Dove hunting

For some outdoorsman, the month of September means bow hunting. I do not bow hunt and don't get me wrong, I would love to learn how, but I doubt the bank account could support another "gear rich" hobby. For me, September means dove hunting. It's a wonderful way to "dust the cob webs off" of your wing shooting. What's better practice than real birds? It's a fun, warm weather, casual hunting activity. One that I look forward to every year.

 

I am very fortunate to have a friend who lives in Caldwell, and not only loves to dove hunt, but has a great piece of land to hunt on. Ryan invited me to come out and hunt the opening evening of dove season. He said to be out near 6 pm. I didn't want to be driving west at 5 o'clock so I headed out to Caldwell early and decided to spend a couple of hours at Lake Lowell targeting carp.    

 

 

 

I was delighted to find the lake calm as glass. I geared up and walked down to the water. A thin green layer of algae covered the surface of the water. Gross, I though to myself. I hesitated to enter the water, but the desire to catch fish overthrew my desire to stay clean.

 

There were small bass all over the place, leaping out of the water after dragon flies, so I decided to start with a small popper. 

 

A few minutes of fishing the popper revealed that most of the bass were too small to actually fit the popper in their mouth. I switched to a small carp fly and BAM! I was into a whopper of a largemouth bass. 

 

I walked along the weeds a little further and began to see a pod of carp milling near the surface. I could see their leathery, orange lips sucking the slimy, green algae off of the surface. Gross; the cockroaches of the aquatic world. These things will eat anything! I thought as I tied on a small, green dry fly. I fished the fly for 20 minutes or so with no interest. The carp would suck towards my fly and then turn away when they got close enough to eat it. Apparently they won't eat just anything!

 

 

 

I tied on a small, slow sinking leech pattern and fished that for a while. The carp were still not interested. But this trophy bass sure was!

 

I kept trying for the carp with a couple other patterns before giving up. It was nearly 6 and time to switch gears to dove hunting. On the way to Ryan's house, I saw plenty of doves, making me very excited to hunt.

 

When I got to Ryan's house, he was ready and waiting. I hurried to get my gear in order, but at my feet was Ryan's dog Grace, telling me I wasn't going fast enough.

 

 

We walked out to the edge of the hay field and began setting up on the canal bank. Ryan had taken a couple of tree branches and buried them vertically in the ground to look like small trees. We clipped a few decoys on them as well as on a nearby fence. 

 

 

 

With our set-up complete, all we had to do was wait. Doves are fast flyers, and it seems that no matter how alert you are, they can show up out of nowhere. Luckily, I have a bucket with a lid that has a swivel seat. No dove is sneaking up on me! I thought to myself as I spun around like a little kid who'd never been on a rotating chair.

My self confident daydream was interrupted by Ryan's word's, "Behind you!"

I turned around to find 3 doves bombing towards me at mach speed. I mounted my shotgun just in time for them to fly over my head at 5 yards high. I spun around to pick a target, only to find that the 3 had curved to the left and were headed towards the neighbors' herd of cows. If I shot, my pellets would likely hail down onto some cows. Those doves were safe now. 

"Dang-it! Those suckers snuck right up on me!" I said, returning back to my seat.

As I spun to look at Ryan, he stood up and shot a single dove that had also snuck in.

"Nice, Ryan!" I said, as I watched Ryan's 2 dogs, Gauge and Grace, retrieve the bird.

 

Gauge brought the dove over to Ryan, but dropped it 6 feet away and stood there to see what Ryan would do.

"Gauge! Bring it here." Ryan said, with authority.

Gauge picked up the bird and brought it over for Ryan to take.

"Good boy. You know what you're suppose to do."

 

We sat around and talked for a bit before more doves flew our way. Once again, taking me by surprise, a double flew into range. I caught them out of the corner of my eye, but this time I was determined to at least get a shot off. BOOM! The birds kept flying and within a couple of seconds were out of range. Dang, I hung my head low but reminded myself they were small, fast targets. 

 

In the meantime, another dove swung low towards Ryan and he made a quick, clean kill.  

 

Gauge brought the dove to Ryan's hand.

"Good job, Ryan. I'll get a dove one of these days." I chucked.

 

Another small group of doves came straight at me and gave me the perfect shot. BOOM! Miss. BOOM! Another miss. Crap!

"I'm a little rusty, Ryan." I said, as I reloaded my shotgun.

"You need to lead them more." Ryan said, just before he blasted another dove.

 

Ryan had spent several years competitively shooting clays, so I'm used to him making me look bad. 

 

After missing another few, my pellets finally connected with a mourning dove. Grace quickly picked it up and I called her towards me.

"Good girl. Thank you. Finally!" I said, taking the dove from her mouth.

 

The action was starting to heat up and we began to see more doves. A group of 3 came low over the hay field directly at me. I mounted my gun as one started back-peddling to land in a bare patch at 15 yards. BOOM! I dusted the one bird and moved onto another. BOOM! My shot missed, so I quickly moved my eyes back to where I had marked my dead bird in the hay field. The 2 dogs worked the field in search of the bird. Grace came out as the winner, bringing me the dove. 

 

 

Our pile of birds were growing as we continued to pick off one or two here and there. The sun was nearing the horizon, casting long shadows and making it impossible to detect incoming doves from the west.

 

 

Another single came over and Ryan made a clean kill, sending Grace into action.

 

A few minutes later, I dusted a single from a good distance out and Gauge brought the dove to hand.

 

 

Gauge made it a point to shake off the canal water right next to me, like any faithful dog would.

 

Legal shooting time was nearly upon us, creating a wonderful sunset. We decided to call it a day and gather the decoys and our spent shells.

We laid the birds out on the tailgate of my truck and divided them up equally. We certainly didn't limit out, but 14 doves is a great dove hunt any day. Although the mourning dove doesn't give you much meat, they have a wonderful mild taste that melts in your mouth, especially when grilled. It was a wonderful evening of dove hunting that helped my shooting improve. I'll now be much more prepared for the next wing shooting adventure. 

Huckleberries and Brook Trout

Every summer around mid July, an indescribable calling wells up inside most Southern Idahoans; The urge to get to the high country. Why people go to the high country varies greatly, though. For some, it's simply to get out of the blazing heat. Others, it's to hike and experience the beautiful mountains and trails Idaho has to offer. For me, it's to hike into a high mountain lake and fish. My wife, however, has one thing in mind this time of year: Huckleberries. So naturally, I try to kill two birds with one stone.

 

My mother had told me about a secret spot to pick huckleberries. I then grabbed a map and tried to find a place nearby to fish. I'd heard about a swampy beaver pond in the area that was loaded with small brook trout. Bingo. Several hours of picking berries followed by a little fishing.

 

By noon, we were hiking through the brush looking for huckleberries. After hiking a ways with no luck, we almost gave up, thinking we must be too late or in a spot that had already been picked. That's when we stumbled upon the "mother-load". Before long I started coming up with phrases all starting with: "You know huckleberry pickin' is good when..." Examples included; "Your pants have purple stains all over them." Or "You drop a berry and don't bother to pick it up because there are so many more." Our containers filled up fast, and 3 hours later, we had a gallon of berries.  

 

 

After a nice lunch, we drove to the pond. Beavers never cease to amaze me at what they can build. This beaver had created quite a large pond for himself. Despite the encroaching flooded grass, there was quite a large, open pool to fish.

 

We parked and rigged up our rods. There are two flies you must always have on you at a high mountain lake or beaver pond; A pico ant and a beetle pattern.

 

 

We began to wade out to the open water. The decomposing grass and mud squishing through my toes made me second guess my choice to wear sandals instead of waders and wading boots. My pace through the grass quickened as I saw a ring on the pond where a fish rose. My next step sent me up to my waist in the water as I sunk into a deep beaver channel.

"Honey, don't step here." I said with a chuckle, looking back at my wife standing there with a grossed out facial expression. "Oh, the places I take you too!"

"You're lucky I like to fish with you," she replied as she continued forward through the knee deep flooded grass.

 

We reached the edge of the open water to stand in mid-thigh deep water on an uneven, soft bottom.

"Ok honey, catch a brook trout!" I said with a cheesy grin.

Katie's fly landed 10 feet out into the pond. Before the rings could even settle, a 6 inch fish pounced on the ant and Katie set the hook. The fish thrashed with all it's might as it was hoisted to her hands. 

 

 

The next 15 minutes, we giggled as we caught a dozen or so small brook trout. The beetle fly was noticeably out-fishing the ant pattern, so I tied one on Katie's line. Katie's next cast produced a whopper.

"Dang babe, that one is a monster! I bet its a whole 4 inches!" I said with artificial enthusiasm.

 

 

We continued fishing, catching one after another. 

 

 

Brook trout are prolific fish and tend to overpopulate and stunt themselves. The average size of the fish we were catching were evidence of that phenomenon.  

 

 

Determined to "do my part", I wanted to keep a few of the larger ones to help thin the pond a little. However, I was struggling to bring myself to keep a 6 inch fish.

 

Katie brought in a larger fish that might be 7 inches.

"Ok, looks like he's about as big as I'm going to get," I said as I apprehended him.

 

 

I felt strange killing such a small fish, but I knew I was helping the "greater good" of the pond. I decided to wade over to another area of the pond. On the way there I noticed a large swarm of tadpoles. Some had already grown legs and were making their transition to air breathing animals.

 

 

Once I made it to the new fishing area on the pond, the catching resumed. I looked back to see my wife casting and catching as well.

 

 

I set the hook on another fish and brought it in. I grabbed the line and tried to take a few photos of the beautiful little fish in the water. But no photo could do this fish justice. 

 

 

 

We continued to fish awhile longer before calling it quits. We waded out of the swamp and walked back to my truck. As we were changing and taking the rods apart, we heard a crash in the brush above the road. I looked down the road just in time to see a black, fuzzy animal run down off the hill onto the road. It took me a second to realize what I was seeing run down the road; a black bear cub. The cub looked far too small to be on it's own already. We quickly packed up the rest of our gear and got into my truck before mama bear decided we were too close to her cub.

 

I ended up only keeping a few of the small brookies. When we got home I wrapped them in some foil and threw them on the grill. A delicious ending to a wonderful day in the high country. 

 

Henry's First Fish

I had been eager to take my nephew, Henry, fishing since the day he was born. My wife and I strategically planted the fishing seed on his first Christmas. We gave him a custom fishing book that told the story of him going fishing with his uncle (Me), and catching a monster fish. His parents read that book to him frequently, and by the time he was talking in full sentences, one of them included: "I want to go fishing!"

This year for his third birthday I got him a fishing rod. The time had come, and this Fourth of July, my dad and I headed over to my sisters house to get Henry and take him fishing.

We loaded Henry up in the car and headed to a local pond I knew would be loaded with bluegill. Henry was very excited when we got there and he couldn't wait to use his new fishing rod.

We made sure Henry was safe by putting a life jacket on him. Henry grabbed his tackle box and he and Grandpa walked to the pond.

I rigged Henry's rod up with a bobber and a small bead head fly. We walked up to the pond and I was pleasantly surprised to see a school of bluegill staring at us. I knew this would be easy.

I casted the bobber out into the middle of the pond and showed Henry how to hold the fishing rod and reel the handle. Henry started reeling and bringing the bobber and fly back towards the bank and through the large school of bluegill. Immediately, about 10 bluegill started to chase the fly. It wasn't long before one grabbed the fly and Henry was reeling in his first fish.

"Henry you got one!" I said with lots of excitement.

"EeeeHeeee!" Henry squeaked and jumped as the little fish thrashed on the surface.

I grabbed the line and had Henry hold up the fish for a picture.   

"Ok put it back." Henry said as he pointed to the water. "I want to catch another one!"

Grandpa walked over and helped Henry this time. It wasn't long before Henry was reeling in another fish.

Henry was having lots of fun reeling in small bluegill.

After reeling in about 6 bluegill, Henry seemed to be getting distracted by other things around the pond. To keep his interest, we decided to go for a walk around the pond.

Henry carried his rod while we walked. A mother duck and her ducklings pushed off of the shore and Henry wanted to cast the rod at them. We urged him on towards another pond. 

We reached the other pond and found a clean area on the bank to cast.

"I'm a fisherman!" Henry said as he tried to cast the rod.

I helped him cast the bobber out into the puddle sized pond and handed him the rod. Henry reeled as fast as his little hands could reel, which was no match for the speed of the bluegill. A small bluegill charged after his fly and devoured it. Henry reeled the little guy in and held him up for a picture. 

Henry caught a couple more bluegill before we decided to move on.

"I'm the best fisherman!" Henry said as we walked back to the spot we first started fishing.

"Yes you are Henry. You're are an amazing fisherman." Grandpa said patting Henry on the head.

I wanted Henry to see a large fish, so I knew I needed to catch a bass. I rigged a plastic worm, wacky style on another rod and spotted a 15 inch bass cruising the shore. I made a cast and let the worm flutter down in front of the fish. A little quiver of the rod tip brought the worm to life and the bass charged it, engulfing the worm. I set the hook and brought the bass in and held it up to show Henry.

Henry was excited to see the large fish and was eager to touch it.

"Woa, big fish." Henry said staring at the bass.

I released the bass and I could tell that it was time to leave.

"Henry, shall we go get some ice cream?" Grandpa asked.

"Yeah! Yeah! Lets get ice cream!" Henry said practically throwing his rod down.

"Ok, lets go get some." Grandpa said grabbing Henry's rod near the shoreline.

Henry grabbed his tackle box and flexed it over his head. "I'm strong!" 

We got into the car and made our way back towards Henry's home.

"Henry, I can't remember, but, were we suppose to get something on our way home?" Grandpa said looking into the rearview mirror at Henry in the backseat.

"Ice cream! We were going to get ice cream!"

"I don't think we should Henry, I don't really like ice cream."

"But I do!"

"Grandpa is just kidding Henry. Tell Grandpa he's not funny." I chimed in.

"Grandpa you're not funny!" Henry said with a big smile.

We finally arrived at the ice cream place and got a few small cones of soft serve ice cream. 

Henry had apparently never eaten ice cream out of a cone before and Grandpa had to show Henry how to do it properly.

When we arrived at Henry's home, Henry grabbed his fishing rod and headed directly to the backyard pool and began fishing.

It had been a successful first fishing trip. Henry had caught fish right away and we kept his interest. We only spent about 30 minutes at the pond; which is plenty for a three year old. Hopefully this is the beginning of a lifelong passion for Henry. A sport that he and his uncle can enjoy together for many years. 

Idaho Chinook Salmon on the Fly Rod

For several years, I'd told myself I was going to catch an Idaho chinook salmon on my fly rod. Every year I'd say, "This is the year I'm going to do it!" And every year something would come up and prevent me from planning a trip. This year was different. 

I'd heard that my best option to catch one on my fly rod was the South Fork of the Salmon River. But I was also told I better watch the regulations because the season is very short, only a few days some years. This year I closely watched the regulations and planned my trip. My brother in law, Trevor, had fished it before and he agreed to take me. By 5 AM, we had all of our gear loaded into my pickup and we were off to the river.

The sunrise in Long Valley was picturesque. The misty clouds clinging to the early morning grasses and trees gave me a smile and also a good feeling about the day.

 
One of the things that keeps many fly fisherman, myself included, away from targeting salmon in Idaho, are the crowds. For this reason, we did a little research and discovered that there was an area on the river where you could hike into a canyon stretch away from the road. This would hopefully weed out the crowds and give us some "untouched" water.

We pulled into the parking lot, geared up, and were on the trail in no time. We packed light, just in case we had a couple of salmon to carry on our hike out. The trail was well maintained, but showed no signs of dropping elevation.

The river was nearly a thousand feet below us and after a while we spotted a small trail descending from the main trail. We decided to take it, but it wasn't long before our "trail" disappeared and we were crawling over fallen trees and rocks down the steep ridge.

"I'm sure when we get down there we'll find a nice trail along the river," I said with confidence.

"Yeah, I think I can see one," Trevor responded.

"I just hope we can find the main trail that will take us back up out of there." I said with a little uncertainty.

The area had burned several years back, leaving the mountain sides relatively open and easy to spot deer and other wildlife.

We made it down to the river and I began to set down my things. As I set the net down, I noticed a strange piece of driftwood.

"Trevor! It's an elk antler! My first elk shed!"

"Oh man, I just thought that was a stick."

"Ha ha, it's the ugliest elk antler I've ever seen, but it's an antler none the less!" I said, with a comical sense of pride.

Almost any time Trevor and I go somewhere, he finds an elk antler. He has piles and piles of them at home, making my rotten, beat up, decade old find that much more funny.

The river looked gorgeous! It was low, clear and filled with deep pools that seemed to promise salmon. We strung up our rods and began fishing.

We fished the first hole with only a gullible whitefish to the hand. We decided to head downstream and see if we could spot some salmon elsewhere. The water was a pleasant temperature, making my decision to wet wade a wise one.

After crossing the river, we came across a nice looking run that dropped into a deep pool, bordered by a rock cliff. A couple of large trees had fallen into the water, creating great cover for any fish. It wasn't long before we started spotting salmon throughout the run. Their size made them easy to spot. However, as soon as we began casting, they spooked and were darting throughout the run, looking for anywhere to hide.

"Dang, these fish are spooky!" Trevor said, as he casted to a fish moving from behind one rock to another. 

"Yeah I've heard they don't bite well in the middle of the day. I feel like I'm trying to catch a trout on silver creek with a wet sock." I said, as I reeled in and climbed out of the water.

 I crossed the river and got up above the run to see if I could spot where all the fish had gone to hide. I only spotted a couple of fish as I watched Trevor cast to them. We stayed at this spot for about an hour before we decided to hike out of the canyon.

The mile of river we covered had not revealed any kind of maintained trail out of the canyon. So we pick a south facing ridge and traversed the hillside back to the road. It had taken us 15 minutes to get to the river from the truck in the morning. Our hike out of the canyon took us a little over an hour. Hot and exhausted, we finally reached my truck.

"Well that wasn't worth it." Trevor said as he sat down on the tailgate.

"Nope. All I can say is you're not a very good salmon guide." I said with a chuckle.

"You're right. I failed. Let's run downstream to a spot I've fished before." Trevor said, mustering up a little optimism. 

We drove down the road and Trevor pointed out the spot. We parked and walked down to the river to look for salmon. Immediately our eyes lit up as a large, copper colored fish porpoised 30 feet in front of us. We stood there and watched as another porpoised a minute later.

"Let's fish here." I said, with wide eyes and optimism.

We decided to cross the river and fish from the other side to get a better drift.

The fish continued to porpoise regularly, until we began casting. The fish here were spooky as well and I began to wonder if we should wait until the run was shaded to continue fishing. It was nearly 4 pm and the sun was still high. I didn't want to push all of the fish out of the run. Trevor had mentioned that in the past they would start catching fish again towards the evening. We fished on and off for a while with no success.

I decided to walk upstream to the top of the run. I had noticed earlier that there was a deep slot that could potentially hold a salmon or two. As soon as I made it up there, a salmon porpoised directly in front of me, next to a large rock that barely broke the surface. I made a quick adjustment to my strike indicator and rolled a cast out there. I intently watched the indicator as it drifted down past the rock. I re-casted my setup and watched as the indicator gently drifted past the rock. Suddenly, my yellow indicator took a plunge and I set the hook. I immediately felt the weight of a significant fish. I still wasn't sure if the fish on the end of my line was a salmon and I didn't want to jinx myself, therefore I kept silent. The copper colored fish came near the surface and gave a big kick with it's tail and began to run upstream. At least I knew now that I had a salmon on my line. The fish continued to run upstream taking all of my fly line and a little backing before it stopped. 

The fish then ran back downstream and was headed for Trevor. I kept looking down at Trevor to see if he would notice I had a fish on. A couple times he would look up at me then back to casting.

Finally, I spoke up. "Hey net boy!"

Trevor looked up and I could see his eyes get wide. He grabbed the net and ran up to help me.

The salmon continued to pull and put up a great fight. After close to 10 minutes, Trevor slipped the net under the large fish and I had my first Idaho chinook.

Despite the long journey chinook in Idaho have, their meat is still very orange and firm. This hatchery fish was definitely going home with me.

I handed the rod to Trevor and had him cast while I notched my tag and bled the fish. Trevor fished the spot for a while before deciding to head back downstream to the deeper part of the hole. I jumped right back in and started casting to the same spot. While my indicator was in mid-drift, a salmon porpoised two feet downstream of it. There was definitely another fish in here. I continued to cast for some time before my strike indicator told me I had another fish.

I was quite surprised to have another salmon on my line. I was more than thrilled to have caught one, but two made me estatic.

"Trevor!" I yelled and waved my arm to get his attention.

Trevor came running back upstream to help me net my fish. This one fought even harder and longer than the last. After nearly 15 minutes, we netted the 35 inch fish.

This fat female was a hatchery fish as well. It was 7 pm and I decided to end my fishing for the day by tagging her.

I made sure Trevor was casting to the right spot. Our confidence was again boosted when another chinook porpoised in the slot near the rock.

"There he is Trevor! Get him!"

"He's mine!" Trevor said as he made a great cast setting himself up to drift right over the fish. I walked back downstream to fish the deeper hole. No sooner had I made my first cast, I heard Trevor yell my name. I looked up to see Trevor's rod bent and a big smile on his face.

Trevor played the strong fish for a while before I scooped it up in the net. Trevor had guided in Alaska with me for a summer and hadn't had a chance to get a chinook on his fly rod there, making this Idaho fish that much sweeter.

 

Trevor's fish was also a hatchery fish, so he tagged it. Trevor continued to fish the sweet spot until 8 pm. With a long drive ahead of us, we decided to call it a day. We packed up our gear, crossed the river and loaded our things in my truck.

We both had accomplished what we had set out to do; catch an Idaho chinook on the fly rod. Our journey into the canyon made me feel like we had earned these fish. I knew I wouldn't be able to go again this season but you can sure bet I'll be looking forward to planning a trip next year.

Before we left the river, Trevor and I both celebrated our fish with a piece of my wife's homemade raspberry rhubarb pie. A sweet ending to a great day.