Spring Training

When the calendar turns from March to April, I yank the dogs off the couch and give them the fresh air they deserve. While I have stayed in perfect physical condition over the course of the winter(ok, I may have slipped a little bit),the dogs have definitely put on a few pounds. When I grab their hunting collars off the shelf, their excitement screams, "Its about time, buddy!"
In this latitude, I prefer to wait until April 1st to run the girls. Since I chase grouse, Huns and pheasants until the very bitter end of the season, I cut the birds some slack by not pestering them until I know the worst of winter is behind us. While we received snow AGAIN last night, it melts quite rapidly from this point on. April is actually a fairly important month from my perspective. Once the middle of May rolls around, the dogs are kept on leashes since nesting season is approaching. While I don't pass judgement on those running their dogs all winter, especially in regions where the snow doesn't pile up, I am adamant about staying out of the uplands when there are eggs and chicks on the ground.
It was great to see the prairie mostly unchanged from when I last walked it in December. However, the grass was a little flattened from snows and the ditches still held some hard-packed snow drifts. And the Huns the dogs pointed were mating pairs, instead of coveys. But, when a rooster squawked at me from the same brushy draw as one did in November, I felt like I hadn't missed a thing.

Fishing With Heroes

While too much of the magazine business involves business, this past weekend was a very humbling and rewarding outing. It made me more appreciative of our state, our country and the veterans that sacrifice so much, to give us our freedoms.
Sales Director Will Jordan and I met up with Libby-based Camp Patriot and their director, Micah Clark on the Kootenai River. We had the privilege of fishing with two disabled veterans who had accepted the invitation to try fly fishing on one of Montana's famed rivers. We were all the guests of Dave and Tammy Blackburn at the Kootenai Angler. Fishing was fair, considering it was still March, the water running cold and clear.
But, it wasn't about the fishing. It was about the veterans-young men who were injured serving our country. The Camp Patriot slogan is "Giving back to those who have given". Hopefully, the trip to northwest Montana did give back and provided the veterans with a new look at the life ahead of them - a life that can offer new challenges such as catching wild trout on a majestic Montana River. They deserve it, they are truly heroes that we can all be proud of.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Look for an article on the Kootenai trip and Camp Patriot in the May/June issue of Montana Sporting Journal.

No Love For Lake Trout

For some folks, lake trout are on a list of the most despised creatures, to some, only trailing wolves and Bernie Madoff. Lakers, Mackinaw, Macks-whatever the moniker - are labeled by a few as voracious , non-native bullies, that deserve to be treated as an invasive species. In Yellowstone Lake, where they were illegally introduced, they are being netted and poisoned as fast as possible to protect native cutthroat species. On Flathead Lake, fishing tournaments are held throughout the year, with the hope of culling a booming population of smallish lakers.
Lake trout are an aggressive fish. Aggressive sport fish on light to medium tackle, can provide wicked fun. And when those fish start reaching the 15 pound barrier, landing one through an 8" hole in the ice is harder than it sounds. A recent outing provided just that: fish from 10-15lbs that would just about rip the small rod out of your hand. Once hooked, they shook their heads like a marlin in mid-air.
Lake trout do have a place in some of our Montana reservoirs. And they don't belong in others, especially when introduced by a self-serving bucket biologist. But, for those that seek big, strong fish, lakers are one of Montana's best.

A New Adventure

After reading in a number of publications about the rebirth of rabbit hunting, I thought I’d give it a try. Wind has been keeping me off the rivers and a hunting itch is really starting to scratch again. Besides, I’d just seen an episode of "Iron Chef" where these world-renowned cooks made amazing meals from rabbit.

Of course rabbits aren’t exactly a rarity in Yellowstone County and I knew a trip out to the farm would likely get me some shooting. And I know those rabbits aren’t any little Peter Cotton Tails, there are some serious Boone and Crocket bunnies out in the boonies.

I’ve never shot a rabbit and not sure exactly what sort of ethics of fair chase or the preferred weapon of choice would be. To tell the truth, I wasn’t exactly sure how to pose for a picture with a rabbit either, do I crouch down to show his ear spread or do I hoist him up to show his whole body. Finally, I’m not sure I have enough block and tackle set-ups to account for the half dozen hares I hoped to bring home!

I pondered all this as I made my way to the hills with a small arsenal of weapons, the least of which was my Daisy slingshot. As I got closer to the bluffs I still hadn’t decided what hunting method to use. Why doesn’t anyone hire out as a bunny guide to tell me these things?

As I opened the gate I noticed three coyotes working toward the coulees and in about ten minutes I was close enough to get two pretty easy shots on them. I dragged them back up the hill and loaded them into the back end of the truck and drove home and watched Bugs Bunny cartoons with my nephews.

I never knew rabbit hunting was so perplexing. . .

Got Neoprene?

My cabin fever has been running high throughout the month of February. While we could certainly stand to be building on our mountain snowpack, I won't complain about Ma Nature providing us with a reprieve from winter over the past week or so. On a sunny afternoon last weekend I worked the banks of the Stillwater River with a fly rod and low expectations in tow, I did the same yesterday. On days such as these when I'm grateful just to get out, feeling a tug on the end of my line is a bonus. It turned out that the fishing was pretty good considering it was still February. I managed to pick off a few rainbows, which were colored up nicely and were most likely early runners out of the Yellowstone. I arrived at the river mid-day yesterday to find slush ice from bank to bank, reminding me that it's still winter - thankfully it melted off within an hour of my arrival. Sporadic midge hatches occurred throughout the afternoon, but no fish were rising in the icy water. The Montana license year expired yesterday, it was great to be able to squeeze one last day of fishing out of it...the trick will be remembering to buy myself a new annual license before my next outing.

Think snow.

Catch a Fish, Thoreau it Back

Henry David Thoreau once said, “Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." Following a sub-par fishing weekend, that thought is comforting to say the least.

While I’m sure that a fly fishing weekend is not exactly how my new wife envisioned her first married Valentine’s Day, I’m sure she expected it to happen at some time. Fortunately the comfort of the River's Bend Lodge was some consolation. But as we stood cold on the icy banks of the Yellowstone at the trailing midge patterns through beautiful, yet tough to access, riffles, I think she understood my passion just a little bit more.

We stood staring up at Emigrant Peak with both of us wondering why we were still out trying. I questioned my fly choice, my drift, and my method. She no doubt questioned some of her choices as well.

Finally a sympathetic Brown trout, maybe a three pounder, took the edge off and took the Midge. As I started to bring the fighter in closer, I noticed a little icy build-up on my wife’s eyelash. This was one cold woman and one foolish man.

The Brown readily gave in and I returned the favor by smoothly returning him to the depths, thankful that I’d taken the time to bend the barbs on the flies. My wife, seeing her husband satisfied with his catch knew the cold day was over.

As we walked back to the Rivers Bend Lodge I think we both knew a little bit more about what Thoreau was trying to say.

Sometimes The Killing Is Hard To Accept

As we approached the area of the lake that we had fished the evening before, I could see something on the ice that wasn't there previously. Could it be a coat we had left, maybe a tumbleweed, maybe a coyote eating our dead minnows? The four of us approached slowly and without words. We were all hunters, but seeing this young mule deer that had died in the past eight hours, still struck a nerve with us.
It was obviously a violent, gruesome death, nothing I could publish in MSJ. The coyotes had killed the deer, on the ice, a place where deer are very vulnerable. Blood was pooled in a couple of different areas, patches of hide were drifting with the wind across the frozen lake. The coyotes probably numbered at least three from the number of tracks leading away from the kill site, possibly more.
I couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the mule deer. I tried to lessen the animal's struggle, thinking maybe it was sick, injured or was just dragged on the ice, already dead. Doubtful, I knew. Even as a hunter, someone who is also at the top of the food chain, I wish I didn't have to visualize what took place on the ice that night.
One of my companions was more at peace with the event. His rationale was fair and factual- sure one deer died, but that pack of coyotes, coyotes that struggle day after day to find food to stay alive, succeeded and earned another week or two on this earth. Survivors. Hunters. Just like us.