Pheasants Forever

Pheasant season has always been, in my family, what fishing was to the Maclean family of A River Runs Through It. Dad loved walking the ditches for ringnecks and would rather have hunted pheasants than just about anything. Because the opening of pheasant season usually came within days of my birthday, I could count on a small, square, heavy box poorly wrapped by dad full of 20 gauge shells.
Long after our last hunting lab was gone, dad and I would still walk the ditches and fields for his favorite quarry, ever cautious that a wounded bird could easily hide and disappear from sight only to die later. We pulled birds out of shrubs, out of log piles, and left no leaf unturned in retrieving fallen birds. That was his way.
Dad’s last shot at a pheasant got away. It dropped once and just about as he was to retrieve it, took off again. Once again dad shot the bird down, and once again it found the power to get up and scurry away across a small ditch, through a little patch of weeds, and then took flight.
Dad died a year later, still regretting that he hadn’t been able to retrieve that bird. I think he knew it was his last opportunity and wanted to bring one more bird home to mom.
But in a lot of ways that pheasant summed up dad’s life: despite a long battle with cancer, he kept going. We’d both been shot hunting at different times, but kept doing it. In the end the bird did the one thing that dad wished he could—it made it away.
I look forward every year to my birthday and the start of pheasant season, still missing dad, still looking for that pheasant, and still enjoying every walk and every ditch.

Torn Between Two Loves

Craig, MT. I never fish in October. Or September for that matter. Once autumn arrives, I trade my days on the water for days behind bird dogs. But, I combined a little business in Helena with pleasure on the Missouri.
While the Mo' has never been good to me, I still enjoy the consistency of the place. Nice drifts, plenty of room for working on your long casting game and the potential for a femur-sized brown. It can be crowded, for sure, but there is a lot of water. And it is October.
I never saw any of those big browns. Just small rainbows that felt sorry for me and wanted to let me know that the day was not wasted just because I wasn't chasing birds.
But, the inner pain I was feeling leaving Tess and Abby on the couch at home was only made worse when I was surprised by nearby shotgun volleys. It took me about 30 minutes of fishing to realize that waterfowl season opened on this Saturday. Anyway, thanks guys.
That made my decision easy: time for a quick burger at Izaak's and then head back home. I need to get those dogs out on Sunday........

Call 'em in

As I was lying in bed last night fading to sleep, blaring sirens from passing emergency vehicles on the city streets kept me awake. Only twenty four hours earlier I'd been sleeping under the stars in the high country with nothing but elk bugles keeping me awake at night. Trading bugles and wilderness for sirens and city life isn't all bad, but it definitely makes me long for my next trip into the mountains.

The wapiti in SW Montana are definitely in full rut right now, in fact where I was it may be on the decline with many bulls already busted up and content with maintaining their large harems. This time every year I vow that I'll be shooting a bow by next fall, but again I find myself without a bow in hand this September. Instead I opted for a little catch and release elk hunting with my camera. Calling bulls into close range is a thrill and challenge even without an arrow nocked and is a great way to get stoked for the upcoming general season.

Big Country

Sales director Will Jordan and I made the trip to Denver last week for the annual fly fishing retailer show. The show was impressive, but we had our fill of big city traffic, paying to park and car alarms blaring.
Regardless of our disdain for the concrete jungle, it amazed us just how many people at the show wanted a piece of Montana. The average fly angler we spoke with spent at least a week each summer in Big Sky Country; a lot of those guys would reside here permanently, if they could.
I felt a little guilty for taking Montana for granted, needing to be reminded how great our state was, reminded that we have resources that many sportsmen would die for. On the drive home from Denver, I vowed I would fish those rivers that I ignored this summer and hunt the big, wide-open spaces that are made for a man, a dog and a gun.
On a recent hunt since returning from Denver, the birds were not as numerous as past autumns, but the views were sweeter. And more cherished.

Summer or Fall?

This is definitely still the transition time between seasons in our outdoor pursuits. I left town with the A/C cranked up in the vehicle, headed for the hills as it was pushing 80 degrees and too hot for my liking on the prairie. I had heard of some remarkable hatches of late on the local spring creek and considered going fishing instead of chasing birds. Thinking of the dogs, I chose the latter. And by the time I loaded up the dogs and headed for home, I had the heater running to take the chill off. When the sun goes down in the mountains, it cools off pretty quickly.
This was a combination mountain grouse hunt and elk scouting trip, however, it is a lot to ask to see any elk (or hear the occasional love sick bull scream) while shouting commands at the dogs and firing the occasional volley at a flushing bird. We moved both blues and ruffed grouse in the afternoon hunt, so I can't complain too much. Fishing might just have to wait until next spring.

Sometimes the Fish Wins

Last Friday advertising director Will Jordan and I left Billings early to head up the Stillwater River for a pre-noon fishing trip. Although we each landed a few mid-sizers, the most intriguing fish were the ones who wouldn’t play the game with us.
A small, almost unnoticeable riffle ran through a deep, big area of calm water and on the far edge of that riffle were the constant pops of fish rising to the surface. To cast straight out to them required a little more line in the back-cast than the trees and bushes would allow (in fact Will found evidence of other fishermen in those very bushes) and the pool forms right off the shore so wading out closer is not an option.
Letting the fly drift down to them isn’t much of an option either since the area above the pool is fast, deep, and not very accurately described as "still water". Casting from below the pool wouldn’t provide any better chances as the inability to mend the line properly or get the right drift would ruin any chance of fish. And no way could a fisherman get enough leaverage to utilize the roll cast.
I finally made my way out to a rock, cast upstream and whipped the rod slightly to the side just before the fly touched water in an effort to basically mend the line in the air. The drift was then good and the fly could hit the areas I wanted.
Still, that deep, slow pool gave any fish in there plenty of time to look at my fly, the knot, the line, and perhaps even discuss it with the other fish before deciding to go after it. I had one raise as a result of all that figuring, though that's one more than I had with any other method.
There are reasons why fish get so big—they manage to avoid getting caught and the beasts in that pool certainly have seen their share of enticements.
In my mind, I taught myself a new trick to fishing a difficult piece of water like that. It didn’t pay off on this trip, but I’ll save it for another day when the opportunity arises.

Get 'em involved

As we all know, getting the next generation interested in the tradition of hunting and fishing is crucial to maintaining our sporting heritage. Exposing our youth to positive, fun experiences in the fields and streams at an early age is undoubtedly the biggest factor in their becoming future sportsmen.
This weekend I went along on a fishing trip with my nephew, who is not yet 3, and his father. While some anglers might have viewed young Samuel's presence on the boat as a distraction, he didn't detract at all from the trip. Hearing his laughter as he "turned in" the reel on each leaping fish and watching his amazement as the fish was brought to hand was well worth the little bit of extra attention he required. A healthy supply of powdered donuts and snacks went a long way in keeping him happy when the fishing slowed or he grew tired of playing with the worms.
Samuel is already looking forward to his next trip and has developed the tell tale trait of waking before Mom comes to roust him on mornings when a day of fishing is in store . To say he gets excited when his Dad hooks up the boat is an understatement. He is lucky to have someone to provide him with these early experiences in life, not every child has such opportunities. Take a kid fishing.