Taking a crippled old dog out fishing

Mark Rinckey (with net) lands a Platte River steelhead for David Richey.

I was dreaming the steelhead dream, and my world was one of rushing river water, a jumping fish hanging in the sky with droplets of cold water hanging of its hard body, and there I stood: looking like a big doofus, with a broad grin on my face, and loving the experience.

Then I came out of my mid-day reverie, shook my head once, and the steelhead tugging me downstream was just a good dream at a bad time. The older I get, the more that some of the mistakes of my youth come back to haunt me.

Forty-one years ago, I fell off a fire escape, caught myself on one of the supports, and hung there 30 feet above a paved parking lot. I managed to climb hand-over-hand up the support to the edge of the fire escape, and pull my sorry butt up to safety.

Injuries have caused a weak left leg and weak lower back for me in past few years.

I’d broken two vertebrae in my spine, ruptured a disc, and when I slammed sideways into the brick wall after catching the support, the impact really messed up my back. Three months after back surgery, I slipped on some ice, fell on a piece of fire wood frozen in the ground, and broke the vertebrae above the first break.

That laid me up for a year, and even though I was writing magazine articles at the time, I had to do some from bed. I spent two or three months in a full-body cast, and finally, I was able to walk around. There’s an old adage about outdoor writers having to be tough.

I finally got back to work, fished and hunted while traveling all of North America for magazine articles. My back always hurt, but like is true with hockey players, football players, I had to play with pain – day after day.

Then some joker in a BATA bus pulled out in front of me, and although I had my lap and shoulder restraint on, I had no time to stop. The impact as the car T-boned the bus, banged up my chest and ribs. You guessed it: this car didn’t have an air bag. Some broken and fractured ribs happened even though the hospital originally told me there was nothing broken. It just took a couple of days to develop.

So, the last 10 years have had its way with me. My left leg has never really worked right, and was always weak. I compensated for the injury and weakness, and most people never knew there was anything wrong.

I knew, and hid the constant pain, and worked despite it. I retired from The Detroit News in May of 2003, and considered spending the rest of my life doing exactly what I did while working as a full-time staff writer – fishing and hunting.

Two years ago, the pain really started to increase. I had to take the occasional days off to rest my body, and then back I’d go again. Gradually, in the past two years, my left leg got very weak and wading rivers became nearly impossible. There has never been any “give up” in my vocabulary, but river fishing became more and more difficult for me.

I was at the point of forgetting about something that had been a part of my life for more than 60 years. I began trout fishing in rivers at 11 years of age, and now at 72, I was facing the grim prospect of never fishing a trout stream again because of bad legs and a bad back.

Here comes guide Mark Rinckey and my son David Richey to the rescue.

Well, I’m more than delighted to write and tell you that my steelhead fishing trip came true two days ago. My son David, of Sitka, Alaska, came home. I’d talked with guide Mark Rinckey of Honor, Michigan, (231-325-6901) and he felt they could get me out on the Platte or Betsie rivers. Frankly, they were a far more optimistic than me.

Rinckey says the warm autumn and little snow, has put a number of steelhead into the Betsie and Platte river. In the past 10 days, Rinckey’s methods for other anglers had produced limit catches some days and only a couple fish on other days. However, during those 10 days, they had landed one 18-pound steelhead, two at 17 pounds and numerous fish up to 15 pound. Me, I’d be more than delighted to catch any steelhead.

You see, my left leg doesn’t work well. For 41 years, it has been considerably weaker than my right leg. But, oh how I wanted to go, to catch one more steelhead, a game fish that I’ve fished for quite successfully for 61 years. I’d come to realize how much I missed the hiss of river current flowing around the end of a sweeper, and the sheer determination and dogged fight with a big steelhead was burning a hole in my heart/

We got to the river, and I pulled on my waders, took a few tentative steps on dry grounds, and I felt “I can do this.” I walked at my pace, and they helped me down a short dropoff to the water’s edge on the Platte, and we got into the water. Mark walked in front of me, David behind me, and we slowly crossed the river.

Mind you, it was the last day of November but the weather had been balmy. It was a bit cool but we were dressed for it.

He we go, getting The Old Man & his creaky bones into the river.

We got to a wide sweeping run against the far bank. Mark gave David some spawnbags, and he’d been here many times before, and hooked a steelhead right away and landed an 8-pound hen steelhead, all bright silver and glistening in the current. He fought it well, and soon the hook was twisted out and the fish was given its freedom.

We cast and cast, and Rinckey left me in the water near shore, and floated back and forth between my son and I. Eventually, it dawned on us that David had probably caught the only steelhead in that run or all the splashing had put the other fish down.

We crossed the river again with Rinckey leading and David following, and me in the middle. I got up and made my way back to the car, and felt great. I was fishing again, doing what I’d done for most of my 72 years. It was a wonderful feeling.

We drove to the Betsie River where Rinckey guided a client to an 18-pound buck steelhead a week before. He said this is where things will be tricky because the water was up, and the current strong.

“I’ll be on one side of you and David will be on the other,” Rinckey said. “If you stumble or the current sweeps your leg out from under you, we’ll have you.”

So, in this manner, we waded across the river in near chest-high water, got up on a shallow sand ridge, and walked downstream. Rinckey gave the instructions.

“David, go downstream 30 yards and cast right up next to the opposite river bank, and let it bounce downstream. This is where Ray caught the 18-pounder a week ago. He also caught two 15-pound here the day before yesterday. There are lots of fish in the river.”

He pointed out to me where to cast, and cast the spawnbag out to show me where the spawnbag was supposed to go. I’d fished this hole many times before. I could feel the splitshot bouncing along bottom, and suddenly the line stopped.

I snapped the rod tip back and was into a good fish. The fish ranged about 40 feet, stopped and Mark and I eased down through knee-deep water. I’d eased back the rod, moving the fish inches closer, and he responded by making another short run and a half-hearted leap.

“He’s hooked good in the corner of the jaw,” Rinckey said. I’d pump and reel, and then the fish would take back the six-pound line. We fought a back-and-forth battle for 10 minutes before I could sense the fish tiring. At just the right moment, I eased the fish across the surface to Mark’s waiting net.

The fish came to the net and my guide didn’t miss this fish.

“You got him!” Rinckey roared in my ear as David yelped with joy to see The Old Man do again what The Boy had seen done hundreds of times before.

The steelhead, a buck weighing 11 pounds, was lifted from the net and held up for me to admire. It was sleek, with that pinkish-red blaze of color along its sides, and I drank in its beauty before asking him to gently release it.

We fished that hole relentlessly for another hour, and Rinckey asked how I was doing.

“My left leg is really getting weak,” I said.. “I know we have to wade upstream, and I suggest we do so while I can.”

He whistled up David, and we began the upstream trek, one on each side of me. Sheer determination showed on their faces, and I suspect on mine as well. I climbed out of the river like an arthritic hippo, wobbled a bit on my unsteady legs, and then we walked through the woods and up the hill to our vehicles.

I was choked up with emotion as I profoundly thanked both men for making this trip possible. Who knows what the future may bring when it comes to my lifelong passion of steelhead fishing, but this trip was one of the greatest thrills of my angling career. I also want to give thanks to the steelhead for giving me another thrilling battle on light line. It was a day I will never forget.

Dumb Deer Hunting Moves

There are few people who can tell me they’ve never made a mistake while going head-to-head with a mature whitetail buck. I’ve made some really colossal and stupid mistakes over 55 years of hunt deer with bow, muzzleloader, rifle and shotgun.

Making a small mistake that means little is not bad, but when the mishap costs you a shot at a good buck at spitting distance, that is something a person will have to live with forever.

Everyone makes stupid mistakes Preaching to the choir is easy because you’ve made some mistakes, as have I, and we well know the feeling of anger and frustration at ourselves when we mess up.

One year a nice buck came past me every night from where he bedded in some tall grass. My stand was in a cedar tree atop a 10-foot knoll. My stand was eight feet up the tree, and when I sat in the stand I was about 22 feet above the trail the buck had followed night after night.

The buck was upwind of me, and never looked up at that cedar tree. One day I could hear the buck grunting as he followed his scrape line. He stopped, broadside to me, and as I made my draw, the arrow fell off the rest and rattled through the branches to the ground.

The buck looked up, and then went back to pawing his scrape. I nocked another arrow, began my draw and again the arrow fell off the rest. That buck never hung around long enough to see what made that second tinkling sound.

Don’t shoot other animals while deer hunting

The question often arises about shooting other critters while deer hunting. I no longer do so, but once while sitting in the same tree stand as noted above, twigs and needles kept falling down on me. I looked up, saw nothing, and five minutes later down came more bark and needles.

I looked up again, and this time saw a big porcupine scratching around on the tree. Not thinking, I drew back, aimed and shot the porkie. It wobbled around, and suddenly I realized what could happen. The animal could fall on my head.

I stepped to the extreme back edge of the stand, got two hand-holds and one toe-hold, and down he came onto my stand. A foot nudge sent him toppling over the edge where fell to the ground with an audible thump. I no longer do such dumb things.

The porkie waddled off, walked down by the scrape below me and died. No deer came to visit me that night.

Another time I was in a different stand near an open road that was bordered by a small field, and I was watching a buck 100 yards away. A late arriving hunter came down the two-track trail, knew I was in that stand, and waved at me as he drove past. It’s a normal reaction, and I waved back. The car disappeared, and so did the buck. The buck had seen my friendly wave and skedaddled for heavy cover.

Haybale blinds are great to hunt from

Once I was bow hunting in late December, and was sitting in a hay bale blind near a corn field. I have asthma and hay fever so I downed a Benadryl pill to keep from sneezing, crawled inside and soon there were deer in the corn and eating away at my blind, unaware of my presence.

One deer was a nice buck, and I’m inside the hay bales, trying to get a shot at the deer. I needed just another inch or two for a clean shot, and darkness was coming. I tried to force the issue without making any noise, and damned if the two rectangular hay bales didn’t move a bit. The small bales moved several inches, and there I went, falling out of the blind and almost on top of the buck.

It’s questionable who was more surprised: me or the buck.

All the deer ran off, and at Show and Tell after hunting ended, everyone had a good laugh at my expense. I laughed too as I replayed my smooth move for the other hunters.

Don’t forget the little details

One of my dumbest moves came several years ago. We decided to take a different car than the one we normally drove to our hunting land. I’d taken my bow out of the car to shoot a few arrows, and put it back in the car.

The dumb thing was I had transferred everything, including Kay’s bow, into the other car. Habit, being what it is, made me put my bow in the car we normally used. I dropped Kay off at her stand, and drove to where I would hunt.

I got my hunting clothes out, got dressed, grabbed my back pack, and started looking for my bow case. It was forehead slapping time as I remembered putting it in the other car.

I spent that afternoon and evening watching deer through my binoculars and spotting scope. It almost seemed as if all of the deer were laughing at me, but that was probably just a figment of my imagination.

 

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

My Archaic Sense Of Justice

It was something of an insult. I’m sure the reader didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but it came across as a personal insult.

A reader told me that I have an archaic sense of protecting our fish and game and other natural resources from poachers. He chided me for being so concerned about the welfare of our poached birds, fish, fur and game.

He said I should let the DNR worry about it. They are trained to do the job, and if they can’t catch the poachers, too bad. I wondered whether he had ever picked up the phone and dialed the RAP Hotline phone number (800-292-7800) to report a poaching incident in progress.

I’m sorry but I don’t feel the same way he does. Poachers are basically opportunistic people, and break the law whenever they think they can get away with it. That line of thinking is dead wrong.

POACHER HABITS HURT

Years ago I did a newspaper story about a joker who was proud of being arrested more times than anyone else in the state for fish and game law violations. He boasted that he’d been arrested on one or more charges more than 50 times. When I had those numbers checked, it was well over 60 violation. He’d forgotten some of them.

The guy is a bit younger than me, and I once figured up that he’d spent several years in the hoosegow. Man, everyone wants to be popular and known for something in their life, but being the state’s most famous poacher?

One rule to keep in mind: It’s nice to be important but it’s more important to be nice. Poachers aren’t nice people.

Is poaching something to be proud of? I think not. One might think he has fish eggs for brains after having speared as many steelhead as he did during a long and largely unproductive poaching career.

A few weeks ago I wrote about anglers and hunters who really don’t care about the fish and game. It’s becoming even more prevalent by the day. Apathy is alive and well in the sense that poachers are seldom apprehended even though their family and neighbors know they are potting deer out of season. No one wants to speak up.

Does this make a poacher feel proud? It apparently must, because for them, outwitting the conservation officer is a big game they love to play. If they get caught, they pay their fine, and go right back to breaking fish and game laws again.

Apathy is running rampant as people shake their head and mutter: “Old Uncle Pete got himself another deer last night about midnight. Oh well, Pete’s a bit of an odd one!“

It makes one wonder why they don’t turn Uncle Pete in. Ten or more days in the pokey might wake him up, but even that is doubtful. For most poachers, it is a game of beating the local game warden at their own game. Trespass is a major problem throughout the state, and most poachers trespass on a regular basis to do their dirty deeds.

DEVIANT MISQUE

Some poachers are ingenious in their willingness to test the game warden’s skills. They go out of their way to concoct ways to mislead the officer so they can operate in impunity elsewhere.

Sooner or later, their worst nightmare comes true. The conservation officer steps out from behind a tree, and catches them red-handed with a freshly killed deer that was taken out of season or after dark.

Those who catch and keep more than their limit of fish are just as guilty as deer poachers. So too for those who put out 10 tip-ups during the winter, and when caught, shrug their shoulders, pay their fine and do something else that breaks our fish and game laws.

People dither, complain a bit, and soon everything blows over and they go back to the meat market in the woods. Family members, who could call and ask to remain anonymous, sit on their hands and wonder why nothing ever gets done. The answer is they are afraid to take that first step by making a phone call to the authorities.

Sad but true, there seems to be little improvement in the number of people arrested for breaking our wildlife laws. Conservation officers are spread too  thin, and in some counties, there is only one fish cop to cover too much ground. If he is patrolling the north end of the county, and things are happening at the south end, the chance of the violators being caught are very small.

Our sense of protecting our fish and game tells me that this is a matter of education. We must start with the school children, and teach them that what Uncle Pete does to make his weekly beer money is a crime against everyone else in the state.

Children must learn that shooting game out of season, setting a web (small gill net) across a spawning stream, jacklighting a deer at night, and all the other things that poachers do, is wrong.

In days of old, when knights were bold, poaching of the King’s fish and deer in England, was a risky proposition that some poachers gladly accepted.

In some parts of Africa today, poachers are summarily dealt with. The law officers who try to protect the elephants and rhinos are both judge and jury, and the sentence is delivered immediately. A hail of bullets and a sudden death is what happens to many African poachers. Most don’t have the guts to do that again.

A snide and very impersonal remark? I don’t think so. Poaching is big business, and educating long-time fish and game thieves is a battle we seldom win. Caught, they are fined and may possibly serve a short prison sentence, and then return to poaching again.

Where is the justice in that? There isn’t any.

Of course, in this country, using some of Africa’s short and swift punishment would be considered cruel and unusual punishment. Poachers think little of our rights, but we must consider theirs when they are caught. A flaw exists in this argument.

Shooting poachers may be too harsh, but locking them up for a longer period of time and handing out much stiffer fines and restitution fees might make a difference.

It’s my thought that we must deal with this problem in a different way, and teaching our children that poaching is wrong, is just the first step. If the kids start ragging on the old man whenever he takes game out of season, perhaps knowing that the kids are watching would do the trick.

It’s certainly a good place to start.

Anyone who wants to help stop poaching can follow these tips:

• Don’t try to be a hero. Never try to stop a poacher.
• Instead, note the make, model and color to the car or truck being used. A license plate letters and numbers are very important.
• Note the number of people in the the vehicle and the direction it is traveling. Give them the time of the poaching incident.
• If possible, write down physical descriptions of all poachers, including height and weight, color of hair, approximate age, any distinguishing marks such as scars or tattoos, how the person is dressed, and who, if possible did the shooting.
• Making positive identification at night is very difficult, but if the individual is identifiable, give this information to a DNR officer. Get involved, and a tip can lead to an arrest. Most such anti-poaching lines allow callers to remain anonymous.
• Call the Michigan DNR Report All Poaching hotline phone number at (800) 292-7800 and offer them this information.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Canada goose season opens next week

A goose is a goose, but a giant Canada honker is one big black-and-white bird. They come, on occasion, to the call or a flock of decoys on the ground but it’s nothing you can ever make book on. Of course, much depends on where you live.

Most of Michigan’s giant Canada geese live in the metropolitan Detroit area and across the southern two tiers of counties. They are the birds that cottage owners always thought were soooo cool to have around, but few people share that attitude these days. If there is anything a goose does well, it’s poop. Copious amounts.

They cover lawns, golf courses and farm fields with the slimy excrement, and once birds start using a corn or oat field to feed, the only way to drive them away is to shoot them. Try firecrackers, and the birds take off, cock their wings, circle back around and start feeding where they were before being so rudely interrupted.

These birds look like flying boxcars when bearing down on your blind. Things can be a bit messy if you hunt out in the open, covered from head to toe in camouflage, and getting spattered occasionally is part of the outdoor experience, although it’s one most people would not wish to experience on a regular basis.

The early goose season opens on Sept. 1 in certain state areas. Consult maps and detailed information from  the 2009 waterfowl season information or from local DNR offices.

These can be very big birds and a 12-pounder looks mighty large as it comes honking through the air, head craning back and forth as they circle a potential feeding area, muttering and honking to other geese in the air or on the ground, and if they are satisfied, in they come like a horde of B-52 bombers. Get one of these birds within 20 yards, and they look immense.

Early Goose season starts September 1

Much of the hunting takes place on dry land. If you intend to hunt, keep these thoughts in mind:

• Unless you are an excellent goose caller, leave the calls home and depend on the standing crops and decoys to toll the birds within shooting range. Many goose hunters blow calls that sound like a ruptured crow, and all the toodling they do only educates the geese.
• Scour the nearby ground area and make certain there are no candy wrappers or Thermos bottles laying around. Shiny brass bases on shotgun shells or other shiny objects glint in the sunlight, and if geese spot them, they will fly away.
• Only one person should be watching the circling geese. They often make two or three circles before deciding it is all clear. The other hunters should wear camo face masks and gloves, and keep their head down. The person who is calling and watching the circling birds should say “Now,” and the geese’s position should be given to alert the hunters where to look before shooting.
• The bag limit is five birds, and state hunters have had five-bird limits often since the early goose season was established nearly 30 years ago.

This is one sport where the supply of Canada geese far outnumber the people who hunt them. Taking two or three limits of geese from a farmer’s field will win you a stout pat on the back and a heart-felt “attaboy.”

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Going Home: back to the Sturgeon River

“Trying for the big brown trout of yesteryear…”

The night was dark, the moon almost non-existent, as three of us stood quietly talking alongside the river. The water chuckled and gurgled as it swept under a big sweeper that formed a hole where my late twin brother George and I learned to trout fish back in the 1950s.

We listened for the slurp, splash, and sizzle of a broad-bodied trout trout hazing minnows in the shallows. A few small fish fed the first night but none of them were the big brown trout that nearby Burt Lake used to hold. These fish move up-river in July and early August, and hold in deep holes before spawning in October and November. For me, this trip was a reunion of sorts.

It’s been said that a person can never go home. That’s not true because I returned to my Home Stream — the Sturgeon River in Michigan’s Cheboygan County– for two days. Well .. really it was for two nights of after-dark fishing for the brown trout I caught 55 years ago as a 15-year-old and hope to catch now..

I was joined by two Hoosiers — Les Booth and Ed Hauser — on this trip back to yesteryear when I caught brown trout to 11 pounds here, but the stream has changed, and Private Property signs are more common. Fortunately, a number of years ago, I was befriended by a sweet lady, the daughter of the late Russ Bengel, who was the last Michigan waterfowl market hunter of ducks and geese. This late and wonderful man also befriended me more than 25 years ago, and now his daughter has granted me permission to fish what is now her Home Water. Russ was a kind and generous man as well, and donated large sums of money to Ducks Unlimited, paying back what he felt was a debt for the waterfowl he killed as a youthful market hunter.

The first night of fishing meant more listening for moving fish than fishing but fly rods and spinning rods stood at ready. We just needed to hear some fish moving, and we’d start fishing. A few small trout splish-splashed around but not a big fish moved.

The next night was somewhat different. A cloudy sky blanked out the stars, and we began hearing a few fish working the tail-out of several pools. We used big flies that more resembled mice, huge moths or injured fish. We’d time their rises, and one whist-whist of a back cast and forward cast, and the fly landed like a small bird hitting the water. Les had three strikes, Ed had three and I had three hits that memorable evening.

My vision problems prevent me from seeing well at dark, and I pitched a seven-inch Jointed Rapala in silver-black and a chartreuse-orange Rebel that also measured seven inches. I worked the tail-out of each hole with determination, and one big fish (it may have been a husky brown trout) slammed the lure so hard it nearly pulled the rod from my hands. Bing-bang, and it was gone, leaving me breathless. There’s something about strikes from big fish once the sun goes down that takes your breath away for a few moments. The other two strikes were complete misses.

Ed, fishing a downstream pool from the bridge, hooked a big and powerful fish, and had him on for several long seconds before it too shook free. Les, like me. had three hits but no hook-ups. One might ask if any of us did anything wrong, and the answer would be no. Big trout trout don’t hit flies or lures if the anglers makes a mistake with his presentation.

For me, this was a return home. It’s where I sprinkled George’s ashes in the river after his 2003 death from cancer. I spent hours both nights thinking of my brother, remembering his first steelhead from one of the holes we fished, and drifted back to yesteryear when life was much different than it is now. Most of all, it was a return to the river of my youth. Perhaps next time the fish will lose and we may win a round

One can always dream.

If you decide to go:

• The Sturgeon River flows north into Burt Lake. Try fishing the downstream end closest to Burt Lake. I prefer fishing from White Road ( the end closest to M-68) and on downstream. Much of the land along this water is private. Be courteous to landowners, and pick up your trash and that of others. The summer brown fishery is about over for this year based on my more than 55 years of experience on this stream.
• This river is extremely swift, and anglers should wade downstream through a likely spot during daylight hours to determine where they can and cannot wade. Some holes are line with clay, and an angler who gets caught on a clay ledge will go swimming. There are a great amount of stumps, sweepers and other debris in the river.
• A few big brown trout from Burt Lake move into the Sturgeon River in mid-summer. They are not easy to catch, as our two-night fishing trip would indicate. The fish move upstream in small schools and often can be heard splashing as they move up. Don’t slosh around, make noise or shine a light on the water. A light flashing across your fishing spot will put the fish down.
• If a fog starts rising off the water, head for the sack. The browns stop hitting when a fog comes off.
• Fish safe, and avoid the river during daylight hours if you wish to maintain your sanity. You may be upset by hordes of canoers, kayakers and tubers, most of whom are out-of-control once they start downstream. If local legends are true, there is one spot on the river where the current flows at 22 miles per hour. The current is swift and heavy, and log jams and sweepers are common. Use special care when fishing, and pay attention to where you wade.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors