort. We think got zapped Sunday night by lightning. Who knows what caused the problem, but until today several days after my hunting season ended, turkey hunting has been the farthest thing from my mind. My buddy has a late-season permit.

I’m thinking of making an early-morning foray to the woodlot. I can get close by sticking near a combination fence line-hedge row, and maybe I can pinpoint their roosting location. If so, there is a chance this late in the season that one or the other, or both, will come to the call.

It will be a quick in-and-out hunt. Approach closely, work into position under cover of darkness. sit still., and whisper a love-sick hen call at dawn. I’ll give them a chance to gobble if they choose to, but if they don’t make a sound, I’ll see if I can stir a gobble or two out of them. If that doesn’t work, I can only hope one will come sneaking in to the call.

It’s highly likely they won’t be there. I should be out right now trying to roost the birds, but computer problems have messed up my schedule. I’ve just seen too many situations where the birds can travel a mile or two in the last hour or two before dark.

These Toms have been around here all season, and some hens have already had their little feather-ball babies, so perhaps a gobbler or two will come to visit a sexy-sounding hen. And again, maybe they won’t move my way at all.

It will be me, light-weight camo clothing, camo hat, face mask, brown gloves and my Remington Model 870 3-inch magnum 12 gauge shotgun stoked with No. 5 copper-plated shot.

If things go as planned, and the gobblers walk out to me (haven’t figured out yet whether to take a hen decoy or not), I aim to be ready. This is my last-chance day, and I want it to be as good as it can be.

There is no room for errors, and if this hunt works, it will be a first for me. I’ve never shot a gobbler on the last day of the season, but then again, I’ve never had to.

Hunting this late in the season has never been necessary. If I’m going to shoot a bird, I almost always have done it on the first or second day of my hunting season. This year, my golden opportunity was wrecked by two people walking down the road.

I’m not mad at them because they have as much right to be there as I had being where I was at, but I had a gobbler in front of me and another behind me, and both were heading for the hen. It can be the best spot to be in, and it was obvious I hadn’t factored in the walkers.

So that took care of my best opportunity. Whatever happens tomorrow morning will be the result of a last-ditch effort.

The gobblers may respond or they may be a mile or two away. I don’t know, and I don’t care, but I know one thing.

Unless lightning is flashing, and a storm is passing overhead, come dawn tomorrow, I’ll be back-up to a big tree, and whining, cutting, purring and yelping for all I’m worth ... if that’s what it takes to call in a gobbler.

Because the season ends tomorrow. There will be no more chances until next year, so I’ll do the best job possible. It will either be good enough to lure a gobbler within 40 yards or it won’t. Hopefully, my season will end with a bang.

If not, I’ve had a good season.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Trespass: An Ugly Word For Landowners.

Trespass is one of the most troubling problems that landowners face. Many folks get rip-roaring mad at the invasion of strange people on their land.

I intensely dislike arrogant, loud and rude people. I have problems with those who take my friendship for granted, and come to hunt when not invited. I dislike people who know me and who think because we speak occasionally they can hunt my posted land.

Hunters now have a tougher time finding a place to hunt, and for many reasons. One is that more deer and other game is found on private land than public land. Landowners do not owe anyone an opportunity to hunt their land, and when permission is granted, hunters must honor that privilege. Permission, in most cases, is given on a day-to-day basis. One-time granting of permission doesn’t mean people can hunt other times without asking.

If hunters haven’t figured it out yet, if you snooze you lose in this game. Gaining permission to hunt is a time consuming process, and it’s certainly not getting easier. Rude people can hunt on federal or state land because most property owners won’t allow them on their land.

Here are a number of tips to follow when trying to obtain hunting permission. If one or more of these tips apply to you, it may be time to rethink your methodology. Enough “no’s” means there is something wrong with you or your presentation.

*Ask for permission, even if the land is not posted against hunting or trespassing. State law requires verbal permission. Now, not this fall is when you should be asking for permission. Don’t wait for the season open to ask. Do it now.

*One thing that turns many landowners off from granting permission is a dirty looking or unkempt person. A beard is fine if trimmed. People judge others by their cleanliness and their attitude. Someone who is as tidy as an unmade bed seldom gets to hunt. Screaming kids, barking dogs, loud music, and rude behavior are things that will tip the scales against hunters ever gaining legitimate access to private land.

*Respect another person’s space. Don’t crowd someone you don’t know. Be soft spoken, don’t cuss, act well mannered, and be well spoken. Show landowners proof of identification, and if they want to copy this information as a way of knowing your identity, allow them to do so. People who claim a landowner doesn’t need to know their name and address will probably never be welcome on any private hunting land.

*Look the landowner in the eye and shake hands, and introduce yourself. Ask for a few minutes of their time. People who can’t look a landowner in the eye won’t go very far toward gaining permission.

*Seek hunting permission long before you wish to hunt, and preferably before hunting season begins. Never wait until the last minute. Plan visits to the owner right after lunch or early in the evening when the landowner is likely to be home or not busy. Be willing to return at a prearranged time when it is convenient for the farmer to talk.

*Ask for permission for yourself or with only one other person. Never take a crowd of people to the door, and never carry a firearm when asking permission. Keep any hunting dog in the car or truck where they belong and where they won’t get in a fight with the farmer’s dogs.

*Try to arrange for hunting permission on several widely-spaced farms. This may assure you of a place to hunt if the landowner is not home or if others are using the property.

*Ask the farmer if there are crop lands or other farm areas that are off limits to outside hunters. This is a major landowner complaint: people trample all over the farm and go where they shouldn’t be hunting.

*Leave gates the way you find them. If a gate is open when you arrive, leave it open. If it is closed, close it after you pass through the area.

*Never shoot near farm buildings where people and livestock are living. Observe all safety zone areas, and know that it is illegal to discharge a firearm within 450 feet of dwellings and out-buildings.

*Leave no trash behind. If you find litter, pick it up and tell the landowner where you found it. Courteous hunters often are invited back. Those who leave litter behind are never welcome again, and such slobs don’t deserve to hunt another man’s property.

*When the hunt ends, thank the landowner for the opportunity to hunt their property. They will then know you have left the farm, and will not worry about you being lost or stuck on a farm trail or in a field.

*Be polite. Yes, sir or yes, mam never hurt. A please and thank you are the sign of a good upbringing. Such things are measured by farmers, and people who follow such polite customs are far more welcome than people with boorish manners.

*It is polite and wise to offer the landowner a piece of game or to promise some venison after it has been cut up and frozen. This goodwill gesture can go a long way toward keeping the hunting door open, and improving the image of hunters as well.

Friday, May 09, 2008

May Bow Hunting Dreams

I can’t deny it. I am well and truly in love with deer hunting, especially with a bow.

On occasion, in the spring when time permits, I spend several idle hours dreaming about the upcoming bow season. There are so many things that fire me up, and I spent an hour today thinking about the upcoming season. It was somewhat like a kid thinking about his next Christmas wish list.

*I always dream about hunting the bow opener. I think about it for months, trying to puzzle out where to sit, and knowing full well I’ll make my determination on a hunting stand 10 minutes before I climb into it. Thoughts revolve around the possible weather, whether we’ll shake all the October east winds, and which patterned deer I’ll hunt for.

*Friends are an important part of my hunting season. I like to photograph deer, and have that thought in mind when I choose my spot. I seldom shoot a buck on opening day, and like to spend some time hunting different locations to see what moves through each area.

*I dream of a new stand that will be in place. It allows me to cover an area where no one ever sits. I’m convinced, because of all the deer sign, that it is home to some very nice bucks. I saw one moving through thr area last fall during the rut when I was running late in getting to a stand that night. The buck disappeared into the tag alders, but not before I caught a quick glimpse of his rack. That one look told me that no one shot him last year, and there is a need for a stand in this location.

*Those golden and fiery October sunsets light up my life just as they light up the western sky. There seems to be a certain something about autumn sunrises and sunsets, and it’s never tiring to look at each one and know I have another 30 minutes for this patterned buck to show up and offer a shot.

*Late October features the beginning of the rut, and this pre-rut period is one of great activity and offers a chance to see a really huge buck as he begins bird-dogging does It’s an exciting time, and occasionally a heavy antlered buck will take a hunter by surprise. It’s a time when hunting the mid-day hours can produce good sport.

*Hunting on a daily basis gives me great insight into where deer traveli Several friends who hunt in the three or areas I hunt keep me informed about the sudden appearance or disappearance of any ig bucks. These deer can appear or disappear overnight, and it doesn’t mean they’ve gone far, but they have switched their habits to cope with rutting demands.

*I dream of the heart-pounding excitement that comes when a big buck steps out, and my C.P. Oneida Black Eagle bow comes up and back as I prepare to aim and shoot. Hunting, I’ve found, is a matter of following the old Boy Scout motto: Always be prepared.

*This first month of bow hunting is often spent determining where to place a new stand, trying to figure out whether an old stand should be removed or replaced. It means checking deer trails, spotting deer from a long distance, and studying their daily patterns. People who scout, all 2 months of the year, have a huge leg up on hunters who never scout their hunting areas.

*Hunting deer, to my way of thinking, is just about as much fun as anything I know of. There is a big difference between hunting and shooting or killing, and it takes a sportsman many long years of in-the-field time to realize the difference. I hunt to have hunted, and every year a few deer fall to well-placed arrows. In the end, I believe that hunting is much more important than killing although a kill is the end result of a hunt in which everything came together at one moment in time.

That moment produces a shot. These thoughts were some of today’s daydreams.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Lower Peninsula Summer Fishing Hotspots

Forty years of chasing fish for magazine articles, newspaper pieces, internet stories and nosing about for hot outdoor news has been fun. It’s given me the luxury of picking the brains of angling experts. They’ve shared some of their knowledge with me so that my angler-readers can catch more fish.

Men such as Don Podraza, Dan Gapen, Sr., Ron Levitan and Steve VanAssche are just a few of many who have added greatly to my fishing knowledge. Some are household names,, others are not, but all are great fishermen.

Muskies

“Trolling for muskies is fun and can be very productive,” said Podraza of Sturgeon Bay, Wisc., a man who has caught hundreds of legal muskies. “But, in Wisconsin where I live, very few lakes are open to trolling. So ... we cast crankbaits, jerkbaits and spinnerbaits with great effectiveness. That effectiveness is a relative thing. Often, nothing we try excites a muskie and the angler goes home empty-handed.

“The sight of a big muskie following a lure provides some heady excitement, so we stand in a stable boat and fish near fallen trees that have toppled into the water near a drop-off. Search for submerged humps or the tips of long tapering points that fall off into deep water or fish the inside or outside edges of weed beds. We study the water near our lures through polarized sunglasses, and if a fish is seen following the lure, we’ll return several times during the day to fish that area.”

Podraza uses jerkbaits such as a Bobbie Bait, Eddie Bait, Suick or other floating-diving lures that dart first to one side or the other when rod tip action is applied. He fishes a medium-stiff rod and a double-jerk retrieve. He will cast, jerk, reel up the slack, and double-jerk the lure. These lures bob to the surface on slack line, and will dive and dart when jerked, and then start floating back toward the surface before a double-jerk takes the lure down and slanting first in one direction and then the other.

“Keep the line tight at all times, and use a J-shape or Figure 8 lure movement every time the lure reaches the boat and before it is lifted from the water,” he said. “Many following muskies fail to strike, and often, the fish that do hit zoom up from deep water to strike at boat-side. Be ready at all times to set the hooks, and set them hard! An angler must work hard to catch muskies, and that is what makes this endeavor so much fun when a big fish is hooked and landed.”

Steve VanAssche trolls Lake St. Clair for muskies, and uses planer boards to run his lines out some distance from each side of the boat. His favorite lures include the Lokie and Wylie lures. Frequent checking of the lures for weeds is very important, and changing lures helps his anglers catch more fish.

Northern Pike

Dan Gapen of Big Lake, Minn. is a longtime ishing buddy, and he owns Gapen Tackle, and fishes all around the world, but enjoys tangling with big northern pike wherever they are found.

“I’d rather fish off a large river mouth early in the season and concentrate my efforts along the first drop-off or weed bed,” Gapen said. “I’d probably fish with an Ugly Bug tipped with a fathead or shiner minnow, and it should be fished as slow as possible.”

A jig, he feels, is one of the hottest pike lures in the world, but many people would rather fish with spoons. He said if he trolls, he’d use a Baitwalker rig with an 18-inch leader down to a hefty shiner minnow and lip-hook the bait fish with a long-shank No. 6 hook.

He suggests trolling along the deep-water edge of newly emerged weed beds, and feels a slow trolling speed is best. “Cover small weed beds from various angles, and you’ll catch fish,” he said. “Big lures catch big fish, and my line of Polish-made plugs have an action that pike love.”

The larger size Flub Dub is a holographic lure that comes in a variety of colors and the larger sizes are perfect for casting along the deep-water edges of a weed bed for muskies. The deep-diving Polish Bluegill in the largest size is perfect for fishing deep-water structure such as submerged humps and the deep-water edges of rocky points. Gapen’s huge Weedcutter spinnerbait is ideal for cranking hard and fast over and along the outside edges of heavy weeds.

Walleyes

These game fish have finished spawning in most Michigan waters some time ago, and Al Lindner of Brainerd, Minn., cut his angling teeth on this game fish. He has been a guide, fishing tackle manufacturer, lecturer and outdoor writer. When he speaks, anglers pay attention.

“Many of the biggest walleyes in any lake will spawn in the lake and not in rivers, and the best spot to catch trophies in the spring is where deep water is found near shore over a rubble bottom,” he said. “I like to use as light a line as possible, and six-pound monofilament will land almost any walleye that swims if the fish is played carefully.

“I like to fish a jig-minnow or a jig-crawler rig if I’m casting or troll with a large-bladed crawler harness or a No. 9 Rapala. Fish these rigs very slowly along bottom, and thoroughly cover all water from every possible angle. Sometimes we have to work hard to get walleyes to hit.”

One trick I’ve learned that works well when jig fishing is to cut the V-shaped throat latch from under the walleye’s chin. Hook that to a yellow jig, and hop it along bottom at a snail’s pace. Walleyes are suckers for that rig when it is fished along a sharp dropoff in the spring. It can be deadly when fished after dark on any shoal frequented by walleyes.

Ron Levitan of Milford, Mich. fishes Lake Erie for walleyes, and he is one of the top walleye skippers on the lake. He trolls Hot ‘n Tots, Wee Warts and Wiggle Warts, and Silver Streak spoons, off planer boards. It’s not uncommon to hook a dozen fish during a troll along a weed bed or in open water where fish are schooled up to eat forage fish.

“Lake Erie is probably the best walleye hole in North America,” Levitan said. “We have several year-classes of fish, and it’s always possible to catch a nine- or 10-pound walleye, especially late in the year (November or December). June and July are great summer months for walleyes

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

A Rousing Endorsement For Brook Trout

A small stream flows out of some springs in the hills, sneaks through a cedar swamp like a thief in the night,, and then it picks up a bit more water and flows out and crosses under a dirt road as nothing more than tiny trickle of water passing through a culvert.

State land abounds upstream and down from this dirt road, and occasionally I move into the cedars on the upstream side, and pay homage to all of the brook trout, both large and small, of the world.

There are places much larger than this spot where other trout feed on brookies the size that I catch, but that’s of little concern to me. I’m here, and a nine-inch brook trout is an exceptional catch. I’ve fished some of North America’s finest brook trout waters, and have loved every minute of all of them.

On this day I’m using a brass No. 0 Mepps single-hook spinner. The fishing is oh so simple, and the trout are oh so naive. I fish this area perhaps once each year, and sometimes will go two or three years without trying for them.

The tiny creek flows under and through the cedar roots, and the trick is to stand on one root wad, lower the wee spinner into the flowing water almost underfoot, and if a brook trout lives there, it will hit the spinner. I normally cut two hooks off the treble hook, and fish with just one hook.

A gem of a fish jumped on my spinner, giving as spirited a battle as his six-inch size would allow, and kneeling down, I eased the hook from the undersized brook trout’s jaw and set him free. Two root wads later, I was into another fish.

This one was a bit bigger, and had more pluck than the first fish. He tried to wind my line into the roots but I was able to keep it almost below my feet in the tiny pool of water he called home.

I kneeled, wet my hand, and the rod pressure skidded him into my palm. There was a sense of slippery fish, hard-fleshed and cold. One look at this brook trout was enough to make my day.

He was nine inches of beauty. The dark worm-like vermiculations on his back faded into a glistening array of beauty dotting his sides. The wee red and blue haloed spots seemed to sparkle like rubies and other rare jewels in the muted swamp sunlight. White racing stripes covered the outside edge of his fins, and this was a fish of wild places.

Keep him or put him back. It didn’t matter because he flopped a bit in my hands, and fell back into his living room. I was fine with that, and kept fishing but kept thinking of other brook trout from the past.

I remember a spectacular day in Algonquin Provincial Park north of Toronto, Ontario, where my wife and I,and two other anglers, carried two canoes into a small lake known to produce an occasional good fish.

We were using light-action spinning rods, reels stocked with six-pound monofilament, and a box containing three dozen Eppinger Devle Dogs in blue-silver, green-silver, orange-silver, all silver, pearl and copper. For whatever the reason, in some of Canada’s tannic-acid stained lakes, the water color looks like weak tea, and a copper spoon works well.

My wife, Kay, was the first to connect with a brookie hooked off the end of a toppled tree that lay in the water. This fish was a lake fish, and not brightly colored like a stream brook trout, but what it lacked in pretty was made up for with size. She battled this big squaretail for five minutes before I slipped a net under 5 1/2 pounds of white-finned brook trout.

She wound up catching two fish that day from the canoe while I caught one from a big rock along the lake. My fish was decked out with the white piping along the fin edges, and one of Kay’s fish fed the four hungry anglers. The others were released.

Brook trout are where you find them. Some are easy to catch like the small brookies from tiny streams, and others are large fish from some inland lakes. The lake fish, contrary to what it seemed with us catching three huge brook trout in a day, are far more difficult to catch in a lake.

It’s a hit-or-miss situation, and quite frankly, anglers miss more often than they score. I used to fish a lake in Quebec north of Ottawa, and it produced a 6 1/2-pounder that I have mounted. However, I hooked and lost one potbellied brook trout of about nine pounds near the canoe, and have never forgotten the size of that monster brook trout.

That lake was tested with a gill net once by the Quebec fisheries biologists, and they took one brook trout of over 12 pounds from it. That lake, sadly, was part of a lease some friends had on about 40 square miles of bush country.

That lease covered 45 lakes, but only two held big brook trout. The others had pike and walleyes. Unfortunately, these friends lost their lease when the Quebec government dropped it, and it’s anyone’s guess if the lake still holds big trout.

Brook trout always make me think of remote areas, cold water, and a wildly successful day or one where our arms get tired casting spoons or flies to fish that will not respond. And that is a good thing; if all brookies hit every day like they did that day in Algonquin Park, the water would soon hold other fish but the brook trout would all be gone.

Only those anglers, with a strong will to not keep a limit catch, will save brook trout ... wherever they are found.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

41 Years Of Helping New Writers

There are many important things in life, but being a full-time outdoor writer has been my profession and that makes me feel good. I’m long past the stage where seeing my name in print is needed to provide me with an ego stroke.

This is my 41st year of writing about the great outdoors. I wrote my first story in 1967 and sold it to Sports Afield. The next five stories also were sold to outdoor magazines with another piece going to Sports Afield.

Then came two hard years of rejection slips, but as time passed, more and more stories were sold. I began with a goal of writing for the Big Three magazines—Field & Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield—and it took four years of work to make a sale to all three.

My next goal was to sell to as many magazines as possible. That led to sales to over 300 different magazines before I quit counting, and there has been more than 7,200 published magazine articles.

My ultimate goal was to become one of the most published outdoor writers ever, and although I no longer strive to fulfill that goal, I am, without meaning to brag, at or very near the top of the heap. I worked pretty much full-time for Outdoor Life magazines for over six years, and during one year had over 140 articles published in that magazine alone.

Somewhere along the way, another goal was established: to write books. To date, I’ve written 25 on fishing and hunting. Thousands of magazine covers and inside black-and-white and color photos have been published.

I’ve had my own radio outdoor show, appeared on countless television programs with a wide host of celebrity people. I guided trout and salmon fishermen for 10 years, guided bear and deer hunters for four years, and led hunts for bear and caribou.

My travels have taken me all across North America and to within several hundred miles of the North Pole, and as far away as New Zealand. I’ve fished for, and hunted for, every species of animal, bird or fish that could ever spin my wheels.

I’ve given thousands of lectures, been a platform speaker for many years, and had a 20-year emcee job at the Detroit Boat & Fishing Show. I’ve given private and public seminars, and all through my 41 years, I’ve done what I wanted to do and went where I wanted to go. Like Frank Sinatra once sang: I did it my way.

Out of all of this travel, and so many outdoor experiences, have come this wealth of work. I count, among my many joys, being an Active, Life member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America (OWAA), as one of the greatest successes in my career.

OWAA became a part of my life in 1968, and I attended my first conference in 1969. I’ve attended every OWAA conference since 1976 in Snowmass, Colorado, and have chaired or served on perhaps 50 different OWAA committees.

I’ve been truly honored by having been awarded the Ham Brown Award, OWAA’s highest member award, and their Excellence in Craft Award. They also named me a Legendary Communicator in 2005, and the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame inducted me into their prestigious Hall of Fame in 2006 as a Legendary Communicator.

Guess what? All of this is very important to me, but there is something even more important behind this 41-year body of work. It is a very simple personal philosophy: What Goes Around, Comes Around. You give, you get.

I’ve given freely of my time for 41 years to help other writers. I never viewed another writer as a competitor. Every chance I’ve had to help someone become a better outdoor writer, I’ve given freely of my time ... without pay. OWAA has a Mentor Program, but I’d been mentoring writers for many years before the organization chose to allow some of us graybeards to share our knowledge with others.

Is this sharing of knowledge important? Certainly. It’s just as important as having parents or guardians mentor youngsters about fishing and hunting. If we don’t teach our children, why would they consider these outdoor pastimes in the near future? The obvious answer is, they won’t.

If I, and others, don’t give of ourselves to help mentor and teach beginning outdoor writers and sporsmen, who will carry this torch of fishing and hunting freedom into the foreseeable future?

I’ve given of my energy, talent and time to mentor outdoor writers and to mentor children. There no longer is a need for me to make a name for myself. I’m happily content to write my daily fishing and hunting weblog, and a Sunday Outdoor Column for the Traverse City Record-Eagle. I’m equally content to bask in whatever glory has come my way over these 41 years.

But all awards and honors aside, what makes me feel good is to write things people want to read, and to help mentor people who wish to become outdoor writers. Someday, in the future, once my race has been run, all I care for is to be remembers as being a good person, a good parent, a good husband, a good writer, and someone who always stepped forward to help readers understand more about the outdoors.

For me, that has been sufficient.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Morels Are Still Reasonably Plentiful

My eldest son, David, didn’t learn this from his daddy. Morel mushrooms must be big enough for me to trip over before I can see them. The basic truth is he can see them and I cannot.

Even at that, if they are a bit soft, they won’t trip me up. I can walk by a 10-inch tall white morel mushroom, and not see it even though I’m looking for the tasty fungi.

David got his in-the-field training from Mark Rinckey of Honor. This happened several years ago. They went out together, and David picked up some of Mark’s key points.

He was taught to look for black ash and popple trees. He was taught to check the level places, the side-hills, and steep slopes, and even the bottom of a valley. He was told that south-facing slopes pay off in cool weather because the south slopes get the most sunlight.

David learned that if you find one morel, look close, and chances are very good there will be others nearby. He learned those lessons well.

He went out mushroom hunting today at a spot he had found. He wouldn’t return to any of Rinckey’s hotspots. It’s an ethical thing, and I can lay claim to instilling that lesson in my son.

He began with two large onion bags, and within an hour they were filled and he’d picked about five pounds. He was ecstatic about his good fortune, as were we because we’d have some for dinner.

“It pays to learn from an expert,” he said, holding up a 12-inch morel as proof. “We’ve had so much rain lately, and all we needed was a bit of warmer weather. Can’t stick around. I left one spot with at least a dozen more big mushrooms but I had no way of carrying any more.”

He had taken his two dogs with him the first time, and the dogs stepped on some of the mushrooms. He left the dogs in his car with the window down slightly, and headed back into the woods near Mesick.

Many mushroom pickers felt the mushroom fruiting season had ended a week or two ago, but such apparently isn’t true. David said that everywhere he went today, there were white morels.

“I didn’t see a single person in the woods,” he noted. “Everything is still wet from heavy rains last week, but that’s fine by me. I can walk along at a steady pace, look ahead for black ash trees, and keep finding morel mushrooms.”

He did say that a few of the morels he found were pretty old, and he didn’t pick them. He also said he wasn’t finding very many false morels.

“Good spots are near ash-popple stands,” he said, “but I’m finding quite a few near old stumps, on small hummocks, and even in the low bottoms of valleys where water has run downhill. I think the abundance of rain has helped the mushrooms grow in some places where normally I wouldn’t be looking for them.”

He said some of the white morels stand up straight, and some are tall and then begin to curve sideways from the weight of the fruiting head. He said a couple of the largest mushrooms would weigh several ounces, and in such cases, it’s difficult not to pick a heavy bag of mushrooms.

His picking strategy is similar to many people although he doesn’t uproot the base of the mushroom or break off the stem. He uses a sharp knife, and cuts through the stem close to the ground. It leaves a clean cut, and he can utilize more of the stem this way. Breaking the stem is not a good idea because they often break at the weakest point, and that can leave too much stem behind.

I used to shake each mushroom back in the days when I could see them. It was how I was taught to pick them, and the thought behind shakin-

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Murphy’s Law Wins Again

Today was the nicest day of this second turkey season in Area K. It was clear and cool when we got into a good spot to listen early this morning. My buddy Arnie Minka of Grawn was giving me a break: no turkey talking for me today. He would handle the calling chores on the last day of my turkey hunt.

There was no wind, which was a blessing after all of the wind of the past two weeks, and we sat quietly waiting to see if any gobblers sounded off at daybreak. Dawn was a pink blemish on the eastern horizon when the first bird gobbled nearly a mile away.

Five minute later another bird gobbled, hit a double-lick, and then single-gobbled to punctuate his earlier comment. Two minutes later the bird, perhaps 250 yards away, gobbled again and then another bird gobbled a half-mile to the west.

We sat patiently, waiting for another gobble, and weren’t disappointed. The only thing is this bird was off in the woods several hundred yards away, and the hens were talking up a storm. Arnie let him gobble again, and then stroked out a soft yelp on a box call.

Two birds gobbled hard, took a breath and gobbled again. I’m thinking this is a little bit of alright. Arnie was grinning under his face mask.

He switched, just to see if it would work, to a slate call. The peg rasped out a soft purr and whine, and both birds lit up again. He didn’t want to rush the calling too much. He wanted to let it get a bit brighter so it would be easier for me to see an approaching bird.

He picked up the slate call again, drew the peg in a soft j-stroke and the soft yelp turned on one of the birds. He rasped out a throaty gobble, roaring hard, and that forced the bird 250 yards away into a similar response.

Here we were on this wooded hilltop, approximately halfway between two lusty gobblers. The bird farthest away gobbled once, and it sounded as if he was closing the gap. Arnie gave another soft yelp on the slate call, and both birds answered. This was getting pretty exciting.

The neat thing was we were working two birds, and their male ego or whatever turkeys possess wouldn’t let either bird give in. Box call or slate, it made no difference. Both birds were coming, and he softly teased them with another soft yelp and purr.

They gobbled, each bird now within about 200 yards, and the furthest bird double-gobbled and I thought I could see him approaching the tempting hen decoy. The other bird gobbled, rattling the woods, and Arnie whined softly on the box call, and that lit him up like a July 4th fireworks display.

All of a sudden, there was no noise. Not a turkey gobble, not a crow cawed, and Arnie hit another soft lick on the box call and slate. Nothing. The birds had gone mysteriously silent.

Why, I wondered, he hadn’t hit any bad notes with his calls. Something had to have frightened the birds.

Two people were tending to farm chores. It wasn’t hunter harassment, but more like Murphy’s Law crimping our style.

We quickly moved our base of operations 100 yards, and tried again. There was no gobbles, no nothing. It was as if the ground had opened up, and swallowed both birds.

There was a vantage point another 100 yards away where we could see where the other bird had been, and we made our way to it. I laid my shotgun aside, and we spent 20 minutes glassing woodlots and open fields on both sides of the road.

We sat back, thought about it, and began glassing an area across the road. A gobbler stood out in the field at least 500 yards away, and was watching the road. He was a half-mile away from us, and there was only one way that might put us within range.

It would be a mile hike, and we dropped off our hill top vantage point, studied the terrain where the other bird had been, and saw nothing. We moved through the woods, across plowed fields, crossed the road and entered the woods.

We moved slowly and silently through the wet woodlot, and eventually got to within 200 yards of where the bird had been. That joker had disappeared. We walked through a woodlot, and never saw him again.

Several other spots were tried, and we took a long scouting ride, but there were no more turkeys.  We saw one jake with a two-inch beard, and he never received any consideration from me. I’d let him grow.

My season ended early this evening when four hens and two jakes were spotted crossing a field and heading for their roosting area. They offered us a brief thrill but we both realized that Mr. Murphy had ridden on our backs all day. He proved, once again, that if anything can go wrong on a turkey hunt, it will.

The good thing was our hunt was fun while it lasted.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Sportsmen Must Work For Change.

Guess what? Fishing isn’t the same as it was 10 years ago, and it won’t be the same in 2018 as it is today.

Fishing and hunting, to some extent, have become fragmented. How are they different? There are many ways to look at them, such as:

Years ago, a bear hunter bought a license and went hunting. Now, we supposedly have scientific and sound wildlife management, and that means more bears are killed each year under a quota system than were ever killed under the old rules.

And that’s OK because we have more bears now than we had 10 years ago, and the animals are moving into new locations, and management means determining the social carrying capacity of bruins. How many bears will people tolerate near their homes before they start squawking? No one really knows that answer but if bruins move into neighborhoods in southern countiers, it’s certain to happen. Bears have been seen almost to the Indiana border, and certainly around Grand Rapids, Lansing, Midland and in the Thumb counties.

We now have elk hunts with different rules than years ago. The rules only affect those people who draw an elk tag. I applied for an elk tag since they had their first hunt in 1964. I’ve never been drawn, but instead of drawing names from those who have applied and were not drawn, the DNR is enforcing new rules. And frankly, I’m not the only one who has applied and been denied. It means that hunters who drew an elk tag years ago can still draw one. Does this make sense to anyone?

The DNR had a chance to allow Region II turkey hunters to obtain some private-land turkey tags that would guarantee a first- or second-season hunt, but pressure from other special interest groups speak louder than the mumbles of regional landowners. So, private-land turkey tags (ZZ-type tags) can be obtained in the Upper Peninsula in those counties where birds are hunted, and in southern Lower Peninsula counties, but again Region II landowners have got shafted by the state.

It appears the DNR is caving in to special interest groups. In case you haven’t noticed, those special interest groups are in the face of the DNR biologists to get what they want, not what is fair to others. Those hunters who should be talking to DNR wildlife biologists are not. The squeaky wheel always gets the grease.

Do you remember when Michigan had their statewide trout season opener on the last Saturday in April. And then, in hopes of streamlining our fishing seasons, the DNR allowed Lower Peninsula muskie, pike and walleye fishing to open at the same time. There are countless sports shops in the Lower Peninsula, and this ruling several years ago, denied sportsmen and sports shops two distinct opening days—trout and walleye, etc. Anglers had to make a choice.

Guess which fish species people chose, and in resounding fashion? It wasn’t trout, which are harder to catch. Those people who opened the trout season, and then on May 15, opened the walleye season jumped for joy. They got over two more weeks of walleye fishing, and the sporting goods stores lost an opportunity to make money on the second opener.

The DNR, currently backed into a corner by angry deer hunters, have been taking it on the chin and up to a point, rightfully so. The DNR’s little dog-and-pony show they took on the road two years ago to discuss issues with deer hunters found them confronted by angry sportsmen who are tired of not seeing deer. They also were tired of seeing all their does killed, and some of these hunters may not have a wildlife degree but they know as much or more about deer on their land than the trained biologists. But, out voices seem lost in Lansing.

Many sportsmen are clamoring for change, and rightfully so. I’ve backed the DNR for more years than I can remember, but things are changing ... and frankly folks, it’s not for the better. Deer are plumb hard to find in the U.P., and things aren’t a great deal better in the northern half of the Lower Peninsula. But guess where the deer are: on private land in the southern Lower Peninsula counties. They aren’t Up North.

This deal over deer and deer hunting is far from over. The DNR needs to begin mandatory deer registration, and do away with the two-license deal. If they want to make more money, make it mandatory that hunters register their first deer before they can buy a second license. Hunters no longer believe the estimated Oct. 1 numbers that the DNR no longer provides, and they don’t believe the final totals that show deer kills higher that what anyone believes, especially those sportsmen who do not see one at all. Last year they admitted the deer kill was down. They no longer could deny the fact that deer numbers were dropping like a stone.

Am I in a bit of a peckish mood. You bet! Michigan hunters once stood tall and proud of its DNR, our deer management policies, and the fact that we had more combined deer hunters and hunter man-days than any other state in the nation. We don’t have much to be proud of now except in areas where there is a Quality Deer Management program. Hunters are now seeing more bucks and larger animals in some of those counties, such as Leelanau County, than hunters have ever seen before.

Folks, it goes against the grain of Mother Nature to try to maintain a status quo, year after year. It’s impossible to do, and management of our deer herd is lacking. I never see a wildlife biologist in the field, and in the words of a fine wildlife biologist who retired two or three years ago, “the new wildlife biologists don’t have any dirt on their boots.”

The reason is they spend little, if any, time in the field. They manage by building computer models, and I for one, know that it isn’t working. These people need to get outdoors, talk down to earth with landowners and sportsmen, quit trying to impress us on how brilliant they are, and listen to what deer hunters have to say. The DNR needs to talk to sportsmen, one on one, and learn what we know and can them them.

Game management can be a two-edged sword, and it can cut both ways. Ignore the people, and ignore what’s best for our deer, and they’ll soon learn what many sportsmen have known for years. The DNR doesn’t seem to care to hear from the public; they’d rather be left alone to do things their way. The unfortunate thing is that it’s not working.

Friday, May 02, 2008

Sleeping In On A Rainy, Windy Day

There is a big difference between me and professional turkey hunters like Harold Knight, David Hale, Paul Butski, Dick Kerby, Will Primos and a host of other professional turkey call makers and hunters.

Turkey hunting is supposed to be fun. It’s not supposed to be a second job for me. I have all the work I want with my daily weblog and my Sunday newspaper column.

I hunted gobblers four days in a row. My feet hit the floor at 4:30 a.m., and I crawled back into bed at 11 p.m. It makes for a long day when a hunt starts early, and then one must fit in everything else.

My backside was dragging last night. I was beat, and when my internal alarm clock went off this morning at 4:30, I mentally hammered the off button down, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Did I miss anything? I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my neighbor hit it hard today, and said there was nothing moving. There was plenty of high winds and rain so it appears that I may have made a wise decision.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t hunt. A buddy’s wife shot a big gobbler the other day, and there were several other gobblers with that bird. He went out this morning with another hunter, and they heard some birds but didn’t get a shot.

He knew I’d been hunting hard, and without success (except for my wife’s big gobbler that I called in for her), and he called to invite me to go along this afternoon at about 5 p.m. Perhaps a bird will come to the call this afternoon, and perhaps one won’t.

Late-afternoon turkey hunting is something I seldom do simply because I’m busy writing my daily blog or doing something else to continue promoting my website. But tomorrow, I will hunt gobblers.

I mentioned earlier about not being like the pro’s. I run out of gas too quickly when I hunt every day. It’s more important for me to take a nap every day during mid-day, but it’s not always possible. So, I occasionally take a morning off like I did today.

Many know I have glaucoma, and one thing I need is plenty of sleep. Turkey hunting, a lack of sleep and glaucoma do not make for a good fit.

I notice that my vision, and clarity of vision in my good right eye, fades quickly when sleep is a matter of four or five hours rather than eight hours. And, based on what most of these guys have told me over the years, they get three or four hours of nap time during the day.

Otherwise, they start running on auto pilot. And that is not a good thing when they are constantly on the road. Many of these turkey call makers may hunt eight or 10 states every spring, and between scouting time, travel time and hunting time, the number of head-on-pillow time is dramatically reduced.

I love turkey hunting, and the matching of wits with these keen-eyed birds, but I don’t hate them enough to wear myself out on a daily basis. I can hunt four or five days, as I’ve done since Monday, but I either need a nap or to sleep in during the morning and make a late afternoon hunt. One way or the other I need my share of shut-eye.

And, I have a pet peeve that I’ve frequently written about. The key is to get more Region 2 turkey hunters to write their local DNR about it.

I’ve never particularly liked the late-season hunts. The birds have been hunted for two weeks, are warier than normal, and seem to call much less than during the earlier hunt periods. It’s my sincere belief that those of us with private land in Region 2 are being shortchanged by the DNR because there are no private-land turkey tags for us.

Southern Michigan turkey hunters and Upper Peninsula turkey hunters can get private land turkey tags, so what are we in Region 2: chopped liver? It’s a disgrace that hunters who feed birds all winter cannot draw anything except a late-season hunt.

I don’t expect special considerations. I just expect the DNR to treat Region 2 turkey hunters as they do in the other hunting areas. What is fair for one should be fair for all. There should be no favoritism shown and special-interest groups shouldn’t stand in the way of sound scientific game management.

And, since you haven’t asked, I will tell you why we don’t have private-land turkey tags in Region 2. It’s because many hunters won’t stand up to the DNR wildlife division on a district or regional basis, and demand such considerations. I don’t want private-land hunters to get all of the first or second-season private-land tags, but many of the birds are located on private land and I believe that these hunters deserve to get 50 percent of the turkey tags for the first or second hunts.

If you agree, fine. Tell your local DNR wildlife biologist about it. It’s OK too, if you disagree, but I’d love to know your reasoning for treating private landowners in Region 2 as second-class citizens. The system, as it now stands, is not fair.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Putting For thThe Effort

Wild turkeys are sometimes hard to figure. Just about the time you feel really savvy about your knowledge of these fine game birds, they throw you a hard-breaking curve ball, sweeping down and away, and there you are, shotgun across your knees, and no birds to talk to.

Granted, the 30 minutes before sun-up this morning left something to be desired. I knew where the birds were supposed to be, and even though I could smell rain in the damp early-morning cold air and the wind was gusting hard to 20 miles-per-hour, I still felt there was a fair chance of talking a bird to the shotgun.

That’s what thinking did for me. The hunt was over before it began, and none of us knew it. The birds weren’t home. Nobody lives there anymore. It’s time for a change of address but nobody told me about them leaving down like a big-money bail skip.

The wind was gusting, and that never bodes well for hunting, but turkeys unlike deer, can’t smell humans. No danger of being winded by them, but even though I was present for my date with destiny, the gobblers forgot to show up.

There weren’t any hens moving around, and the only birds I heard were crows cawing at daybreak as they always do, and a chickadee that landed on a branch near my right ear and happily serenaded me for five minutes before flitting off.

I hoped the chickadee had something going on but this hunter was set up where I’ve called birds before, and I knew where they roosted, but I never called this morning. My Ben Lee Twin Hen box call, signed by the old legendary master long before his premature death, was at hand. Another great box call made and signed by the famed Dick Kirby was there, and a soft little slate call by Dean Stratton was ready. One of Rick Reed’s new box calls was ready for use.

Hell, if that wasn’t enough, I had a Knight & Hale diaphragm call stuck in my mouth. As it turned out, I could have left them all in my turkey vest for all the good they did me.

It’s the wind and weather, I thought. It’s going to rain on my parade this morning, and I toughed it out in my early morning spot, and when nothing happened and no birds mouthed off, I gathered my calls and went hiking as a light rain fell.

I covered other locations in this mile-square section where I’ve had previous success. I’d cover several hundred yards, set down, let the woods mellow out, and try some soft yelps. Nothing hard and frantic, but just some nice easy yelps that could be heard for 200 yards.

Nothing. I sat back at one point in a soft drizzle, and then went to check some strutting areas when nothing happened. Nada. The birds weren’t in the woods, and they had disappeared from the open field edges when they normally are seen strutting by 8 a.m., and other than a lone deer, the fields were barren and empty.

OK, so the bred hens are probably on their nest, and Tommy and his bearded buddies should be looking for some receptive hens, and I covered more ground. Check out some clover fields in this particular area that were planted for deer and turkeys, and they too were as empty as my sleep-deprived brain.

I kept at it for another hour, and had to quit because of an appointment in town. It was one I didn’t want to miss, and somehow, I got the message that these birds wouldn’t cooperate on this day.

The rain came harder as I trudged over the hills and through the woods, and I stopped just long enough to slip my good box calls into a plastic bag to prevent water damage. I don’t mind getting wet, but would hate to ruin a good call that means more to me than a turkey gobbler.

I can’t say as I collect turkey calls but I have several from great call makers that I know and respect, and in some cases they are only signed. In other cases, like those wonderful calls made by the legendary Dick Kirby, formerly of Quaker Boy Calls, the artwork he draws on his box calls is breathtakingly beautiful and his signature a welcome addition.

My calls stored, I continued to hike, stop, idle away several minutes being motionless and silent, and calling with my diaphragm. Not once, while sitting or walking, did a gobbler sound off or a hen yelp.

The switch had been turned off, and either the birds were snoozing on a limb or had left my hunting area. I’ll try it again tomorrow if the heavy rain holds off, and if tomorrow is a repeat of today, I’m off for a totally different location.

I’ve seen this situation before, and it is often weather related. That’s why it gets another chance, but if that doesn’t work, we turn to Plan B, which is one of my backup hotspots. One hopes at least for a lukewarm reception tomorrow rather than a repeat of today’s cold shoulder.

One can always hope.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Silence Is Not Golden In The Turkey Woods

The silence was almost overwhelming. My wrist clock had ticked its way past the time when all the little tweetie birds bring the woods to life with their calls.

This silence extended at least 10 minutes past the time when turkey gobblers greet the dawn with a raucous gobble. The silence was deafening. No bird songs, no gobbles, and certainly no whine of mosquitoes in the 3o-degree temperature.

My philosophy is to wait for the first gobble to speak up. So, I waited and waited before trying a soft and somewhat hesitant yelp to see if it would trigger any excitement. I was the lone voice crying in the wilderness, hoping to find someone out there to play with. A car went by on the nearby road but my tentative pleading brought no response.

Henrietta and Jakie, my two turkey decoys, were picked up and I gathered together all of my calls and hiked a mile through the state forest to another spot where I’d had success in previous years. I found my favorite spot, put the two dekes out, let the woods quiet down and called once.

The silence was deafening. Normally I love the silence of nature, but when turkey hunting, the sportsman looks for a bearded bird that shows some measure of enthusiasm. My box call was chalked again to improve its tone. and gave forth with my most enticing yelp ever. It was greeted with even more silence.

Did all the turkeys in this area disappear overnight? Not hardly, and I’ve experienced this phenomenon before. After two or three days of bumping into hunters, and seeing one of their buddies fall from a well-aimed arrow or shot-string of pellets, the birds get close-mouth. They couldn’t say beans if they had a mouthful.

I tried a third spot, and it was more of the same. I tried to slowly move my way through the many calls in my vest, and no one wanted to talk. To me, making turkey conversation, is the highlight of the hunt. I’d rather call a gobber in to someone than shoot the bird myself.

On the long walk back to the car I moved into an area that just looked right. The sun was well up and welcome on this cold morning, and there was a wooded area with a small bog pond on it. The tiny pond was surrounded by tall maples, a perfect spot for roosting birds. The area was examined from 300 yards away, and not seeing any birds, I moved in closer and began to call. The nearby field was empty of birds, and two thick woods had been eased through, and there were no strutting birds. Not a bird in sight.

Thirty minutes was spent there in a hopeless gesture of making this day into something it would never be. Not in my hunting area, at least.

Two other hunters were met in a local grocery store later in the day and I know both well. We stood in the doorway yakking about the absence of gobbler music. The walk back to my car seemed an overly long one, and for some reason my groceries felt heavier than usual.

That’s how spring turkey hunting is. Hunters can expect two, and hopefully three, decent days out of a full week of active hunting. When the good days show up is as unpredictable as a politician’s promise, and the only recourse is to hunt hard every day because it will be a year before our spring turkey hunting season rolls around again.

That, my friends, is a long wait.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Reinventing The Salmon Wheel, Again.

The Department of Natural Resources wants to return us to an era we’ve already visited. It’s a place where we lived for many years, and then wisely left it behind. Now, due to unnecessary pressure to help bolster tourism in a state with a floundering economy, the Natural Resources Commission may soon tell the DNR to take us back in time.

Years ago, the limit of salmon (excluding pinks) was five fish. Alewife numbers were high, salmon numbers were high, and people wanted to catch fish ... lots of them. Some charterboat skippers made a great living during this bygone era of big fish and huge mounds of fillets.

Skippers would take a charter out at dawn, have four fishermen limited out with 20 big salmon in two or three hours, head for shore, grab a quick lunch, take another charter out at noon. They would be back to the dock by 3 p.m. with another catch of 20 fish, and then head back out and fish until 7-8 p.m. They also would come to the dock with a heavy catch.

Day after day, year after year until Bacterial Kidney Disease (BKD) showed up and began killing Chinook salmon. Alewife numbers plummeted. Limit catches were still being made on a daily basis, and as a few years passed, anglers who booked those charters came to expect a limit catch. The skippers were getting pinched up, trying to produce fish for the monster they had helped create. Many couldn’t meet the demand and fell by the wayside.

Some skippers, wiser than others, began preaching the rationale of a quality outdoor experience rather than the limit-catch concept. Some private fishermen voluntarily began backing away from keeping five fish.

Just about the time this took place, walleye fishing got a jump-start, and anglers figured if they couldn’t limit out on salmon they would switch to walleyes. After all, at that time they could catch 10 walleyes in Lake Erie. That fishery was booming while our salmon fishery had fallen on hard times.

In a matter of two years, walleyes dethroned the salmon, and quickly became the king of Michigan’s game fish.

The walleye fishery is still going strong but with reduced bag limits. The salmon fishery has rebounded some from its lowest point, but now anglers may have the opportunity to catch five salmon again. This philosophy begs the question:

Does anyone need five salmon? Do we need to promote bulging fish boxes holding 200-plus pounds of fish? Does the purchase of a Michigan all-species fishing license mean we should expect to fill a portion of our freezer every year with Chinook or coho salmon fillets? Isn’t three fish per day enough for anyone?

Personally, I feel three salmon is more than enough. Both coho and kings are cyclic to some degree, and one year the fish are big and chunky and the next year they are smaller. It happens, and anyone who has spent time on a boat knows this. So are we supposed to make up for the small-fish years by allowing sportsmen to take five salmon per day?

There’s no way people can quickly eat their way through 10 fillets from five salmon. One medium to large salmon fillet will feed four people. How often do people eat fish? For most of us, it’s once a week or less. That means that a one-day five-fish limit would fill their dinner menu for months.

If the DNR and the NRC, its governing body, have their way we will once again revisit the age of gluttony on Michigan’s share of the Great Lakes. Can the Great Lakes support this kind of over-indulgence? Is this a wise use of our natural resources, and does the full-limit mentality mean we must travel this route again.

Three salmon is enough for anyone. A five-fish limit places an unnecessary burden on charterboat skippers and fosters a return to the greedy five-fish mentality. We’ve been to that place in time where bulging fish boxes were an obvious sign of greed and gluttony.

Do we need to revisit that era? I don’t think so.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Calling In A Bunch Of Turkeys

The scene was one of widespread pandemonium. Kay and I had eased our way into a woodlot, set out a hen and jake decoy, and waited patiently for the day to dawn.

The gobblers and hens were up, awake and greeting the pre-dawn pink glow in the easter sky. One gobbler roared like a freight train going through a tunnel, and the sound seemed to shake the earth. Kay was waiting patiently, and then a hen started cutting. The same gobbler joined in, and then five other gobblers sounded off.

What’s a guy to do? I yelped once, and all six gobblers exploded with blast of loud calls. The hens kicked in, and I yelped softly once more, scratched around in the leaves like a feeding bird, and watched as one hen pitched down to the ground 75 yards away. A longbeard rattled the air with a double-gobble, and I cutt and yelped back at him.

Again the birds gobbled their brains out and we could see them lift off their roost branches and head for the ground.

“They’re coming,” I whispered to Kay. “Get ready for a shot.”

An old biddy hen started cutting, and sassing at me. It took only a moment to realize these gobblers were henned-up, and there was no sense in being shy. Calling like you’d work a single bird wouldn’t impress these turkeys. Aggressive calling techniques were needed.

I yelped with a loud and raspy “yowp, yowp, yowp” on an aluminum call, and followed the yelps with some purrs, whines and cutts. The old biddy was still yelping at me, and I began getting even more aggressive. Every time she would call, I’d call louder, harder and faster, and would call over top of her. It was easy to tell she was getting mad, and her calling became more urgent, and I stepped up my aggressive calling one more notch.

I’d rake my fingers through the leaves, hammer back at her, and all this time the big gobbler was hitting me with a series of gobbles and double-gobbles. Had anyone been nearby, they would have found it impossible to believe that turkeys could make so much bird music.

We spotted the snowball-white head of the adult gobbler at 60 yards. He would gobble, go into full strut, dance around in a little circle, stop, throw his head forward and make one of the loudest gobbles I’ve ever heard. I’d yelp softly, purr and whine, and then beat up on the lead hen with louder and more insistent calls.

I could see that Kay had her 12-gauge, 3-inch magnum, up and across her knees and cheek to the stock. The birds kept coming, and at 30 yards there were so many turkeys standing nearby, that it was almost impossible to count them. There was the big gobbler, six hens and five jakes, and all were sounding off in retaliation to my hard-core calling methods.

My method is pretty simple. I knew they could see my hen and jake decoys, and I was switching from a raspy box call to a sharp-edged aluminum call, and I’d often kick in a purr, whine and yelp with the diaphragm call, often using two calls at once. The tension was mounting, and finally they stopped at 25 yards. The gobbler rattled the trees once more with a deep and raucous gobble, and all of the hens kicked in. I whispered “Shoot that gobbler when I putt.”

I putted once with the diaphragm call, and the gobbler lifted his head as if on cue, and Kay shot. The other birds had stepped aside as they closed to 25 yards, and Kay could shoot without endangering another bird. Her gobbler went down, and never wiggled. The others burst into panicked flight, and I thought one bird was going to fly right into me.

We carried our gear out to the car, and I shouldered the gobbler. He had a nine-inch beard, and the weight was even more impressive. I walked the quarter-mile out with the bird in one hand and my shotgun in the other. I’m thinking this is the heaviest Michigan bird I’ve ever handled since the turkey season first began in 1965.

We drove home, and weighed her bird on accurate bathroom scales. It’s feet and lower legs, head and neck, were off the scales and the longbeard weighed 25 pounds. Friends, any Michigan gobbler over 20 pounds is big. A 25-pounder, though hardly a record, is a huge bird.

Kay had her fun taking this large bird, and I’m still tingling all over thinking about calling in one gobbler amidst a group of 12 wild turkeys. For me, shooting a bird is anticlimactic. The purest form of enjoyment from hunting wild turkeys comes when calling a gobbler to the gun for someone else.

Killing the bird is nothing more than the end of the story.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

What I Like About Spring

There are many unimportant things in life, but one I attach a great deal of importance to, is spring.

I hate the ordeal of spring house cleaning and putting up the screens and taking off storm windows, but smelling skunk cabbage and seeing the first trilliums peek up through a carpet of last fall’s leaves is a major happening. The trials and tribulations of most of spring’s never-ending rains are past (I hope), and although spring mud on back roads can be a hassle, I don’t getting my car filthy if it can help me track down a gobbler.

Spring brings more than its share of strong winds, but there is nothing I enjoy more than sitting along a river bank and listening to the wind sough through the branches. I rejoice in a warm spring day, those that offer a dose of spring fever, and they eat away at leftover winter stress.

One enjoyable spring chore is rigging out a boat for trolling. Mechanical work is not for me, but I’ll putter all day changing the lower unit gear grease in an outboard motor, replacing spark plugs and fine-tuning the engine for slow-speed trolling. For good fishing I’ll even get my hands dirty with grease. My wife shakes her head at my little idiosyncrasies

Such things become a matter of sorting out one’s priorities.

I enjoy watching bluegills spawn in skinny water, and like to watch red-wing blackbirds flying across a duck marsh. I like to see the trees bud out and the world green up in a renewal of life. The lilacs are due to bloom soon, and I know the flowers will attract the ruby-throated hummingbirds that bring me pleasure every year.

Overcrowding on our trout streams isn’t the problem it was before high gas prices, and I wait patiently for the many trout lakes to turn on later this month and next. More and more people have taken up fishing, which is good, but some people develop poor fishing habits, which is bad. I see too much selfishness on our lakes and streams, and too little compassion and consideration for the dreams and desires of other anglers.

I like solitude, peace and quiet on trout streams and dislike the crowded hustle and bustle that accompany trying to find a weekend place to fish. I love to cast to a specific fish that can be seen and dislike having to consider elbowing my way into what seemingly is the only spot on the stream to hold fish. In fact, I passionately dislike the latter situation so much that I’ll take a hike with rod and reel in hand, and if I find an open spot, I’ll fish. If I find just more and more people, I’ll drive many miles to achieve my oneness with the water by being alone.

I dislike junk fishing equipment and waders that leak. I enjoy my new insulated waders even though they look like dead marsh grass, and welcome the feel of a fine fly rod as I shoot line to cover a trout. I thrill each time to the soft but sibilant swishing sound a fly line makes as I make a back cast and power the line forward.

I dislike raking leaves and cleaning rain gutters or the junk in my yard that apparently falls from the sky with winter snow, but I do enjoy sorting through my fly-fishing vest. The thought of cleaning out the garage is appalling, but given the choice between hauling trash and cleaning three fly reels and four spinning reels, I’ll choose the latter every time.

For years I heated with wood and burned some 25 face cords of maple each winter. I always knew I should tackle the cutting and splitting of wood while the weather was cool but it always seemed more important to let other more meaningful chores get in my way. So, the result for about 25 years was to put off the wood cutting until the summer heat hit 90 degrees. And even then, if the browns were hitting offshore I could be tempted to put off this chore for just one more day.

Summer light-line trolling is fun, and productive, but there’s something about my first trolling trip each spring that leaves me breathless with anticipatory excitement. Spring can make fishing dreams come true.

My wife wants help with the rock garden she wants in that vacant area we call the front yard, and last summer I gathered rocks from five-pounders to some weighing over 100 pounds. But you see, turkey hunting starts tomorrow. I will help with the rocks as soon as the season ends. I promise, cross my heart.

But, between now and then, there are priorities in life to be handled. And if we are to live the outdoor life of fishing and hunting, priorities become very important, and I know where mine begin and end.

And it’s not cleaning out the attic. Gotta go because there’s gear to get ready for tomorrow’s hunt and it won’t take care of itself. See what I mean about priorities? The important things in life always come first, right?