Big buck but no shot

Big bucks often catch a break by veering away from a hunter.

The big buck appeared like a ghost from a bad dream. One minute there was nothing nearby, and the next found me looking at a 140-class whitetail buck.

He was 75 yards away, moving in my general direction through the fringe of a swampy wooded area. He moved slowly and cautiously, the way big bucks do once they’ve been shot at.

This big boy was an old buck, and I saw him once the year before but such thoughts often leave something to the imagination. My guess was that he was 5 1/2 years old, and had survived this long by being smarter than the average buck.

Instincts play a major role in keeping big bucks safe.

He tested the wind constantly, stood for long minutes checking things out before committing to a move, and I knew where he was heading. A nearby corn field had been half picked, and the owner hoped to get all of the field harvested before the predicted weekend rain fell.

The buck nosed the ground, following the track made by an unseen deer for 10 yards before turning back on his course toward the corn. At this pace, it would reach the dinner table just after dark.

The question was whether he would reach me or pass out of range through marsh grass and scrub brush before shooting time ended. A doe came squirting out of the marsh grass, moving away from the buck. The rut was in full-drive, but she was nervous but he didn’t pursue her.

His intentions seemed quite clear: reach the corn field right at dark, feed, terrorize the younger bucks and young does, and be back bedded down before daylight broke across the land.

He kept coming, and was soon 60 yards away. I’ve shot many bucks over the years, but this one was too grand an animal to try such an unwarranted shot in fairly thick cover. I never shoot at a buck that I’m not 100 percent confident of killing.

My bow was in my hand, and this was the largest buck I’d seen lately, but he would either come close enough for a slam-dunk easy shot or he’d continue on about his business.

He eventually reached the edge of thick cover, and would move through more open upland woods … if he stayed his course. He would move out of the heavy cover and into the open, and then duck back in the cover, zigzagging ever closer to me.

He minced along like he had sore feet, and stopped every few steps. He was now 35 yards away, but still in heavy cover when his heavy white antlers could be seen. In fact, it was one glimpse of white antlers going up and down as he rubbed a tree that first caught my attention.

The wind was swinging a bit from north to northwest, and then he turned and seemed to move closer toward me. That turned out to be an illusion as he walked around a wind-toppled tree.

Sometimes bucks offer shots but are too far away. I don’t take them.

My watch showed there was but 10 minutes of shooting time left, and he was now at 30 yards but still five yards inside thick cover. The suspense continued to build with each step he took, and the big question was whether he would start sliding toward the more open part of the funnel or stay back where it was thick.

I’d shot a number of bucks from this spot before, and all of them had walked into the thin part of the cover. One spot offered a 20-yard open shot but he was still 25 yards from it.

The clock was ticking, and even though I’ve shot bucks at this distance over many years, each one is a new adventure. Honestly, the wait is an adrenalin-filled rush. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the thin cover, and I’m glancing at my watch.

There was five minutes left, and two more steps would put him into the opening where I’d have an easy broadside shot. He put his head down, rocked on his feet, but didn’t move forward.

My bow was up, and I was ready to draw, but still he stood, rooted in one spot. And he was still standing there, two steps from a clean shot, when shooting time ran out.

Legal shooting time had ended without me shooting.

He was so close, and yet so far away, and he stood there for 10 more minutes before moving on toward the corn field. It was a wonderful hunt, filled with heart-pounding excitement right up until the end, and after he moved off, I headed home.

Knowing that buck is there is important. I may or may not shoot him, but I will hunt him again. He is too big to ignore but one wonders. Bucks in this area are like circuit-riding preachers from the Old West, and there is always the troubling thought of never seeing him again.

Time will tell. If I never see him again, I’ll feel blessed to have seen him once on a snowy November day.

George and I hammered the Chinook salmon

My late twin brother, George Richey, leads a big king to net.

Years ago we had an early cool snap, a cold rain fell, and suddenly the Betsie River was awash with fresh-run Chinook salmon. Everywhere one looked were fish moving upstream, their backs creasing the surface.

Brother George and I were fishing two small holes 30 yards apart, and he was casting a wet fly while I was pitching a copper No. 2 Mepps Anglia spinner. It was midweek, and we seemed to have the river to ourselves.

George hooked a fish on a pattern he devised for dark-water, and it was called The Crick. It was basically a black fly with a bit of color, and he was bouncing it along bottom when it stopped and the line switched sideways. There is nothing delicate about setting the hook on a big river salmon. It is a happening!

Hooking two big kings was a special treat for us.

I could hear him grunt as he muscled back to pound the hook home. I took two turns on the reel handle, and a king salmon tried mightily to wrench the rod out of my hands. I urged him into a fighting mood with a hard double hook-set, and there we stood, 20 yards apart, the Richey twins, each one tight to an angry king salmon.

My fish started downstream, and jumped almost into his back pocket, and George spun around, glared at the fish heading out into midstream as his fish ran upstream away from the splash. His fish jumped out in front of me, and we both had to get moving to avoid tangling our lines.

He shuffled upstream while I moved down, and we had the two fish separated by 20 yards when his big king swapped ends, and headed downstream behind me as I scrapped with my fish in the deep hole. I stepped backwards, stepping over his line, and then we stood there, our backs almost touching, as we tried to beat up on those fish.

“Having fun yet?” he asked, knowing I was.

“Nothing better than a 25-pound king trying to rip the rod from your hands,” I replied. “Waited a year to do this again.”

The silence of the moment was hushed by splashing fish, and then George’s fish headed upstream, and our two fish were as close together as we were, and both were struggling upstream, fighting the river current and our heavy rod pressure.

Fighting both salmon, with each going its own way, was a hoot.

“Could get a bit tricky soon,” he noted. “If both of them come down together, it will be interesting to see if we can get out of the way while keeping them separated.”

The Chinook salmon apparently read his mind or heard his voice, and like two submarines heading for two troop ships, here they came. One fish stayed deep and mine was near the surface, and I pulled from one side to upset his travel pattern. George and I always seemed to read each other’s mind, and he did the same except he pulled in the opposite direction.

The fish hit the air, both in half-hearted jumps, and it was as if we were in a ballet on water. We reacted in unison without discussing it, and his move and mine complemented the other. The kings, reacting in a somewhat predictable manner, responded in kind. This was a battle of two twin men, working on two adult Chinook salmon of equal size, and it couldn’t have been choreographed any better.

My fish cut between me and shore, spinning me around as it charged downstream. George’s fish peeled around him in midstream, and now both fish were wallowing on the surface.

My fish was just half-a-shade lighter in coloration than his but it played out faster on the spinning tackle. I led the fish to shore, grabbed it by the caudal peduncle (the wrist-like narrowing just ahead of the tail), lifted it out, reached for my long-nose pliers, and twisted the treble free and released the fish.

Tailing a big Chinook salmon is easy if you know how and hang on.

I grabbed my camera and began clicking photos of George as he landed his 25-pounder. There was a bit of color in the background, and he held his fish aloft for two or three photos.

He bent over, released the fish with the dignity it deserved after putting up a valiant fight, and we were off looking for another adventure.

Those were the days when George and I lived our lives to the fullest, guided fishermen, and traveled Michigan’s rivers together as we did everything else … together, and as a team.

Today I was on the Betsie River again, and my thoughts of George were wonderful as I looked for fish below the old Homestead Dam. I found a few fish but they weren’t hitting. The river water is still warm, and oddly enough, there were no people where I was at.

I cast to several fish but the fish were really spooky. One cast, and they would head into a timber-lined hole. The last thing they seemed interested in was flies or spinner, but it was a good day for remembering my twin brother.

I still think of him daily after almost eight years since his premature death, and although we hunted together as well, it was on those early salmon and steelhead trips that we became almost welded together, inseparable as two peas in a pod. I miss him, and just remembered this story today as I tried to recreate that day, and it’s one of my favorites.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

The fish that becomes an addiction

Dave Richey plays a big Lake St. Clair muskie.

Muskies have been a preferred species of mine for many years, in many states and the Provinces of Ontario and Quebec, and it’s my sincere belief they are the most unpredictable, ornery and cantankerous and unpredictable fresh water game fish in North America.

They may hit well one day, but may go several days before they decide to hit again. Sometimes they will follow a lure to the boat, look it over and sink out of sight with total disdain.

The result can be something like a baseball game. No hits, no runs, no errors, and no fish either.

There is very little about muskie fishing that is easy. Most of it is hard work.

Muskies are finicky, and each day the angler fishes, he just knows this will be the one he has waited for all his life. Once the day ends without a muskie or a strike, most anglers become mildly dejected.

That soon passes as fishermen assume the philosophy: Well, maybe they will hit tomorrow. Sometimes they do but more often than not, they won’t.

Muskie Fever affects different people in oddly different ways. It’s difficult for non-fishermen to understand, and year after year, muskie fans return to their favorite waters with high expectations. All they want is one legal muskie, but unless one fishes Lake St. Clair, that can be as lofty a goal as hitting the Lotto jackpot.

Lake St. Clair is the lake of choice for many catch-and-release muskie anglers. Many of the fish are caught trolling, and that’s fine. However, some anglers will stand and cast crankbaits, jerkbaits and spinnerbaits until their arm wears out.

For this latter group, catching a legal muskellunge is one of fishing’s most difficult pursuits. It’s even more difficult to catch a legal fish, but Lake St. Clair is producing some 50-inch fish but anyone who has fished for muskies before knows that a fish that size doesn’t come along very often.

Stand-up casting has been my forte for many years, and I enjoy pitching a big plug or spinnerbait out, time after time, and noting a following fish can be as meaningful as catching one.

Trolling with in-line planer boards is the best bet for Lake St. Clair muskies; here’s Al Stewart with a 30-pounder

Trolling is a terrific way to catch Lake St. Clair muskies, and I’ve had days with Captain Steve VanAssche of Harrison Township where our crew has landed over 20 muskellunge in one day. Some are smaller than legal size, some are just legal, and on occasion a fish weighing 30 or more pounds is caught.

The trick with trolling is using planer boards, and three lines are legal in Michigan waters while only one line per angler can be used in Ontario. Put six people aboard a boat, and you have six or 12 lines out, depending on where you fish, and it increases the odds of hooking fish.

The stand-up-and-cast angler is a glutton for punishment. He or she will stand, hour after hour, and make one cast after another. If a following fish is seen but doesn’t hit, they try a different lure or different color. No hits, they return every two hours in hopes of raising the fish again.

They do a Figure 8 or Letter J rod-tip movement with the lure at the side of the boat at the end of every cast, and once in a great while this method will produce a strike. It’s been my experience that most muskies that hit are never seen until they arrow up from bottom and slam the bucktail or other lure.

Michigan has many good muskie waters but Lake St. Clair is the nation’s best.

There are numerous good muskie lakes in this state for the angler that prefers to cast for them. Budd Lake at Harrison is a good bet, as is Skegemog Lake near Traverse City. Other lakes near Skegemog that produce the occasional muskie include Elk, Intermediate and Torch.

Lac Vieux Desert on the Michigan-Wisconsin border is a great lake and noted for its big fish. Iron Lake in Iron County produces some big fish, and Munuscong Bay in Chippewa County is another steady producer.

Indian between Burt and Mullett lakes produces some fish. Long Lake at Traverse City produces very few muskies but those that are landed often weigh 30 pounds or more.

Muskie fishing can be an addiction. What anglers become addicted to is not the fish as much as that heart-stopping strike, the feeling of power as a big fish strips heavy line off the reel, and the effort required to pump that hooked fish off bottom.

Sometimes that muskie will come to the boat, open his mouth, and the big lure will fall out. The fish slowly sinks from sight, and that hooks the angler again. We fish muskies, not just for the fish, but for the adrenalin rush that comes when we have a solid hook-up.

The only cure for this disease is to go fishing again. Muskie, slimy and ugly, grab hold of our emotions and only death or infirmity rids us of this malady.

Bob: A Big Loser At Walleye Poaching

Poachers often glass from a car & often shoot pheasants & rabbits for sale.

Bob was sitting pretty. He was making about $1,500 per week, and was able to set his own hours. No time-clock punching for him.

He owned a boat, motor and trailer, and fished or hunted every day. He was a laid-off factory worker, and was entitled to some rather sizable work benefits.

However, Bob’s life was a little bent. He and his wife were divorced, and she was collecting Aid To Dependent Children (ADC) benefits, welfare and all other benefits available to women whose former spouse no longer made child support payments to the Friend of the Court. He knew his life was a can of worms, but this was a big game he played: it was a case of him against them.

“Them” was any government agency. Bob was fighting a losing battle because of his life style. You see, Bob was a full-time poacher. A hard-core lawbreaker.

Bob poached fish, fur and small game, and sold his swag for tax-free dollars.

He was 28 at the time, father of two children, and poaching was his lifestyle. The tax-free booty was a direct result of selling fish for cash. Bob was a great fisherman, and he easily caught his limit daily. He often caught three or four limits each day.

The large sums of money he made during May and June were from the illegal sale of walleyes caught from the St. Clair River between Port Huron and Algonac. His fish were sold to individuals or restaurants—whoever would pay his price.

His dream life suddenly fell apart. One customer was a Department of Natural Resources special investigator for the Report All Poaching (RAP) unit. After 60 days of intense investigation, the officer had gathered enough evidence against Bob to arrest him and another full-time poacher. Both men pleaded guilty to selling fish and have since served their prison sentences and paid their debts to society.

A conservation officer present at the arrest felt Bob would be lucky if he didn’t lose his boat, motor, trailer and all fishing tackle that was confiscated at the time of his arrest. He agreed to talk with me providing his proper name was not used.

Each man paid court costs, fines and restitution costs, and it came to many thousands of dollars. The jail time was an added problem, and Bob (not his real name) begged me not to reveal his identity. He agreed to discuss the reasons why his life became a big lie, a matter of cheating the state government, and stealing fish that belong to every state resident. Sadly, his wheels fell off the track early in life.

“I admit I’ve done wrong and deserve punishment,” he said during the interview. “My major concern is for my ex-wife and children. They will suffer because of my actions, and the family will probably face investigation by the Internal Revenue Service (it did) and some other state agencies because we never paid taxes on my poaching income nor did we report it to the IRS or state welfare agencies.”

Bob’s personality problems began as a youngster. He was a below-average student in high school, and had very few friends. He also suffered from low self-esteem.

“I needed recognition as a teenager and was able to get it by poaching,” he said. “Other kids thought I was crazy to break the law on a daily basis (he also hunted rabbits and squirrels, and took more than his legal limit of game), but for him, it was fun killing animals or catching fish for profit.”

He’d been profit poaching for many years, and had only been caught once before.

He decided, in 1977, to poach full time. He led the easy life for five years. He slept late, collected ADC benefits every two weeks, and food stamps once a month. He was slicking the state government out of a lot of money. For him, life was good.

It was during fishing season that he poached every night. And when hunting season rolled around, he poached rabbits at night using a spotlight and a .22-caliber rifle.

“I sold 150 to 200 rabbits in Detroit over a year, and the going rate was $3 per bunny, in season or out. I sold 40-50 rabbits every time I went to Detroit. There was a great market for cottontails down there.”

He also sold raccoons in Detroit, saying “It wasn’t uncommon to sell 20-30 raccoons every time I went to the city, and they paid up to $4 for skinned carcasses. The pelts were later sold to local fur buyers, and that created another lucrative sideline.”

Coon hunting led to Bob’s first and only ticket before his big bust. He and another man were driving through a field and shining for raccoon eyes in the trees after dark. They were stopped by a CO, and the officer found a loaded .22 rifle on the back seat. The firearm was confiscated, and both men paid a minor fine.

Law enforcement offices cite the too-low fines as a chief reason poaching continues. Bob agreed, stating: “The fines were so low, and the courts so lenient with first-time offenders, that it didn’t keep poachers like me from repeating these crimes.

Catching and selling St. Clair River walleyes was Bob’s biggest money maker.

“I sold up to 1,500 pounds of illegally taken walleye fillets each year. The going rate at that time was $3-4 per pound. Walleyes were the money fish, and I could catch 25-30 fish every night during the April-May spawning season. My best night was 37 trophy walleyes, and each fish weighed from five to 10 pounds. It was a lucrative night.”

On a good night Bob could net about $225 of tax-free money from the walleyes he caught. Such nights just fueled his desire to catch and sell even more fish.

The spawning run of big walleyes usually lasts two to three weeks although the smaller males will hang around the spawning areas for another month. It’s likely that Bob made a large amount of money during that period. He made it by catching fish that belong to everyone in the state and selling them for his personal gain.

Bob says he isn’t bitter about being arrested but claims other poachers sold more fish and that the big money was in whitetail deer, which he said he did not poach.

“Poaching is big business,” he said. “Some poachers are making in excess of $50,000 each year while drawing unemployment benefits. Some poachers also are dangerous individuals.

“Some of these people wouldn’t think twice about wasting (killing) a conservation officer or anyone who becomes suspicious of their activities or how they make their money,” he said.

He noted that many poachers regularly carry handguns and are willing to use them. Several Michigan conservation officers have been killed while protecting the state’s fish and game laws since 1926.

Although Bob claims otherwise, it’s obvious he felt poaching was a high-stakes game. He knew he could get away with his crimes for a period of time but sooner or later the odds would tip in the favor of state law enforcement.

Cracking down on profit poachers is a high-stakes job for the DNR.

“I knew sooner or later I’d get busted, and I’m convinced someone in my family turned me in,” he said. “If it were just me it wouldn’t matter as much, but the DNR knows of my outlets and other local poachers in the business. It doesn’t look good for me.”

It’s unknown whether a family member tipped off the authorities about Bob’s poaching activities or not. Family members often turn in someone else from the family, and often some of their best tips come from a disgruntled ex-wife. Tips are kept anonymous, and in some cases, a reward is possible for valuable information.

After a great deal of soul-searching, Bob said he has decided that his career as a poacher is over. He quickly learned that this was a dead-end street for him.

“I’ll go to jail,” he whispered sadly. “They just have too much evidence on me, but when all of this is over and done with, my poaching career will be a thing of the past. I deeply regret the animals I’ve killed, and the fish I caught for the market. They’ll probably haunt me the rest of my life.”

Maybe so, but one conservation officer isn’t too sure about that.

“Bob will be back,” he said. “It’s hard not to be skeptical of such people and their comments. If he poaches again, we’ll catch him again, and the penalties will be much stiffer the next time around. Hardcore poachers are tough to put out of business unless the public cares enough to turn them in.”

Bob was trapped by his own greed. He has paid dearly for his many years of profit poaching, and claims he no longer poaches. It would be nice to believe him but, sad to say, DNR statistics indicate he will probably return to the poaching life.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Accurate shooting requires good optics and lots of practice

Dave Richey with big Alaskan moose.

The truest form of respect  we can give to the animals and birds that sportsmen hunt is to make a clean, killing shot, whether with a bow, muzzleloader, pistol, rifle or shotgun.

The thing that many anti-hunters are against are wounded animals. I have people contact me, and some say they are ill-prepared for the shot. A bad hit is the result of jittery nerves, buck fever and/or an inability to shoot straight when an opportunity presents itself.

People who regularly hunt make killing shots. Most of them hunt with a bow, even during firearm seasons, but others also hunt with a muzzleloader or center-fire rifle. When they aim at a deer, and pull the trigger, the animal goes down and dies instantly.

True hunters help keep excess deer in line with livingng space and food supply.

There is no long, lingering chases to finish off the animal. There is no long hours spent blood-trailing a deer for miles. There are no cases of someone taking a hasty shot, and making a bad hit.

These hunters have one thing in common: they can shoot straight, and they don’t miss. One man has shot eleven bucks, and he takes only one each year. Five were taken with a bow and none ran over 75 yards, and four died when the arrow sliced through both lungs.

The other two deer were taken with a flat-shooting rifle with a 140-grain pointed soft point. Both deer were hit low behind the front shoulder, and both deer died instantly where they stood.

Another man shot a big 10-point last fall after he had hunted the animal into December. The buck made a mistake, walked past the hunter, and one arrow killed the buck. It went just 50 yards and tipped over.

What do these men have that other sportsmen don’t have? They have the patience to wait for a clear shot, and the ability to put an arrow or bullet in that spot.

They know they have more time to shoot, and are in no hurry to do so.

They practice shooting all year. The centerfire rifle usually doesn’t come out of the gun safe until just a week before the Nov. 15 firearm opener. They may shoot the rifle a dozen times in one day before the season opener, and they are familiar with their bow or firearm. They know that when the rifle’s cross-hairs center the heart-lung area that the deer is dead but doesn’t know it just yet.

An old hunting question has been around for more years than I can remember, and it goes like this: People don’t ask, can you? They ask, did you?

A big black bear from Ontario.

Good hunters know that when they put the bow sight behind the front shoulder of a buck, that animal will go down. They shoot regularly, never exceed their shooting abilities by taking long bow shots, and they know how and when to draw and shoot. The deer they shoot are unaware of danger because these hunters play the wind every day.

These men and women are not casual hunters. They work hard to learn as much about deer as possible. They know how and where deer travel, and soon learn when the animals will come near their stand.

They never take hurried shots, and never take a low-percentage shot. They know that tomorrow may offer a better opportunity, and are willing to wait until all conditions are in their favor. They never make a mistake when shooting game, and they respect those animals they hunt.

I once shot a 6X5 elk in New Mexico at 350 yards. Elk are very big critters, and when my Swarovski scope’s crosshairs settled low behind the bull’s front shoulder just as he finished bugling and he’d emptied his lung, the trigger was squeezed and the bull died instantly.

Another time I shot a very nice mule deer across a side canyon along the north rim of Arizona’s Grand Canyon with a 7mm Magnum at 450 yards. One shot, and down he went. My guide said he’d never seen such a shot. There was nothing for me to say because I’m accustomed to long shots, know my firearm and know what it can do

Practice in aiming, handling and shooting a rifle is the key to making good shots.

Hunters must practice, and I don’t pretend to specialize in long shotsm but I only shoot when I know from past experience that I can make that shot. Some of it isa result of  practice, and most of it is knowing that the shot can be made. Both of these shots, no brag, were instant kills.

Hunters who can do this on a regular basis have no need to brag about their prowess, never make the deer appear dumb or stupid, and they never show the animal any disrespect. Many have learned over time that hunting means more than just killing, and also know that the meat from these animals will grace their table all year ’round.

They know that hunting is something more, much more, than killing a small deer with tiny antlers. They are willing to pass up young bucks, knowing that two or three years on a buck will allow them to take a trophy buck of their dreams.

More so, they are hunters, 365 days per year, and that is why many are so deadly in the autumn woods. They have the patience, skill and practice to do everything right. They don’t have to think about it but just react to the situation.

Thinking too hard on anything can make it more difficult than it should be. And that, my friends, is a direct quote.