The Proper Technique on How NOT to Spot and Stalk Carp

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp, I can’t get to my phone right now, I’m probably out cruising around or laying up in the sun. Leave me a message and I‘ll try to get back to you!”

-Hey, its me, remember that one time we hooked up last spring?  I’m gonna be in town again this April, give me a holler if you’ll be around.

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp…”

-Hey, I know this sound weird and all, but I saw this video of you online, sipping the surface.  Your lips drive me crazy.  How come you never do that for me?

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp…”

-Hey, its me… again.  Um.. I just happened to walk past your place yesterday,  wasn’t sure if you got my message?  Didn’t look like you were home, soo.. I just sat in the bushes and waited.  Anyway.. Can’t wait to hear from you!

Ring Ring, “Hey it's Carp…”

-Hey, me again.  I was thinking about grabbing you some grub on my way out.   What would you prefer, a little worm caked in mud? Or something olive and leggy?  I know, I know, you’ll eat anything as long as it is on the bottom and slightly twitched in front of you.  …I miss you…

Ring Ring, “Hey its Carp…”

-Oh..ah.. I was just away from my phone for a few minutes, just checking to see if I missed your call. Hmm.. Guess not. Ok. Call me?

Ring Ring, “Hello?”

-Carp! Hey..I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Did you get any of my voicemails?

Yeah, uh ..there were 49 of them...About that one time… I’m probably gonna be really busy this spring.   There’s this huge party planned, once the water warms up.  Probably won’t  time have to talk.    But I did see you in the bushes the other day.. It looked like you had your rod in your hand? It creeped me out.  But you know, if you really want  me to turn my head, try practicing your cast…seriously.. [Click]

I've only failed the Drivers Test Once..

I remember a conversation with a fellow graduate student a few years ago regarding our plans after our impending graduation - The whole, "Oh s@#$, I won't be allowed in school anymore, what am I going to do with the rest my life? I need a plan!" situation.  My response was, "I don't have one, I have no clue where I'm going to be in 5 years, but I can't wait to find out."   Five years later, I've changed my residency 3 times, taken the written driver's test 4 times (I only failed once) and seen 38 states. --I reluctantly count Kansas because I had to there stop for gas--  It has been a journey to say the least, and an unexpected one at that.  And all because of a shotgun and a fly rod.  This winter finds me guiding in Idaho, with below freezing temperatures, two dogs, and a girlfriend who asked for a new pair of waders for Christmas.


I started Migrant Water three winters ago, to provide my hunters with a way to read about their day in the field, look at pictures, and to promote the outdoors in general.  Honestly, I assumed nobody ever read the thing.  But after the encouragement from a fellow guide at Wintergreen, I submitted some of my writing to the magazine Wildlife in North Carolina.

   
  This fall I saw my first article published, More Than a Brand, based on a post I had done on Migrant Waters.  Two months later, another article was published, A Different Look at First Light, based on my experiences of hunting wood ducks out of a kayak.  And this coming spring, I'll have another article on the comical experiences of turkey hunting with the Old Man.  So a lot of my time for writing has shifted.  Apparently writing is a lot harder than typing and pressing "Publish" on a blog.  
   So if  you haven't got your subscription to Wildlife in North Carolina, please do.  The illustrations accompanying my articles have been surperb and the folks there have been very kind to me.  Hopefully, I will have more material in print  throughout this year.

In other non-writing news, after a two week block of guiding for Flying B Ranch in Kamiah(kam-e-i), Idaho, I thought it would be a great idea to furnish our new home with a fostered shorthair puppy from their outstanding kennels. Her name is Gem, and I was told, "Bring her home for a bit, give her some people time, socialize her. Good hunting dogs, need good people time. " So I am proud to announce that under our care in the last month and a half, she has peed in 3 different peoples' houses(not including our own), on one couch(not our own) and on numerous spots on the rug(our own).   She has already learned several "tricks", such as "lets grab a sock and run outside in the snow before anybody notices" I did, two days later when it was standing upright and frozen solid.  And "The do you mind if I chew on you while to try to sleep game?" My 3yr old Brittany's favorite.  Not to forget, my personal favorite because it's always a surprise, "Guess what I just ate off the floor? You'll have to pry my mouth open to find out."  Who knew teaching tricks to a new puppy would be so easy.  

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned.

   

At the other office...

For the next couple of months, I'll be 60 miles up a dirt road.  No cell phone.  No newspaper. No T.V.  Working 12 hours a day.  But my cubicle has a helluvah view. If you want to see more pictures of the upcoming season, follow along via facebook on the Spotted Bear Ranch page. "Like" us at  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Spotted-Bear-Ranch-Where-the-Adventure-Begins/183619038356235?ref=hl

Here's just a preview of the past few weeks:

Thank You

Throughout the season,  I’m often asked, “So… how did you get into to guiding?”  The short version, I had an uncle who sort of laid the path before me -along with the help of two other guides, who I am forever in debt to for their encouragement.
So as this part of my season ends, I can’t say how fortunate I feel to eke out a living for the past five years sharing my passion for being outdoors.   It wouldn’t be possible without the people I am privileged to hunt and fish with.  So Thank You.  And to steal some words from Havilah Babcock.. the finest legacy a man could leave his grandson is a good gun and a good bird dog… 
I was lucky enough to have two.

The dogs are taking the summer off.  They've earned it.

The Zen of Fly-Tying

Sitting in front of a vise can almost be a form of monastic prayer for some fly tiers.   Many find it relaxing, meditative.  The inner voice quietly chanting, “ wrap, whip finish, repeat..”  It can be hours of repetitive motions that calms the mind.  Collecting one’s thoughts, and preparing for those long awaited moments of standing mid-stream.  A peaceful practice of patience that rewards a fisherman with neatly organized rows of freshly tied parachute adams or blue-winged olives.  Almost Zen-like.    But for me, fly-tying feels like a mixture of having O.C.D and the flu.   

At first, the symptoms start off small, usually with tiny midges, stuff that doesn’t take too much effort or material to tie.  Then it’s on to nymphs and my mind starts to drift, what if I added a leg here? Or oh that looks shiny, I’ll add that on top.    By the time I make it to streamers, it’s a full blown affliction. 

Some nights, as I struggle to fall asleep, my brain keeps imagining  pattern variations and possible materials, like a feverish dream that keeps repeating itself.  And my inner voice shouts “I need more flies.. girdle bugs.. mini-buggers… more streamers,.. I wish I had olive sexi-floss legs….”    It’s compulsive.

*Notice the folded bath mat on the left under the table. The price tag still attached. $12 for a liftetime supply of antron.
Also, it's not hording if you can still walk through the room....

 My fly tying room starts to look like a scene from the movie, A Beautiful Mind,   The one where they find the guy’s backyard shed littered with old maps and circled newspaper headlines amidst a maze of red yarn stretched wall to wall.   The audience has the heart-breaking but yet sympathetic reaction of, “..his condition has gotten worse..”
     I say fly tying room because it started off as a desk.  But five patterns in, and a dozen patches of deer hair, marabou, and shiny strips of streamer material scattered across the table, my mess has overflowed on to the floor.  My neatly organized boxes and bins strewn throughout the room like a little kid’s Lego collection.   And the only feeling I have when I finish a fly is a impulsive need to fish it immediately.  I want to know what it looks like underwater.  How it acts.  But I can’t.  Its 3 ‘o clock and I’m still wearing my pajamas pants.  And the nearest cold water stream is six hours away.  The pot of extra strength coffee doesn’t help either.  But as with most fevers, this will pass.  And I won’t tie again until mid-season, when I really need it.  I’ll clean up my caffeine-fueled frenzy of feathers and organize my freshly tied patterns in neat little rows.  But I know, next spring, when the pine pollen sticks the windshield of the car,  I’ll start thinking.. I need midges..

Pictures are worth a thousand words

Pictures are worth a thousand words....

With a busy bird season, it has been hard to sit down and collect my thoughts. I am often asked, “Well... What do you do on the days your not guiding?” - Honestly, I try not to do anything at all. Most my guide days start at 6 a.m and bookend at 6 p.m with a car ride home in the fading light. But in the hours in between, hopefully my camera has captured the words that have seemed to escape my fingers. In the end, it’s hard not to feel good about having a job that let’s you take your dogs to work everyday.  Oh.. and the view from my office isn't that bad either...

 

Hit or Miss

I’ve missed more wood ducks this year than I’d care to admit. I’m not one to keep a tally, or try to quantify a successful hunting experience based on the statistics of my shooting. But when you miss shots on ducks right on top of you, it hurts. And the experience tends to stick you with. It can haunt you. Missing close shots like that is really kind of embarrassing when you think about it. Two shots from my over/under probably puts out how many pellets? 75? Maybe 100? And I couldn’t put one of those on target at 10-20 yards? Its got to be the gun’s fault with those kind of figures. Or better yet, wrong chokes or wrong load. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, in the face of numbers like that. Mind-boggling. I couldn’t put one out of a hundred pellets on targert?!?! One out of a hundred…nope.

My brother is actually a pretty good shot. He claims that your pattern comes out as a cone and the key to successful shooting is to put the leading edge of that cone on your target, so as the bird continues to fly, the full pattern follows the target on its flight path. Makes sense, I guess, if you’re into science and mechanical physics. But after I saw every bird he shot one afternoon expel a spherically uniform poof of feathers, I politely told him, “Well, however your using your “cone“, you can clean all the birds next time, because I’m tired of hamburger.”

Regardless of my shooting, wood duck hunting is hard. And even harder to get them right on top of you. But once you’ve had squealing woodies coming in fast, feet down, and wings cupped, you’ll hold back on the treeline passing shots. Still, at best, it is hit or miss. But decoys do work. And if you know how to use a wood duck call, it helps too.

 

Bartering Chips

I’m not so sure that my dog, Gus, doesn’t save a few birds as bartering chips at the end of the hunt. Maybe he gets wind of a couple birds right off the bat, and thinks to himself “ I’ll save those guys for the end of the trip, so I don’t have to go back in the truck.” But maybe that’s asking a lot. Maybe that “Ting, ting.. Ting..” sound that comes from the bell around his collar is just echoing that one marble rattling around in his head going, “Birds.. Birds, Birds…” Either way, I can always count on a few points from Gus on the way back to the car.

I warned my hunter, Ron, as his friends started towards the edge of the field.

“If Gus thinks we’re headed home, he’ll false point all the way back to truck. He knows how this works. If he’s on point, we have to come to him.”

Tim, Max and Bob were already laughing about the morning’s hunt, recounting the birds that somehow dodged 8 rounds of lead and escaped unharmed, as well as the ones that didn‘t. Gus locked up on a clump of reeds.

A large part of guiding with dogs is learning how to read their behavior, their quirks, and even their faults. Gus gets psyched out by mice hiding under rotted logs. And Dixie likes to parade her down birds in front of each hunter, then drop it a few steps away instead of retrieving it to hand, as if to say, “Let me make it clear: This is my bird. I did all the work. You come pick it up.” At almost 11-years-old, she’s too old and stubborn to argue with.

You learn how to read each point. The slight tilt of the head can indicate how close a bird is. A nose to the wind can tell you if a bird is running. A slow creep into a point more than likely implies, more than one bird. Little variations of behavior that allow you to know your dog. But most of the time, it’s all in the eyes.

Gus’ eyes were fixed in a frozen stare.

“Alright, you ready Ron? We have one last bird in here.” I said.

Ron’s Browning A-5 20 ga. cycled as the bird fell on his first shot.

“Is that an original or re-issue?” I asked.

Ron smiled, “Original.”

 

The "I Only Got Five" White Quail Chili

It happens. The first hunt of the season can be rough, even if you have spent some time shouldering your gun during the off-season. Nerves can get the best of you. The birds never fly the way you expect them to. And it’s easy to psyche yourself out and forget that it’s not all about pulling the trigger. Those are my excuses anyway; I blanked eight times on opening day of Duck season.



So I could sympathize with my long time hunters, Chip and Chet Oehme, after we finished our first trip out at Wintergreen.

“Well Pop, at least we have enough to make a sandwich.”

And unlike me, at least they didn’t go home empty handed.

　

Here is an easy way to make a little go a long way…and a creative way to use game.

5 Quail Breasts

1 can of Great Northern Beans (un-drained)

1 can of Cannellini Beans (un-drained)

Optional: 1 can of Black Beans (drained/washed)

1 packet of McCormick White Chicken Chili Seasoning

2 cups game stock or water

Sour Cream

Cilantro

Avocados/ Guacamole

Serves 4

Grill or Roast Quail Breasts just to the point where you can pick the meat of the bones. Finish them off in a medium to large sauce pot with a little oil and packet of seasoning (cumin, cayenne, paprika, garlic, salt/ pepper, oregano).

Cook until each piece of Quail meat is coated with seasoning. Use water or better yet, game stock to sort of deglaze all that goodness stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Note: I save/freeze all my carcasses from ducks, quail, pheasant, etc. to make stock, as well as keeping my trash can from smelling for a week.

Add Beans, reduce heat and bring to a slow boil. (15- 20min)

Place in bowls and top with cilantro, sour cream, cheese, avocados or guacamole

 

A Slow Walk Back To The Truck

The field in front of us was filled with covey calls, when a lonesome Bobwhite lit through the tall pines and landed 50 yards ahead of us.

I warned Johnny Ferguson and his hunting partner.

“Heads up, guys. We got birds wanting to covey-up just ahead.”

Dixie had been working close and tracking these birds for the past 30 minutes, and the errant bird gave us a goal line on our slow walk back. A few steps later, she froze next to a patch of Sweet Gum saplings and suddenly we were right in the middle of it.

“Alright, be ready for more than one bird to get up” I cautioned.

Johnny’s first step towards Dixie sent a bird sailing towards safety, weaving through the trees. The bird fell on his second shot. Another bird jumped. Johnny anxiously searched his pockets for his next two shells and quickly reloaded his top barrel. Suddenly, a chain reaction of nervousness set bird after bird into the air and a single shot rang out as the birds scattered unscathed.

Dixie still sat frozen.

“We still got more birds in here .” I said.

Johnny laughed, “Well, I’m out of shells.”

In just under 4 hours of hunting, we had already moved close to 50 birds. And the fact of the matter is this: The busier Wintergreen is, the better the hunting is for everybody.

I offered a couple of 20 ga. re-loads from my pockets and we set up on the final bird. The reluctant quail fell 10ft from his panicked covey mate who seemed so anxious to fly.

With singles scattered all the way back to truck, and the wind in the dog’s favor, we couldn’t have asked for a better way to ending the morning.