My "Good Luck" Truck

Private land, shmivate land. No need to vent my "lack-of-private-land-access" frustration today because yesterday I was finally able to shoot a turkey on land as public as it gets. My wife is convinced it was because yesterday was the first time I ever took my new truck hunting.


Who knows if the truck had anything to do with it, but there must have been some luck involved because those public-land birds are so call shy. It's late in the season and by now most of the hens are sitting on eggs, but the gobblers are still looking for love, so you'd think they'd come looking for a hen if you can make yourself sound like one. Instead, they just quietly sneak away whenever we call to them. To get close to this bird my buddy and I had to crawl through mud behind a small hill in order to "head 'em off at the pass". When I thought we were close I peeked up over the hill....


...and saw seven gobblers within 45 yards...


Turkeys don't smell you like deer or elk, but their vision is incredibly keen, and if they see any movement they're gone and your hunt is over. My heart was pounding out of my chest but somehow I was able to make a clean shot on a good bird.


For those of you who don't know, the beard and spurs on a turkey are a way of telling how old it is, like the antlers of a deer, or weight of a fish.

The older the animal --> the smarter it is.
The smarter it is --> the harder it is to hunt.
The harder it is to hunt --> the more bragging rights you can claim.

Personally, I think the location you hunt, (the hunting pressure they feel), also contributes to their smarts and makes them more of a trophy. Certainly I worked my little turkey-loving butt off to get this one; spending weeks learning their habits, where they roost, where they feed, etc. But like I've said before, the pursuit is 95% of the fun. Having a wild turkey Sunday dinner with friends is the sweet icing on the cake.

The Pain of Private Land

For someone like me, relatively new to turkey hunting, and brand new to the state of Nebraska, shooting a turkey here this year would be an accomplishment well worth my limited hunting time.

(can you hear 'em gobbling?)

I'm having a lot of fun, but I'm frustrated, and I need somewhere to vent, so here it comes. The problem so far has not been the lack of turkeys, but the lack of turkey-filled land on which I have permission to hunt. Finding birds is one thing, but getting close to them (legally) is quite another. Back home hunting is not who you know, but how hard you're willing to work for it. Here you can work as hard as you want, right up until you see this:


Maybe I'm just bummed because this morning my buddies and I got so close, but were again held back by that bothersome barbed wire. Ok I'm over it.

Here are a couple more random turkey clips. And just for fun, in the second video I threw in some footage of a little buck with this year's antlers just starting to grow.



You can almost feel my friend's frustration as he sits in the grass, looking out through the barbed wire (he's the thing that looks like a stump). Unlike us law-bound predators, the turkeys are free to cross the fences; trying to talk them into it, though, is a daunting challenge, especially for someone as inexperienced as I am with Nebraska's wildfowl. Hopefully a future post will include a picture of me sitting behind a big turkey tail fan. I've learned one thing though, meat or no meat, I LOVE time spent chasing them. I'm a turkey hunting addict.

Tying Trout Flies

When I lived in Pocatello I met Dave; a fly fisherman who above all anglers I've ever met deserves the title "avid". He showed me how to tie his favorite weapon for the salmonfly hatch: The Arnold Stone.


Because it's really just a bulked-up version of a regular stonefly pattern, he named it after the famous bulked-up body builder turned actor and governor. Personally, I would have chosen a different name, but since he created it, it's not mine to change. I gotta give credit where credit is due.

In June a good friend of mine is going to fish the salmonfly hatch in Idaho. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous. Talking to him has got me thinking about tying trout flies again. I love tying flies. Making them is often as much fun as fishing them. Here are some photos from when I learned to tie Dave's fly. The hackle should be longer, the elk-hair wing should extend over the body farther, and I should have added more crystal flash, but give me a break - it was the first time I ever tried it.

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Recipe
Thread: Orange 6/0.
Tail: A clump of black antron dubbing to resemble an egg sack.
Abdomen: Orange and black ice dubbing, segmented, & grizzly hackle.
Wing: Green crystal flash, violet CDC tuft, & elk hair.
Legs: Brown or black rubber legs, knotted.
Thorax: Orange ice dubbing & grizzly hackle.
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Another favorite salmonfly I use, often when I find I'm too early or too late for the hatch, is a salmonfly nymph. It only takes a week or so for them to hatch into adults, mate, lay eggs, and die; but before that they live in a nymphal stage for up to four years underwater, so the trout are very familiar with them.


I made this one up so I get to name it. Any ideas? Here's how it's tied:


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Recipe
Thread: Black 6/0.
Tail and Antennae: Black goose biots.
Abdomen: Lead wire, filler, black antron dubbing, black D-rib.
Wing Case: Black swiss straw.
Legs: Black flex floss.
Thorax: Black antron dubbing.
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Roughing It

Yesterday a friend and I were discussing a possible trip to the mountains this summer to go backpacking. It got me thinking about all the good times I've had on backpacking trips. The great plains are great, but this post is in honor of the greater Rocky Mountains.


As a twelve-year-old boy scout on the first backpacking trip I ever took, I hiked 50 miles in five days. I think my pack weighed more than I did.


On trips these days we usually hike into one lake, set up a base camp, and do pack-less day hikes to nearby lakes. That way we can see and go a lot more places, and we have a lot more energy to have fun:

My brother and friend returning victoriously from their conquest to the other side of the lake, and me enjoying an afternoon swim. It was definitely no hot tub.

For me, a backpacking trip isn't complete without a fly rod. One of the benefits of hiking into the middle of nowhere is you get to catch fish that have rarely seen an artificial fly or lure. They have not wised up to to the ways of man, so it's often easy to catch numbers of fish in the triple digits. They're never very big, but they fight as though they are, like this Rainbow Trout I caught on the lake's surface with a low-floating elk-haired caddis.


The rarest, yet most beautiful, trout in North America, the Golden Trout, can be found in only a few places, most of which are thousands of feet above sea level. I had to hike 14 miles to catch this one. Click the pic to zoom in and look how bright red his belly is. God must have been in a colorful mood when he created this species.


Here I stand about 12,000 feet above sea level atop the Continental Divide. Had I spilled my Gatorade in front of me, it would have eventually ended up in the Pacific Ocean. Had I spilled it behind me, it would have been Atlantic bound. The wind was fierce.


This picture was taken atop another windy pass. As we crested the top we noticed a large thunderstorm rolling our way. Carrying my graphite fishing pole in that high and wide open country felt like holding a little lighting rod. Needless to say, we hurried down the hill, praying that the next bolt of lightning was aimed at anything but us.

Somewhere during our descent I misstepped and strained some tendon or ligament in my right knee. For the rest of that trip I limped around straight-legged because any weight on my bended knee sent waves of pain from ankle to hip. Fourteen miles in the back country and injured, with hiking...well, limping...as my only way out was an intimidating thought. Luckily I was with good guys who were willing to help lighten my load by carrying some of my gear. Still, when I finally limped my sad self to the truck at 1:00 AM, I dropped my enemy pack off my sore shoulders and decided I would never go backpacking again.

The next year I packed in the ingredients to make a cheesecake.


When you pack the whole week's worth of food on your back you tend to go for lightweight noodles or dehydrated anything, but we have a tradition of surprising each other with luxury food items, (such as cheesecake). In the past we've brought Pepsi, Johnsonville Brats, or steak with A1 sauce; and I've even seen a fellow packer bake a chocolate cake up there. One year my buddy packed in a watermelon. No kidding. I say he should make it a habit, especially since I was lucky enough to get a piece of it.

Backpacking offers some crazy fun, like skiing down glaciers:


and cliff jumping into ice-cold, alpine lakes:


But it also offers serene and soul-satisfying moments, like my wife and I up with the sun fooling a few final fish before breaking camp to head home.


It's no easy task to put ten or so pack-laden, high-altitude miles under your feet in one day, but it's worth it when you get to wake up to this:

Friends, For Better or Worse

I'm kind of homesick today so I've taken a little stroll down memory lane, looking at old pictures. I had a lot of fun growing up. I dated, played sports, and did what most kids do, but my favorite memories all include two things: the outdoors and my friends. We never got hooked on Nintendo or PlayStation. Instead, we had fun the old fashioned way, even though we didn't always come up with the brightest ideas...

I wouldn't trade those days for any others, even though they are not mistake-free. Like the time we skipped out in the middle of church to go "diggin" (a.k.a: Driving Jake's dad's truck straight up a hill only to slide back down and ruin the bumper).

Or when my buddies came and got me after work (while I was still in my white shirt and tie) to go look for deer, but we ended up breaking the Jeep's suspension playing in a mud pit.

I never did get the mud stains out of that shirt.


One place that saw its fair share of good times is Chris's cabin. Standing on the deck of the cabin is where we first attempted to cut down a tree with our shotguns. His dad was not too happy about it, so we waited to try again until later in the summer on a campout near Pump Ridge where we unloaded our boredom on a much larger tree. Forty five shotgun shells into it we finally realized how stupid the whole idea was and moved on to waste our money elsewhere. That wounded tree still stands in that field as a monument to our senselessness.

The Utah desert is another place where many memorable moments were born. Once on a southern desert trip we found ourselves bored around the campfire. Why not tempt fate by jumping over the fire with a big box burning in it?


When that got old we began searching for more interesting ways to entertain ourselves. "How can we involve guns," we wondered aloud, "Shotguns always make things more interesting." Right about then Ryan yelled from the truck, "Hey, aerosol bug spray is flammable isn't it?" I think it was Chris who linked the two together, suggesting that we place the can near the fire's edge and shoot it into the flames.


We had fun that trip climbing up rock goblins, hiking up slot canyons, and cliff jumping into flash-flood potholes.


I'm surprised we all came out of it uninjured.

On other desert trips we'd go out to hunt turkeys, coyotes, or rabbits, but usually end up messing around, trying to talk each other into letting us shoot a hole in the other one's hat, or seeing if we could keep an old tire rolling by repeatedly hitting the top of it with bullets. Once after waking up early and hunting hard all morning, but not seeing one coyote nor a single rabbit, (and as a result developing an intense need to shoot something), Jake finally found satisfaction for his incredibly itchy trigger finger...

He moved the crosshairs of his dad's .30-06 rifle into place and sent 180 grains of copper-coated lead down range at 2800 feet per second, carrying just over three thousand foot-pounds of energy, (enough to kill a mature bull moose), to eventually strike...of all things...a meadowlark. Pieces were everywhere.


He was so proud of himself. That stunt was almost as bad as shooting a little hummingbird out of the air with high-brass pheasant load. We won't mention who did that one, (because then my wife might not speak to me for awhile).

We've definitely grown up a lot since then, but I do miss it. I love the outdoors. The rise of hungry trout to a dry fly that I tied, the drilling of a woodpecker echoing through a hollow grove of white-barked aspens, the satisfying ache in my muscles after a long hike back to camp, the blended smell of dutch oven chicken and campfire smoke, and the satisfied look in the eyes of my hard-hunted, sun-soaked dog that declares "The world is a beautiful place", all fill me with life and energy; but the people I enjoy it with are what I prize the most.

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I plan to continue making more of "the good ol' days" in the years ahead of me. I have a feeling that though they won't be as senseless as the originals, they'll be just as enjoyable.