Buying old turkey hunting books

Unique, Rare and Hard-to-Find books are what Scoop’s Books deals in: looking for and For Sale. Contact us today to Buy or Sell. photos by Dave Richey

I spent just enough time outdoors today to go to the doctor, say hello to my neighbor and bask in the warming breezes. I’m trying to work some nasty knots out of my back, and it’s not working very well.

At 45 degrees, the weather seems almost balmy. I spent some time arranging and rearranging books that will be for sale on my Scoop’s Books website. Some titles are once-in-a-lifetime acquisitions for any sportsmen and some are moderately priced. I may have a new address for my new book website soon. I hope to have 1,000 or more fishing and hunting books up very soon.

These fishing and hunting books are meant to provide two specific things for book buyers: education and information.

I also am placing some books on eBay for auction purposes. Feel free to check them out.

I want to buy your old turkey hunting & duck decoy books

It’s obvious that not all sportsmen like to read books, and that is OK. They just don’t know what they are missing. There are so many fine fishing and hunting books available and listed on Scoop’s Books. Find a book cover that interests you, and email me at the above email address to see if the book is still available.

A hunter might ask: why buy a book on deer hunting? I already know how to deer hunt. Good question but a poor answer. Anyone who doesn’t study deer regularly will know something about hunting these animals, but won’t know enough about how to hunt them when the going gets tough.

It’s the same with turkey hunting books. I buy as money as I can afford for my collection, and still need some others. If you have any turkey titles, and might consider selling them, send me a list of the book titles and the author’s name, and I’ll get with you soon.

Lots of people can cast a fly, but there are countless books available that can help with casting more accurately but also can teach us how to read the river, determine which insect is hatching, and which patterns will help fool the fish. Nothing is ever guaranteed except paying taxes until you die, but reading can broaden your horizons and help people learn new skills.

I’m constantly looking for fishing or hunting books to buy. I need to buy books in order to sell books, and I’m picky about condition but pay fair prices. So just what am I looking for and hope to buy from you?

I’m primarily interested in turkey hunting titles now. The scarcer they are, the better. Common turkey hunting books I don’t need.

The easiest answer is for you to tell me the author’s name, the title of the book, and whether it is a paperback or hard-bound book with a dust jacket. From that tiny bit of information, I can usually determine whether I may be or am not interested in buying that title.

Contrary to popular belief, all fishing and hunting books are not scarce. Most also are not worth big money. Many books I turn down are not worth $5, and I have no need for them. But for you, the potential seller, I will pay within reason what it takes to buy books in good shape that I want for resale.

Books with damaged covers, childish scribbles, underlined passages, highlighted sentences, damp-stained covers or those with other faults are not worth offering. I never buy musty, mildewed or ex-library books because they usually aren’t worth owning.

Anything noted immediately above is what I don’t want

So, c’mon Richey, what exactly are you interested in? I seldom buy new titles. I never buy Readers Digest or condensed books. I prefer books that state 1st edition or 1st printing on the copyright page. I absolutely will not buy print-on-demand books.

Topics of interest to me include Atlantic salmon, muskie, brook trout, tarpon, fly tying, bamboo rod building and other types of fishing books work for me. I crave good books on hunting ruffed grouse, deer, ducks, geese, upland game, wild turkey, woodcock and other hunting books. I have a mild interest in African hunting books but am picky about what I buy. I do pick up books on duck decoys.

Some hunting authors that I’m collecting. Please save this list.

There are certain authors I collect.

Robert Austin	Fred Bear	Havilah Babcock	Larry Benoit	Wayne Bledsoe
Stewart Bristol	Bob Brunner	Nash Buckingham	Doug Camp	Thomas C. Chubback Burns
Peter Hathaway Capstick (first editions only)	Russell Chatham	Wally Chodak	Thomas C. Chubb	Malcomb Commer
Wingbone Cryer	Eugene Connett	Ralf Coykendall	Paul Dalke	Henry Davis
Jack Dudley	John Duff	George Bird Evans	J. Wayne Fears	Bill Harper
William Harnden Foster	Percy Haver	Marv Heeler	Vic Jansen	John Knapp
Dana Lamb	Homer LeBlanc	J. Stockley Ligon	Doyle Loadholtz	John Lowther
Thomas McGuane	John Minor	Art Moraski	Richard Nissley	Jack O’Connor
Hoffman Phiilip	W. H. Purser	John Pusztay	Larry Ramsell	George Richey
Robert Ruark	Ernest Schwiebert	Louie Spray	Bob Swineheart	Robert Traver
Jack L. Turner	Ted Vogel	Alfred Weed

and countless others.

I’m always interested in any books written by Michigan turkey hunters like Denny Geurink. State published turkey hunting, management, ecology, roosting habits, food habits, etc. are needed.

People have nothing invested in offering me books for possible purchase. If I can’t or won’t buy your books, I’ll be happy to explain why. If I do buy, know that I will give you the highest possible price, and hope then to be able to resell the books for a modest profit but that doesn’t always happen.

I’ve never cheated anyone, and don’t plan on starting now. My reputation is excellent, and I sell books off my website and some by mail order sales. It’s in my best interest to pay the highest possible price, and still realize a potential profit.

I grade books fairly, charge a fair price and pay a fair price when I buy. I’ve been buying and selling books for 43 years, and one doesn’t stay in this kind of business for long by cheating people.

Give me a try. The nasty winter weather is behind us, but late spring rains may stall your outdoor activities.  Take a bit of that time to dig through that pile of fishing and hunting books stashed in the attic, barn, basement, cellar, closet, garage or wherever, write down the author’s name, the book title, and whether paperback or hardcover with dust jacket. If you can read this, you can certainly email me and tell me what you have for sale.

It’s that easy. And who knows? The book you sell could be valuable or not, but the payment may allow you to purchase some fishing or hunting equipment. Try me and let’s see what happens.

When an unexpected man-bear encounter occurs

Getting this close to a bear is never a wise idea

Bear hunting is a special brand of outdoor adventure where the hunted can become the hunter. It’s where the tables can be rapidly turned on a sportsman, and where things can get very interesting very quickly.

It doesn’t happen very often with black bears, but when one attacks, it’s not good news. A grizzly will maul and bite a human, often inflicting horrific injuries, but the person often lives.

Black bear, even though they are the most common bruin of all, are perhaps the most dangerous. Their attack may continue until the victim is dead. It has happened many times across North America, and in many cases, the human doesn’t survive such brutal maulings. In certain situation, the bruin makes a meal of its victim.

Someone in North America gets mauled by a black bear yearly. It’s a matter of fact, and it has happened in Michigan several times over the years.

Anytime a bear is within 100 yards of you, there may be danger

I lay no claim to being a black bear expert, but have hunted bruins, photographed them, and have had them approach within three feet of me. Each experience is one to learn from, and to hope it never happens again. A human’s best hope is he does everything right if a bear gets within three feet. One wrong move, and it can mean terrible trouble.

I’ve never been truly frightened of a black bear even when they’ve come within spitting distance on a dead run. Knowing some things about bears can help you cope with the animal when things turn sour, and an angry bear is only feet away. What you do may truly affect the outcome of the encounter.

This is not mean to frighten people, but the Michigan bear hunting seasons opens in September. However, during this mild winter, bruins can awaken in their den and now is about the time sow bears give birth to their cubs. Realize, first of all, black bears are unpredictable at any time, and a sow with little ones is something to steer clear of.

Whenever bears are baited or being run with hounds, and  humans may find themselves within close proximity of a bruin, and neither one knows it. Throw in the fact that the bear may be a sow with young cubs, and there is the potential for disaster.

Once while photographing a black bear in Canada’s Northwest Territories I was downwind of a foraging bruin. It turned, looked in my direction just as I took a photo with a flash. It startled the animal, and it came walking slowly toward me. It was straight upwind of me.

I talked to the animal in a fairly soft voice. I kept my voice level, and it approached close enough that I could have touched it on the head, which I knew would probably be a major mistake. The animal continued to circle me, and as it moved around me, I turned with it and continued to face it and talk. The bear got downwind of me, caught my scent, and circled back the same path as before and slowly walked away.

Talk to a bear in a soft, level tone. Don’t scream or shout. Whatever you do, don’t get silly or hysterical. This isn’t Disney World.

If a bear is seen, make some noise, don’t walk closer and it may leave

One important thing in bear encounters is to keep a clear head. Don’t scream at the animal, and realize that a wild bear can sense anxiety and fear. The same is also true of a junkyard dog. Running from a bear is the worst thing to do. Watch the animal, and read the messages it gives you.

Know this: bears, and especially sows with cubs, will often make a false charge toward a person. They can walk, trot or run, but you’ll hear teeth clacking, deep growling, and then the bear will stop at 10 to 20 feet and assess the situation.

It is defending its turf and its cubs, and a slow dignified retreat with soft talk while facing the animal can put an end to the whole business. However, it doesn’t always end that way.

Know what to do, and do it, in a bear-man confrontation

The trick is to stand your ground until she stops. Step backwards slowly for a step or two, and talk to the bear. If it does nothing, take two or three more slow steps backwards. This allows the animal some space, and gives it a chance to save face. Its enemy is retreating to avoid what could be a deadly confrontation. Just don’t make any quick moves, and pay some attention to your footing. If you fall down, it could trigger an attack that would be difficult to defend against.

Watch the bear. Keep a level head, and don’t crowd the animal. If it comes, turn with it, but watch its head because the body will follow the head. Study its actions intensely. A bear that becomes increasingly agitated is now a deadly animal and the risk of an attack escalates.

A bear that approaches within 15 to 20 feet and stops, its ears laid back against its skull, and is clacking its teeth and growling, is a dangerous animal. A bear that does that, and then begins slamming its front feet against the ground, has become truly dangerous. Back up and try to defuse the situation with a slow retreat and a soft voice Don’t step toward a bear that is stomping its front feet.

Do not run. Never run from a bear because it’s like running from a mean dog: the chances are it will trigger a charge. A full-blown charge with foot stomping, growls, ears laid back, and clacking of teeth is something that will stir your guts into soup and give your mouth a coppery taste. This is no time to lose your head and do stupid things.

Continue to face the animal but try a slow-moving retreat. Chances are the bear doesn’t want to force the issue, but this posturing can be a prelude to a mauling and death or a close call. In many cases, the human’s movements or lack of them may act as a catalyst that triggers an attack.

Allow bears to save face; Give it a way out but don’t run

Saving face is no different with a bear than with a bar-room bully. Sometimes the issue can be resolved without incident; other times, it can only be resolved with force. A man alone, unarmed, is not capable of fighting a faster and stronger bear. A few instances have been noted of a bear-man fight, including one here in Michigan, and they are the stuff of wild tales … except some of them are absolutely  true.

Few people will ever face a false charge, and even fewer will come to grips with a full-blown charge. Those who face the latter (and it’s difficult to determine one from the other until the attack occurs) and live to tell the story are a rare breed in today’s society.

I’ve faced three, and all were defused after several troubling minutes, but the best advice is to stand tall, make yourself look as big as possible, talk (don’t scream) to the animal, and give the bear a chance to save face without injury to it or you.

Backing away or stepping aside when a bruin is very close can leave you with a wildly beating heart, a dry mouth and your life, providing you do everything right. The chance of a bear attack anywhere is rather remote, but it pays to have some knowledge of what to do well before such a need is standing only 10 feet away with its ears back.

Especially if the bear has a surly attitude and you are wondering how you ever got into such a situation. Just remember: keep your head, don’t lose control, and you may have a hair-raising tale to tell.

Make a mistake at this crucial point, and even the best Hollywood make-up artist won’t be able to make you recognizable to your best friends and family at the funeral.

The Richey Twins on the outdoor trail

George with a 30-pound-plus king salmon.

It was a nice day and it felt good to be cleaning steelhead rods and reels. This job seemed better than working on the computer.

I was puttering with a reel with 4-pound line when a memory jolted me like an electric shock. It was about my late brother George, and he was coming down the Little Manistee River years ago fighting a rampaging steelhead.

“Try and get a net under this guy,” he hollered. “I hooked him a quarter-mile up-river, but he’s riding the current broadside. Stick your net in the water, and I’ll put him head-first into it.”

This was the moment of truth with this big steelhead.

My net was pulled from under my belt behind my back. The fish was 10 feet upstream as my net went into the river, and George leaned back to get the fish up on the surface, and at just the right time, he dropped the tip and the fish dove into the net. My sole job was to lift it out of the water.

“Good dip,” he said, as we waded ashore. The steelhead, a red-slashed male with bright cheeks and gill covers, was 16 pounds of broad-beamed raw power. George worked the No. 4 wiggler fly out, eased the big guy into the river, and with a splash he was gone. Our trips came and went like that fish.

Several years before George died in 2003, I took him caribou hunting in northern Quebec. From home to Montreal, I told him there were two things you don’t do: never shoot the first caribou bull seen, and never shoot a cow caribou. They do have very small antlers.

We hunted together, and I ran him down the sprawling lake in a square-stern canoe with a small outboard motor, pointed to the top of a tall and open “baldie,” a treeless hill-top where long-range visibility was superb.

He would use binoculars, and study any caribou seen. My plan was to scout the lake’s south end. I found an area where caribou had traveled, and the trail looked like a cattle path. I was looking for a good downwind spot to sit when a shot rang out.

It could only be George. The others in our party were far to the north. I returned to the canoe, motored over to where I’d dropped him off, and saw him trudging down the hill, carrying something. The closer he got, the more it looked like a cow caribou head.

“Didn’t I say not to shoot a cow?” I asked. He bowed his head in mock shame, and said: “But I’ll have the biggest cow caribou rack in camp.”

George admitted shooting a cow caribou and took the razzing.

The other hunters teased him about it, and he made up for it by shooting a very nice bull two days later. The razzing didn’t bother him, and he had fun.

Another time we hunted Le Chateau Montebello, a famous Quebec resort. We were there to hunt whitetails, and our guide said we’d be lucky to see a deer. If we did, he said, it would be a shooter.

The guy put on one-man drives, and I’ve worked deer drives for many years. I can tell good drives from bad, and this guy was an expert. He walked softly, yipped like a beagle puppy occasionally, and never hurried the deer. They just moved slowly ahead of him.

Far off, on the third day, I heard him yip softly to let us know he was coming. It was a large area to watch, but 10 minutes later a white-antlered 8-pointer eased from the woods and stood, side-lit by the sun against a pine tree. It was a beautiful sight.

The buck came out, turned away from me, and I took the close shot.

He turned to look the opposite way, and I slowly raised the rifle and shot. He went down, and George almost beat me to the buck. It was the only deer we saw, but he wasn’t disappointed. He loved listening to the wolves howl at night, and was happy that one of us took a good buck.

“Good shot, good buck, and where’s the guide?” He asked. “This buck weighs well over 200 pounds, and we will need help moving it.”

The guide showed up, we boiled a kettle for tea with our sandwiches, and walked four miles to his truck. It is the only whitetail I’ve taken in Quebec, but it’s important because we shared the hunt in a unique Canadian location.

Neither of us have ever been competitive, but years ago before I wrote the first story about pink salmon runs in Upper Peninsula streams, George was with me to share what might be an adventure. We didn’t know if we’d find the humpback salmon or not.

We fished pink salmon in the morning and hunted bears in the afternoon, and soon found fish in the Big Huron River. They usually spawn on odd-numbered years and we found hordes of them on the first gravel bar above the river-mouth.

We’d guided river fishermen for 10 years, and began catching pinkies on flies. An orange fly tied on a No 6 hook produced best, and they were some of George’s tried-and-true original steelhead and salmon patterns. The fish weren’t big but were aggressive.

Dueling it out for a Michigan state pink-salmon record.

Here’s another one,” he said. “I’m taking it to the store to weigh it. I figure he’ll be just over two pounds. There’s no state record for pink salmon so let’s set one.”

Back he came, and it weighed 2 lbs., 3 oz., and so I tried to beat him. Mine weighed 2 lbs., 4 oz. The next day we caught fish of 2 lbs., 5 oz, and then 2 lbs., six oz. On the last day George caught one that weighed 2 lbs., 7 oz. and it became a state record that stood for several years.

I was tickled for him, and he got a Master Angler award, and the mounted fish hung in the DNR offices in Lansing for years before his record was broken. He didn’t care. He’d had his “15 minutes of fame.”

And that was the neat thing about brother George. He could go with the flow, be happy doing anything outdoors, and greeted each day with a smile on his face. He had the capacity to make others feel good and feel as if they were the most important person in his life on that day.

He was game for almost anything. I set up a bear hunt in the Upper Peninsula one year, and although he had hunted bruins near St. Helens, he wanted an Upper Peninsula bruin.

We hunted near Marquette and near the Laughing Whitefish River, and it was there on a nice September day that he took a good animal.

It walked in, stopped near the edge of the swamp, stood up to survey the bait site, and slowly dropped to all fours. The bear was cagey and moved slowly to circle the bait. There was no wind, and scenting conditions were bad, but the bruin was cautious.

After catching pink salmon, George shot a nice black bear.

George could see the animal at times, watched the bracken ferns move as it walked through them, but could never see enough for an accurate shot. Finally, apparently satisfied that all was well, the bear strolled slowly into the bait site and stood facing him.

He waited until it turned and offered a broadside shot, and one shot from his 30-06 took out the heart and lungs, and broke the off-side shoulder. His bear weighed a bit over 200 pounds, and it was a wonderful animal for him.

George and I shared 64 years of great fishing and hunting adventures, and I made sure he could accompany me on some of these fishing and hunting trips. Summer is a great time to remember, and these fond memories of the Richey twins on the outdoor trail will always stick with me.

Perhaps one day soon, I’ll tell of many other fishing and hunting trips where he and I had wonderful times outdoors, together and sharing our common love for the outdoors. He was a great companion, and I certainly miss him.

Hunt late afternoon gobblers

This jake isn’t huge but he’s a legal bird

Many people think the only time to hunt gobblers is at the crack of dawn. Nancy and Roger Kerby of Honor know better.

Both of them have day jobs, and Roger can occasionally sneak away from his welding job for a bit of hunting. Nancy, a nurse at an Empire doctor’s office, did the same thing several years ago during the first turkey season in Area K.

They got home about 4:30 p.m., jumped into their camouflage clothing, and Nancy grabbed the shotgun. Roger always goes for the last season simply because it offers him more hunting time while Nancy likes the earlier hunts.

Kerby knows his hunting area intimately

Roger hunts deer in the fall in Leelanau County, coyotes in the winter and gobblers in the spring. He knows what is state land, private land and what belongs to the Federal government as part of the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore property along Lake Michigan.

Knowing the terrain is a key to successful turkey hunting, and he had been preseason scouting for gobblers before the late-seasom opener. Nancy couldn’t get away on Monday so they headed out Tuesday afternoon.

They cruised down some of the same roads, scoping out the state and federal lands they hunt during the fall, and it took 30 minutes to spot a big gobbler out in an open field. Much of this land offers long-range spotting conditions, but the hardest part is moving in close enough to call to a gobbler.

It was that in-between time when the gobblers are off on a stroll and before they meet up with the hens at fly-up time. This bird was by himself, on the move, and they watched for several minutes to determine his direction of travel.

Knowing travel routes tell them where to set up to intercept birds

“We got him figured out, turned around, and drove around the mile-square section,” Nancy said. “We knew where we could get into the timber, get fairly close to him, and with luck, call him right in.”

They parked the vehicle, uncased her shotgun, and she loaded up, checked the safety, and they headed off at a fast walk. Five minutes later they spotted the gobbler at a distance. He was still heading in their general direction, but had stopped to watch traffic out on the road.

Roger gave a soft yelp and the gobbler greeted them like he’d been waiting for a long-distance phone call. The bird went into a strut, danced around in a circle, and gobbled again. He didn’t seem ready to head their way so they decided to duck into a nearby gully and move closer. This bird acted like he expected the hen to come dancing his way.

They ducked down into the gully, and ran down it for 100 yards while remaining out of sight of the gobbler. They finally ran out of cover, and stopped. The bird was still 150 yards away, and he was still at full strut, wingtips dragging in the dirt, but wasn’t coming any closer.

Nancy got set up for a possible shot, and Roger climbed a hill just behind his wife, and they sat motionless watching the bird display. Finally, the bird decided perhaps the hen he had heard wasn’t coming, so he gobbled again. Roger stayed silent, let the old boy get himself worked up a bit.

The longbeard gobbled, and still Roger remained silent. The bird strutted, his tail spread in a broad fan, and gobbled again. He then double-gobbled, and his head was flashing red, white and blue.

Roger decided the bird might be ready for a little persuasion. He stroked out a soft yelp, and it was immediately answered by another double-gobble. He stayed silent,and the bird gobbled again, and one more soft yelp got the bird lined up and headed their way.

He strutted, gobbled, and came 20 yards closer. Roger stayed silent, and the bird gobbled two more times, and took a few tentative steps in their direction. He gobbled yet again, and Kerby whined and clucked, and that did the trick.

Watching gobblers and figuring out where they’ll go is the secret.

The bird had his running shoes on, and came charging right up to within 25 yards of Nancy as she sat with her knees up and the shotgun to her shoulder. The bird stopped 25 yards away, his head tucked into his shoulders, went into a strut, and as his tail fan started down, Roger whispered “Get ready” and clucked softly.

The gobbler’s head shot into the air as he tried to spot the hen, and with one shot Nancy downed her gobbler. The bird had a 10 1/2-inch beard and weighed over 20 pounds.

“The neat thing about turkey hunting,” Roger said, “is working the bird. They don’t always come to the call this well, but when everything comes together, it is a wonderful afternoon in the woods. And best of all, hunters have very little competition for birds.”

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

I get excited by severe weather

I thumped this bruin with two well-placed rocks. He left us alone.

There’s something about storms that light my fire. I’m not certain just why I find them so intriguing, but I suspect it began near Flint when brother George and I were 10 years old.

We were outside playing catch. Even though I had (still have) small hands, I could throw a knuckle-ball. George was the person who could catch it.

He had a little nickel curve ball and I had my wobbling knuckler. It’s what we did in the early 1950s. Occasionally one of us would uncork a wild pitch, and one of us would go chasing the ball down the street.

Head for cover when the big winds come blowing in.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, up came a big wind. Mind you: we were skinny little kids, and I doubt either of us weighed over 60 pounds. The wind was so strong we had to push hard against it to get indoors.

What we had felt was the outside winds of a massive tornado that followed an east-west road about seven miles south of our home and in the north end of Flint, and it covered two or three miles before lifting back up into the turbulent clouds and disappeared. It left nothing but death and destruction behind.

Several people were killed, and the big wind would destroy three or four houses in a row, lift up to dodge a house or two, and drop down again for more devastation.

It made a big impact on me, and several years later, Max Donovan of Clio and I were traveling back-roads. He had me drive, and we were in Tuscola County when I saw a twister coming across a field at us.

“Out-run it,” Max hollered. He had an old gutless station wagon, and it was no contest. The tornado hit us, lifted the car two or three feet into the air, and then slammed us back down. My foot was still standing on the accelerator, and away we went, no worse for wear.

In 1970, my father and I joined another father-son team from Ontario, for a northern Ontario fly-in trip. We were crossing a large shallow lake that was filled with big pike when a storm popped up. We fought to keep from capsizing for two hours, and finally wallowed ashore on a deserted island. We waited until the storm passed, bailed out our boats, and went fishing, again none the worse for wear.

The Indian guides blamed me for pointing at the unnamed island.

That storm was the edge of a tornado that hammered its way through Sudbury, Ontario, causing massive destruction. We weren’t in the actual tornado but caught some of the heavier winds generated by it.

This Arctic grayling was caught on the Northwest Territories Great Bear Lake.

Some years ago, the sky turned that dark greenish-purple color as clouds rolled and tumbled in the southwestern sky with an ominous sound. The direction was a good clue for possible severe weather, and I watched the tops of nearby maple trees bend almost flat as my wife screamed for me to come inside.

No twister for us, but a neighbor a mile away watched a tornado demolish his brand-new garage. Again. no injuries and the neighbor had insurance on his garage. It was a big inconvenience, that’s all.

Kay and I got caught in a hellish big storm on Great Bear Lake in Canada’s Northwest Territories in the late 1970s. This lake is just slightly smaller than Lake Michigan. The lodge owner came by in a much larger boat, and took Kay with him. My guide and I followed the larger boat for miles, rising 12 feet into the air on the crest of a wave, and then we’d plunge into the trough with water all around us.

Up we’d go, and there would be the larger boat with Kay aboard, and it was pulling slowly away from us. We traveled into the waves within 10 feet of a sheer rock wall six feet away, and one mistake would find the waves pounding us and our boat into bloody tin foil against the rocks.

We made it into a safe haven called Gunbarrel Inlet, and there were several boats milling about with smoke rising from a small wood fire on shore. I asked someone why they were not up near the fire.

A bear had reportedly “chased” them from shore and out into their boats.

“A bear chased us away,” came a reply. I told my guide to head for shore. I put more wood on the fire, shucked out of my rain-soaked rain gear, and stood steaming near the roaring blaze. The first head we’d had in hours..

Someone hollered “Bear!” from a boat, and pointed down the shore. Here come a 200-pound black bear, and I picked up a rock and hollered at him. The bruin stopped momentarily, and I took several steps closer, and my old pitching days came through. No knuckle-ball ball this time but a high hard one that thumped his rump. The second rock was a bean-ball, and he ran off. We returned to the warming fire. We were chilled to the bone.

So the snowstorm and it’s eight inches of snow a few nights ago really didn’t seem to be anything special. We may see lots of snow, some strong winds and moaning sounds from the eaves, but as far as storms go, this one didn’t have the making of anything worth writing about.

But what am I writing about. I’ve already mention tonight’s storm, so in some way, it does influence my thoughts. Personally, I’d just as soon seen it get cold and freeze up the slop for two or three days and then go away.

The most recent storm can’t even compare with a few of them during the winter when we’d see 15-20 inches of snow. Storms are interesting, but these little guys are nothing but a little bump in the highway of life. Storms that can kill a guy are those worthy of great respect.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors