Walleye Cheeks

On a recent fishing weekend at Ft. Peck Reservoir, I was given an impromptu invitation to sit down with my neighbors at their trailer and eat a lakeside dinner. As the sun was setting above the water's glass-like surface, I was told the source of the main entree; it was a ten pound walleye caught the day before. I was even given a walleye "cheek", a scallop-sized morsel behind the eye of the large fish. It is rarity, given the fact that any fish under 4-5 pounds is too small to make the trimming of the cheek worthwhile.

I was immediately perplexed. Really? We are eating a trophy fish? A fish that I have always preached should either be released to spawn again next spring or sent to the taxidermist, so the behemoth could be celebrated for eternity? The walleye was battered and deep fried and tasted darn good, despite the pre-existing sour taste in my mouth. I kept my thoughts to myself. Who can argue with people nice enough to invite one to dinner?

I enjoyed my share of the bounty, along with a smattering of salads and other spectacular dishes. I thanked my gracious neighbors and went back to my chores and preparation for tomorrow's fishing.

It wasn't until the next day that I nearly walked back over to my neighbors to apologize-an apology for my narrow-minded thoughts and holier-than-thou beliefs that every big fish should be released. A fish that would be released back into a reservoir in which very little natural reproduction occurs. Sure, the fish could be caught again if released, but maybe it wouldn't have survived anyway.

This was my neighbor's first ten pound walleye in 40+ years of fishing. She had a right to keep that fish and enjoy it anyway she pleased. My neighbor chose to enjoy the walleye by hosting her neighbors for dinner. Sorry Marian. And thanks for the great dinner.

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.

Partners in Crime

Good hunting and fishing partners are tough to find. In addition to sharing similar hunting or fishing ethics such as whether you’ll fully endorse catch and release policies, your beliefs on the use of mechanized waterfowl decoys, and whether you like steak or ground beef in your pasties, this has to be a guy you can fully trust and with whom you can enjoy spending time.

I feel fortunate to have a number of good hunting and fishing pals. Two of them are brothers, and they are as different as night and day. Without a doubt I can say that if I were lost in the woods and our very survival depended on my partner, I would choose Kevin 7 days a week and twice on Sunday. But if our rescue was only a matter of time or nonexistent, I’d sit there on a log and listen to Pauly all day long.

Pauly is the entertainer; I’ve watched him fly headfirst out of boats trying to help a fisherman net a big fish, he has the best stories in the duck blind, and the ride to the hunt and back are full of jokes, stories, and comical musings. I floated part of the Smith River with Pauly and between our hitting rocks and missing fish I was constantly in the company of a great sportsman.

Kevin is the survivalist; as a high school senior he wanted a water purifier for Christmas and when stranded on a river island during a January goose hunt, he simply stripped down and swam across the ice-filled river channel to retrieve the errant canoe. And it was Kevin who patched the raft the day after Pauly and I bounced down the Smith.

Life is too short to hunt and fish with guys you feel lukewarm about. And by the way, I like my pasties with ground beef.