Morels, wild gobbler chases and more...

photo by Shawn Nicewonger (click to enlarge)

Quite the haul, eh? Something on the order of 1200 plus to be exact gathered one evening and next morning by my PA pal Shawn Nicewonger and his two boys (ages 6 & 7 in case you wondered). Way to go you guys. Keep up the good work and should you run outta space you do know my address...right?

Spring gobbler hunting, Montana style (click to enlarge) photo by Greg Gibbons

Thanks to the snow gods Greg and Ray (that's Ray in the hat) and the dogs survived (barely) one those extreme spring gobbler hunts we've all experienced but nonetheless dread happening. Depending on who's telling it took 1 1/2 or 2 1/2 hours to drive the 35 miles from Ekalaka to Baker during the escape. Rumor has the pair spent one day in Greg's camper watching WWII videos but as I say just rumor...over and out...

(click to enlarge) copyright chuckngalerobbins.com

Went off to Bozangeles to rectify our defunct cell phone thanks Alltel for allowing AT&T to buy you out. Anyway on the way we decided to stop at Headwaters SP one of the many sites in our upcoming book "Birding Trails Montana" just in case you wondered...Anyway I got lucky for a change and came away with a couple keepers...to whit this chippy and the white pelican below...

White pelican/veil indicating breeding mode (click to enlarge) chuckngalerobbins.com photo

Paul Rebarchak photo/PA gobbler

(click to enlarge)

As you all know or should Montana gobblers are dunces compared to the mighty, wily ol' PA Toms one thing hard to argue when it come to extreme hunts...well, I rest my case.

Fontinalis Fin tied by Don Bastion, photo copyright The Complete Flyfisher

You all knew this, right? Just one of many, many traditonal wets popularized by the late great Ray Bergman believe it or not way back when this and many other traditional ties were our (my) go toos...Honest Injun!!!! over and out...

Chuck

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 7

Even back in the day brook trout such as this were as rare as white crows...at least for me.

Following graduation I landed a job as a consultant forester. Lucky me HQ turned out to be about 10 steps from the Lackawaxen River (more on the fishing later). My territory included PA's Pocono Mountains, eastern New York, most of New England including southern Maine. More to the point I performed or oversaw various forestry operations on a variety of properties--all very private, all very wealthy, nearly all containing within their boundaries some really cushy, really private fly water. Naturally, upon meeting up with said landowners and/or appointed reps, utmost on my agenda was gaining fishing access...don't tell the boss.

The Lackawaxen turned out to be even better than I hoped. Heavily stocked and surprisingly underfished it also harbored a decent population of wild and holdover trout, rainbows and brookies mostly. But the real surprises were the healthy population of smallmouth bass and the shad run--fugitives from the big event hosted by the Delaware River each spring. The confluence lay just a couple miles downstream of the office where, by the way, the famous and talented writer Zane Gray and new bride, Dolly, first set up house-keeping. A practicing dentist at the time Gray decided to switch gears and instead pursue a full-time writing career. And we all know how that turned out.

Anyway the job entailed considerable travel and long hours in the woods. Admittedly at times putting a severe crimp in the fishing. But since I almost always roomed or camped out on the various properties the fishing was seldom more than few steps away.

While much of it is starting to blur badly a couple still stand out clearly--even though for the life of me I can't recall the names--sorry but what the hell private anyway so...

The first was a huge (over 2000 acres as I recall) mountain estate not far from the office. I never met the owner but as luck would have it his manager and I hit it off from the start. With a standing invite to fish anytime as you might expect I took full advantage every chance. The stream was one those really pretty mountain cricks, studded with huge rocks, deep crystalline pools and runs no trout in his right mind could resist. Better still, unlike many mountain cricks suffer inadequate summer flows and low fertility--this one ran pretty good even in the driest times and while no where near the high quality limestone streams of central PA, as Pocono waters went ranked pretty darn high.

One day in early June I got back to the office early enough to get the day's paper work in order, made myself an early burger and headed for the crick. As I drove up the mountain alongside the crick suddenly the windshield was covered with bugs--zillions caddis crawling all about the windshield and swarming over the road. Stopping above a big pool below was a sight to behold! End to end, side to side rising trout and of course since it was hatching caddis they were chasing the rise forms were more like you would imagine chucking rocks. Putting the pedal to floor I sped recklessly to the first turnoff, hopped out, pulled on hip boots, rigged the rod on the fly and...It still ranks as one the bestest, fastest couple hours chucking flies...EV...ER. Honest.

Another evening at a cushy lodge in the Catskills as I dragged my weary (hand planting trees since daylight) butt up the steps to the cabin looked over my shoulder and... The lake was...Boiling.  Countless numbers of what appeared to be really big trout slashing the surface to a froth. Weary hell, I ran to car grabbed my gear and sprinted the hundred yards or so to the canoe rack. Paddling like hell to what appeared somewhat the center of the melee I rigged up--tied on a big bushy fly that sort of mimicked the hatch and...And first cast caught the biggest rainbow I'd ever seen let alone caught. And then I caught another and another and then it got dark and the hatch quit but the trout kept on eating my fly until finally I just reeled up and...So there you have it almost...

Next evening hoping, no, make that expecting, a replay didn't happen...no bugs to speak of, just a few random rises and...skunked! Ditto the next and then I had to leave. A few weeks later I was back again and couldn't wait to get even...Only there for one evening I got two right off the bat--no where near as big but the worst thing two was it...Oh well can't win 'em all, onward and upward....

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 5 and a Brief Unrelated Rant

Penn's Creek taught me a valuable, though painful lesson: A world of difference exists between fooling naive, half-starved hatchery wannabees and the real deal.

 

Penn's Creek kicked our butts. Though we pounded the project water above Weikert for three days hook-ups were...well, I'm just not going there. Overrun with disappointed fishermen hoping to hit the big hatch, which even on the best of the three days fizzled badly, finding the open spot was small potatoes compared to the beating we took at the hands of the creek's persnickety wild browns. Each day a heavy caddis hatch came off mid-day, at times littering the water bank to bank. The term "boiled" is in no way a stretch.

During those blitzes we literally pitched everything in our arsenal and except for a few lucky hook-ups as when our flies were trailing downstream as we scratched clue-less noggins we basically ate skunk.

Then in the evening, deja vue all over again--those the bugs were sulfurs. First a blanket hatch, the creek wall-to-wall duns and trout up everywhere gorging the moveable feast. But that was just the matinee to the big event at dusk when clouds of spinners appeared and...damn we just could not get it done.

Clearly we lacked two things: the right ammo and the skills to get 'er done. As I say we got our hats handed to us big time...

Now for the rant:

Am I nuts or what? As ranted previously ad nauseum, I know, our illustrious politicians debated just how the hell they might get there crooked feet in the door and make adjustments to the Montana Stream Access Law more to their individual and collective benefit. A unique law that not only works damn well as is but arguably brings more dollars to Montana businesses than any other law on the books.

Then, even more ridiculous, more pathetic actually, a bill which would allow spear chucking for big game...I recall thinking at the time "man oh man, what next?"

But I had neglected to include Dillon's very own preposterous, arrogant senator Ms. Debbie Barrett's latest stab to denigrate TU; actually a back-door approach to her real agenda to oust the only conservation voice currently allowed at the table during water rights adjudication proceedings, from the process. Very neat, should it happen, since then the only votes counted would be those of the special interest thugs trying to steal the water in the first beginning.

And last but not least, while Kansas isn't Montana how about the bill currently on the gov's desk to allow SILENCERs for big game hunting...don't it just take your breath away?

To me all this proves yet again the two requisites to gaining elected office are "dumber than a stump and crookeder than the crooks attempting to put you there."

End of rant...

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 4 and Other Related Stuff

Orvis CFO Reel I purchased many moons ago, like the proverbial Timex "just keeps on tickin'"

 In its first-ever comprehensive survey on fly fishing, the outdoors research firm Southwick Associates found 59.3 percent of anglers report they bought fly fishing tackle in 2010, an increase of 4.1 percent from 2009. The 2010 Fly Fishing Market Survey found flies were the most-purchased type of fly-fishing gear, Temple Fork Outfitters the most-purchased fly rod, Orvis the most-purchased reel, and trout the most-popular fish.

The man who made $3,000 fishing reels

March 28, 2011 by John McCoy
The creator of some of the finest fly reels ever made (and certainly some of the most expensive) has died.
Stanley Bogdan died Monday at the ripe old age of 92. For decades, his exquisitely machined reels were sought after by fly fishing royalty — baseball great Ted Williams, former Federal Reserve chairman Paul Volcker, singer Bing Crosby and jazz legend Benny Goodman.
Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of Bogdan’s craftsmanship is that he remained active in it until just a few months before his death.
Monte Burke wrote a nice piece about Bogdan for Forbes magazine. The article can be found in this blog post Burke wrote when he learned of Bogdan’s passing.

Upon graduating high school, almost but not quite pure, thanks to a grave yard shift job that left me not only free all day to fish as I pleased but also paid the way to keep the ol' Studebaker tickin' my fly fishing horizons took a giant leap. With fishing buddy Dale Coombes, riding shotgun we set a course to cast flies in every fishable stream within range--that is allowed us at least a couple hours sleep prior to punching in 11 p.m. That we didn't manage to hit them all was not because we didn't give it our best shot.  It was during that frenzied period an old guy (sorry can't come with it) I worked with taught me to tie a decent fly--at last flies started falling off the vice didn't threatened to cause the OM to die laughing.

We also began running into Jack Beagle frequently. I had known Jack for sometime as he drove the school sports bus to all our baseball, basketball and football games. On the way to the games naturally we were not allowed to talk anything but the game at hand but on the way home victorious--which we happened to do frequently--we could talk anything we wanted. I would grab the seat behind Jack and talk fly fishing all the way home.  On stream he graciously taught Dale and me maybe not every trick in the book but close...And our catch rate that summer soared beyond our wildest imaginations.

Pretty hot stuff, these two young punks? Damn straight.

But we were about to be knocked down a peg or three by a storied crick name of Penn's.

Ever since we'd first turned the pages of Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and Sports Afield periodical tales of the fabled crick had hooked us deeply. The much ballyhooed green drake hatch was of course the HATCH you didn't want to miss so...

At the appointed due date--Memorial Day is prime time--we packed the Stude with sleeping bags, food enough for an army--I could eat but Dale's appetite was the stuff of legends--fishing gear and headed. First stop though was a hardware store in Lewisburg--Donehower's I think--reputed to hold the biggest fly selection in our part of the Universe. No disappointment we came away armed to the teeth with green drake patterns and nearly too broke to get to the crick and back...a minor detail we'd deal with later.

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 3

So far the day had not gone well. In two hours I had managed to catch just two brookies--neither of which quite made the requisite length of a dollar bill. I had muffed a chance at perhaps the largest brown of my abbreviated career when I let the 12 or 14 incher get into a root ball and break me off.

There hadn't been much surface action, just a splash every now and then. I decided to switch to wet flies but..As I settled down on the bank to make the switch trout began rising in earnest. Upstream, the Bear Hole--by the way, so named when the OM and uncle Bob years before surprised a sow black bear and two puppy-sized cubs swimming there--was stiff with risers. I recall thinking something along the lines of, "now by God catching the limit is just a matter of time." 

Frantic to make good I flailed the pool to a froth. At last I felt a satisfying tug and, fearing it might get away, backed quickly up the bank and literally towed it onto the rocks. Barely legal I broke its neck, hurried into the trees to gather hemlock boughs to line my creel--a family tradition. 

The hatch (back then no idea but if I were to guess now, caddis) intensified, bugs littered the water and filled the air ramping up what had been a steady rise to a serious feeding frenzy. The most and what appeared to be the best were as always against the far bank, just beyond range of my best casts. So I kept edging deeper into the pool. With the water lapping at the top of my hip boots finally the cast I'd been hoping. The fly landed a foot or so from the bank, floated a short ways and disappeared in a swirl.

This time the rod bowed deeply, surely a lunker. No net (and I would not have known how anyway) I started to backpeddle, stumbled on a rock, went down, scrambled back up, fell again and...And wonder of wonders when at last I regained dry land the trout was still on...Turning sideways I all but ran into the trees (thanks to Dewey's foresight for heavy tippet) and drug the struggling brown (all of 12 inches) onto the rocks. Dropping the rod, I leaped down the bank, grabbed it with both hands and...And that's when I heard the man chuckling, then, "Boy I gotta hand it to ya, never quite seen it done that way before."

To make a long story short, once the trout was creeled, he asked how long I'd been fly fishing. "Not long." Asked if I'd be interested in his showing a me a couple "tricks" might improve my casting. "Sure" Handed me a couple flies, said "this one's been workin' pretty good for me this mornin', give it try. Good luck, maybe see ya around another time."

And that was that. 

As turned out I learned more about fly casting in just a few minutes than in all the time since I first picked up the "wonder rod." The flies were wets, Orange Fish Hawk, a pattern I later discovered ranked high among Ray Bergman's favorites--who, through his writings, I fly fished vicariously all across the country for many years. 

Interesting to note, the stranger who took me under his wing was none other than the guy who wrote the weekly outdoor column in our local paper (sorry the name has long since evaporated). The same guy the OM's gang despised yet when it came to hot-fly-of-the-week treated as gospel--no questions asked.

Later when I spilled the trout and the tale for the OM to consider, adding I'd decided to become an outdoor writer when I grew up, naturally he scoffed, "Yeah boy, and when I grow up I'm thinkin' maybe President, headin' up the whole goddamn kit and kaboodle--make yourself useful and fetch me another beer from the ice box.

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 2

The wonder rod now shattered my fly fishing career was put on temporary hold. There weren't any extra fly rods laying around the house, worse no fly rod money at least none the OM was willing to part so...Swearing me to secrecy (like don't tell Mom) he vowed to play the punch boards overtime, "though I wouldn't hold yer breath." I didn't. Nothing left I finished the season chucking bait. Not what I had in mind but as the OM so succinctly put it. "Quit yer damn whinin', in the real world ya gotta play the hand dealt ya." End of discussion.

By the time I saved enough from my paper route to buy my own it was fall and in our family we fished spring and summer, hunted in the fall and winter...well mostly the men drank and told lies, me, I played basketball and dreamed spring.

As spring approached once again I started saving up for a new fly rod. Trout season opened April 15 but our routine was to fish bait early on until the cricks dropped then switch to flies. But then in early April, a surprise. The OM came home from work one day said, "C'mon boy, there's somethin' down at Dewey's you need to see."

 On the counter lay a long, narrow box, with OM's name scrawled on the package. And since it was so out of character and I found it hard to believe, still I knew right away--a new rod. The box also contained a reel, fly line and as we went out the door Dewey slipped me a small plastic fly box containing a dozen flies, a leader and a spool of tippet. "Good luck son, I hope ya like it."

By today's standards the rod was a real clunker but compared to the "wonder pole" it cast like a dream. It was much later I learned the reel, a cheap knock-off of the popular Pfluger Medalist--one of the best fly reels ever by the way--and the line (HCH) matched the rod perfectly. All of which contributed big time to my ability to get the fly to go where I aimed and land properly at least some of the time.

But what really got me going the right direction were a few chance encounters with guys I suspected even back then but now know for to be experts. Stay tuned...

Fly Fishing: Highlights and Some Not So Hot...

Though the wear and tear of six decades chuckin' bugs is hard, damn it's been a fun ride...

True story: Way back when I started chuckin' bugs, Ike reigned and Vince's reign of terror had yet to begin. 

The first fly rod I could call my own was crafted (not really) somewhere over seas. In hindsight I'd say the guy who put it together had at least as much to learn about rod-making as I learning to fly fish. The OM won the wonder (as in wonder what the maker had in mind) rod on a punch board at the local American Legion; I'm pretty sure he handed it over to me as a sort of twisted peace offering designed to distract Mom's outrage at his late night carousing...Anyway it came in a balsa wood case which fell apart after only a few openings and closings...as it turned out, a bad omen but that was yet to come.

The wonder rod cast much like I imagine a buggy whip might. It came with a flimsy reel that squeaked louder than a the proverbial wheel badly in need of grease. The OM though had a sure cure for squeaks, reels or otherwise, and after lathering on a hefty amount of vaseline called her good to go. A line was also part of the package. Fly lines in those days were all double taper (at least all I knew about) and designated HDH, HEH and so forth--I think HDH was comparable to today's 6-weight. The one in the box was marked HCH. Whether or not it "matched" the rod is more than I can say but I can tell you without reservation, proper line weight or no, the whip-like rod combined with really lousy technique was recipe for disaster--which I proved many times over in the ensuing weeks and months. I think nylon had by then all but replaced gut leaders but since I have fished gut can't be sure what I broke in using.

I don't recall many, if any, fish in the basket that first season but I sure took fly casting to a low level I'm not sure I've seen the likes of since. One episode stands out and I recall the frustration as if it happened yesterday. Along with the OM, uncle Bob and their buddy, Doug we were strung out in a big pool casting (for want of a better term) to a line-up of hungry trout busily engaged in sucking down some sort of big fly. All of the trout I might reach with my best ever cast, however, were in close to the bank, guarded by a big hemlock. The lowest limbs as I recall were about 5 or 6 feet above the water--a piece of cake now, friggin' impossible back then. 

To make a long story short, I pitched every which way but the right way--too short, too long, one in the trees the next would splash down such to make a beaver blush. With only about 6 or 8 flies total in my meager stash, doubtful anything close to whatever the hell it was hatching (more on this in a moment) I was soon out of ammunition. With the last fly firmly stuck, cussing loudly (such to trip the OM's notorious quick trigger, "Boy watch your goddamn mouth or you'll find yerself eatin' through a straw) I gave it one last mighty yank and...broke the worthless wonder pole in two.

Believe it or not back then there were no "fly shops" at least in our little northeast Pennsylvania village. There were no "fly fishing schools" no "Orvis certified casting instructors" no "fly fishing outfitters/guides" at least none in our neck of woods. If you were lucky someone in the family knew what he (as far as I knew no lady fly fishers either) was doing and willing to pass it on. 

Alas in our gang of four, myself included (and you already know how sorry) only Doug had the vaguest idea what might be going on in a trout's head. And even he, by his own admission, was somewhat lacking. To whit "I mostly just wing it and hope for the best." All but clueless the OM and Bob relied mostly on the guy who wrote the local weekly outdoor column to inform "what's working," A might odd since I never heard either utter a single nice word about him.  

Anyway,  if he wrote "slayed 'em last evening on a #10 Multi-variant" one or the other would rush down to "Dewey's" and buy a buck's worth (five for a buck being the going rate for dry flies--wets were cheaper but I can't recall how much). Two for the buyer, one each for the rest of us, although Doug almost always fished wets so the fifth was more or less up for grabs so long as the buyer didn't run out first. Dewey being Doug's father and owner/operator of the town's one and only hardware/sporting goods store.

So there you have it for now, stay tuned I'll try my best to recollect a few other gems later...over and out...

Pennsylvania Bear Harvest 3rd All-time

HARRISBURG – Pennsylvania Game Commission preliminary bear harvest figures show that 3,036 bears were taken during the recently completed three-day season (Nov. 23-25) and an additional 108 bears were harvested during the two-day archery bear harvest (Nov. 18-19).

So far, the total bear harvest of 3,144 for the two seasons preliminarily ranks as the third highest statewide harvest. However, with the extended bear season in certain Wildlife Management Units (WMUs) continuing through Dec. 5, the total preliminary harvest will increase. The two highest total bear harvests were recorded in 2005 (4,164 bears taken) and 2008 (3,458). In 2006, hunters harvested 3,122 bears during all seasons.

Preliminary total bear harvest figures – including the ongoing extended bear seasons – are expected the week of Dec. 7. Official total bear harvest figures for all three seasons won’t be available until early 2010, after a thorough review of all bear harvest reports.

County harvests by region for the three-day season, followed by the three-day 2008 preliminary harvests in parentheses, are:

Northwest: Warren, 99 (57); Forest, 58 (58); Jefferson, 56 (60);
Southwest: Somerset, 69 (98); Fayette, 68 (40); Westmoreland, 61 (35
Northcentral: Clinton, 239 (106); Lycoming, 239 (214); Cameron, 211 (72); Tioga, 203 (231);
Southcentral: Huntingdon, 83 (114); Bedford, 59 (78);
Northeast: Pike, 115 (73); Monroe, 74 (54); Southeast: Schuylkill, 22 (24);

The top 10 bears processed at check stations that were taken during the three-day statewide season all had actual or estimated live weights that exceeded 607 pounds. The largest bears so far: a male that had an estimated live weight of 707-pounds; a 655-pound male (estimated live weight); a 654-pound male (actual live weight); a 654-pound male (estimated live weight); a 644-pound male (actual live weight); a 640-pound male (estimated live weight); a 621-pound male (estimated live weight); a 612-pound male (estimated live weight); a 610-pound male (actual live weight) and a 607-pound male (estimated live weight).