Upland Review

I developed a magazine with the idea of showcasing the annual activities and accomplishments of Blue Mountains Pheasants Forever, Chapter 258, through photo essay. I also included a couple additional hunting articles.

I retain the magazine as a separate publication from the Chapter with a plan of developing it into a free online magazine to showcase fledgling outdoor writers and the beauty of upland bird hunting.

Give it a read at Upland Review.

Prune to Perfection

February 10th dawned crisp and clear. Temperatures in the twenties presented a stark contrast to the mild fifties and even sixties experienced in prior weeks. Although the thermal shock was enough to coax folks into remaining indoors, an enthusiastic group met to brave the chill this luminous winter morning.

Folks from Waitsburg, Dayton, and Pomeroy gathered to soak in the wisdom offered by Bill Warren, owner of Warren Orchards in Dayton (established 1996), on proper fruit tree pruning techniques. While tree pruning appears simple on the surface, there are specific dos and don’ts, particularly for fruit trees, that connote the difference between bearing a full, easily harvestable crop, and all other less desirable conditions.

“You don’t prune fruit trees the way you prune ornamental trees.” Bill explained. “Ornamental trees are pruned for beauty…”, which is an entirely different function than fruit production. There are similar fundamental pruning techniques among tree species relative to how cuts are made to shape a tree and reduce damage to surrounding tissue, but the specifics on fruit trees are dependent on a number of factors. Pruning techniques can be applied to promote fruit bearing performance with a basic understanding of how a tree wants to perform naturally. This can generally be identified through a few simple questions.

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  • What type of fruit does the tree produce? Stone fruits such as plums, peaches, and apricots are generally trees pruned to an “open center”, meaning the structure of three grows outward rather than upward, and should be pruned to maintain this form. Conversely, pomaceous fruits like apples and pears typically grow up from the trunk based on a “central leader” and are pruned to maintain this characteristic.
  • Does the tree produce fruit from branch tip buds? Many apple varieties do, and generally on the new growth from the prior season. Pruning at the proper branch locations considering tree structure and limb stability for fruit bearing and harvest is important for long-term production and fruit accessibility.
  • Is the tree a dwarf, semi-dwarf, or regular cultivar? This plays into the overall size and growth rates, and should be considered when pruning. Bill explained that standard root stocks can be vigorous, producing feet of growth in a good year, and should be maintained to approximately 12 feet in height. On the other hand, dwarf varieties generally grow slower and overall, smaller, likely requiring pruning smaller branch sections to maintain appropriate vigor and precocity.

Despite the bite of the bracing morning breeze, attendees were attentive and thoroughly engaged, as many manage a variety of tree species and ages, some of which have considerable age, presenting a history of pruning neglect as an inherited challenge. Some noted furiously as Bill clipped and expounded. Others listened with pointed rapt.

Pruning to a specific structure was a major focus of the morning. Using loppers as a general guideline, Bill demonstrated estimating appropriate branch length and making cuts above buds that face the direction you would like the branch to grow. Tiering was also recommended, keeping lower branches horizontally staggered from above branches to ensure suitable sunlight and spacing around the tree.

Pruning old, unwieldy trees was another hot topic. Bill encouraged heavy pruning over multiple years on old trees like apples that tend to entangle themselves when left to their own devices. When it comes to making cuts, “…keep the [pruner] blade toward the branch, working inward…” Bill explained. This facilitates clean cuts, less likely to damage remaining branches, and reduces the potential for disease to enter at the wound, which presents a third topic folks eagerly quizzed Bill on throughout the demonstration.

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Disease can pose a significant battle as well, and proper pruning can aid in controlling them. Fire blight, a bacterial apple tree disease that infects fruit buds, is an example with substantial interest. Bill explained that if detected, getting ahead of the disease is crucial, and pruning sixteen inches back from diseased tissue is recommended; however, taking the entire branch off at the base is the best practice. Fire blight can move through the tree undetected with devastating results if it reaches the trunk and roots.

The February timing of the class was no coincidence, either. Spring pruning is favored over fall pruning as it reduces the amount of time the tree bears an open wound, vulnerable to infection. Bill recommends pruning just as the buds begin to swell before breaking. The recent, unseasonably warm weather is already prompting bud swell in the trees of the Touchet Valley.

Although many attendees were bundled, gloved, and chilled near to the bone, all left with a revived eagerness to apply the morning’s lessons. While Bill’s classes are not necessarily planned well in advance, or offered each year, you can keep tabs on Warren Orchards on Facebook for opportunities, as well as tips, and other informational posts throughout the year.

Anticipate the Flush

Every bird dog has its own style with nuances that tell a different story in a variety of hunting situations. In this post, I explain the subtleties in the posture and eyes of my oldest Llewellin setter, Finn. What has your pointing dog been telling you over the years?

Give it a read at Uplander Lifestyle!

Shedding the Blues

 

Walla Walla Union Bulletin, April 29, 2018.

I spent the last several minutes marveling over the roster’s brilliant plumage. The girls were electrified, showered in praise as I slid the rooster into my vest. It was late in the season; the thick reed canary grass was crusted hard with snow and broken over the precipitous swale the girls were working. It was our last day of the season. Turning back for the truck, I was already looking ahead to September when the grouse and deer seasons would open again, dreading the long wait ahead.

As an avid upland bird and deer hunter, the enigma of deciding which is most inciting between working birds with my setters and putting the moves on a wily buck can be vexing. I spend the bulk of the off-season reminiscing of past hunts and planning for the next. Spring turkey hunting is a reasonable distraction, but there is another option that heats up around March: shed hunting.

Shed hunting is the art of searching for shed antlers. Each winter, deer, elk, and moose drop or “shed” their antlers to grow a new pair for the following fall. In much of the western United States, elk and mule deer inhabit the high country most of the year, but that’s not typically where you find sheds. When the snow flies, critters move down into the lower elevation “winter range”, which is typically where you want to look. In southeast Washington, mule deer can be found herded up among the bluffs above the Snake River and the foothills of the Blue Mountains.

Shed hunting is a common practice among hunters; however, for those of us obsessed with big game and working dogs, shed hunting promises to bridge the gap between the two worlds during the offseason. It can be a rewarding and downright challenging hobby as sheds blend in quite well with the surrounding vegetation. If I had a shed for each one I’ve passed within a few feet, my friends would have a lot fewer sheds. This is where Rover comes in.

Dogs with the appropriate nose, prey drive, and retrieving instinct can pick it up quickly. I won’t dive into the particulars of training a shed hunting dog, but I will say that the techniques can be quite similar to training your pup to hunt upland birds, and the same breeds are capable. Using an antler with a wax-based scent product and some practice time afield finding and retrieving the antler can feather your dog’s metaphorical cap, not to mention put a lot more bone in your pack at the end of the day.

Part of the shed hunting challenge is remaining focused. I get distracted enjoying the scenery and wildlife as I hike; hence, I walk by more sheds than I find. Having your four-legged companion participate in the search allows you to cover a lot more ground as a team, but the real advantage is that your pup doesn’t have to see the antler to find it. Finding a shed is always rewarding, but the finds are so much sweeter when you spy your pup galloping proudly back with a nice four-point shed.

Your pup will significantly improve your shed hunting game, but there are other key considerations as well. Timing can be crucial. March is a great time to begin shed hunting because most deer and elk will have shed by mid-March. You may also have great areas to choose from but do some homework on the habitat. Well used game trails and fence crossings appear to be a slam-dunk, but bedding areas and important food sources are the prime locations. Animals spend more time in these areas, increasing the odds they will shed there, where an animal on the move can drop an antler anywhere in the county.

If you want to get serious about shed hunting, treat it like any other hunting trip. Be prepared. Wear appropriate apparel, carry food and water, as well as some basic first aid supplies, and don’t be afraid to cover some miles. Possibly the most important tip of all; double check the regulations before heading out. National Parks and critical winter range may have strict regulations on if and when shed hunting or dogs are allowed.

Whether you’re a novice or have hunted sheds for years, a shed-hunting canine can be a game-changer. While solitary miles under a sixty-degree bluebird sky in April or May can sooth the soul, a hunt with man’s best friend can be epic. Turkeys are gobbling among the sparse timber across the canyon. A dull roar drifts up from the slightly swollen headwater stream tumbling below. You look up to see your pup barreling down-slope toting a considerable mule deer shed, which she delivers to hand; her fifth find of the morning. You are both ecstatic, and wagging furiously, she turns to find another.

BMPF Sets Youth Circuit

Published 24 May 2018 in the Walla Walla Union Bulletin.

“Pull…” a shooter calls out, followed by a white clay launching from the trap, sailing to the left; a random, unexpected direction. The sleek over/under shotgun tracks smoothly until the bead connects, and upon recoil, dissolves the clay into a fine dust.

In support of the national Pheasants Forever No Child Left Indoors initiative, the local Blue Mountain Pheasants Forever (BMPF) chapter sponsors a youth shooting circuit each year beginning in June. The circuit consists of four monthly scheduled trap shoots introducing youth to wing shooting and firearms safety. Each trap shoot consists of five stations where the shooter is presented with five clay targets, thrown in random directions from a front and center automatic launcher. Youth are afforded the opportunity to learn proper stance and shooting technique, as well as how to lead a flying target.

The Family Challenge Trap Shoot rounds out the trap events and puts the skills learned in prior months to the test. Parent-child teams shoot together in a friendly competition among participating families. Small prizes, sweetened by modest bragging rights, are afforded the teams who bust the most clays.

Following the trap circuit, BMPF also sponsors two fall pheasant hunts that again test the skills learned from shooting trap. The BMPF supplies pheasants and designated venues for the youth hunting weekend in September, and again in November for a special family hunt. For the September youth hunt, participants are split into groups based on their experience levels, and everyone is afforded an opportunity at a rooster. For some participants, this event is their first hunting experience. It exposes children to the art of upland bird hunting with a well-trained pointing dog (courtesy of chapter members), and the irreplaceable adrenaline rush from the king of upland birds erupting under foot.

The Family Hunt is held the Saturday after Thanksgiving as a token of appreciation for the BMPF membership’s support of the chapter and youth program. This event serves as the culmination of the annual shooting events. Held at the Clyde Shooting Preserve, the Family Hunt provides youth and family members the opportunity to experience a unique, quality pheasant hunt provided at a professional establishment.

On a typical hunt, pheasant are planted, followed shortly by the release of the hunting dogs. Participants hunt their way through the designated fields, following up on the elegant and stylish canines on point. The most memorable moments of the hunt are made of a pointing dog at work, and the explosive flush of a dazzling rooster. Participating family members of all ages enjoy what some would call an epic morning afield.

All BMPF-sponsored youth events are open to anyone age eighteen and under, with the exception of the youth hunting weekend in September. The youth hunting weekend is designated by the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife and requires hunters to be under the age of sixteen. Parents or adult mentors are asked to participate in events with their children. All events are free to participants, and all new youth participants are registered as BMPF members, courtesy of the chapter.

Youth event details are announced in advance through local events calendars, as well as at the BMPF website www.bmpf258.com. General chapter information is also available online, and the chapter may be contacted via email at bmpf@bmpf258.com.

 

Carving an Upland Niche

“As an upland jack of all trades, my setters have adapted to a variety of situations, most of which (exception = chukar) they handle well, but there is something to be said for those who carve a niche on a particular quarry.”

Primarily a pheasant hunter, I fell victim to an affair with California quail, and have not looked back. The dog work and camaraderie I have experienced in the quail coverts, particularly over the 2018-2019 upland season, has piqued my interest and opened my mind. Jimmy Carter once said that “life’s just too short to go quail hunting with the wrong people.” On the contrary, show me quail hunters and I’ll show you the right people.

So, what’s your upland niche? Read more at Uplander Lifestyle.

Hunting for Habitat

Pheasants Forever hosts their first hunt test fundraiser to bolster habitat and youth shooting funds. Published in the Waitsburg Times, February 14th, 2019.

14 Feb 2019 Hunting for Habitat

Back-country Trek for Treasure Lakes Trout

Thirty minutes of channeling my inner mountain goat, teetering and hopping up, over, and across jagged granite perched me 11,300 feet above sea-level. With burning thighs and short breath, I gazed back at Long Lake about a mile and hundreds of feet below.

The journey to landing a California golden trout on the fly in the Sierra Nevada was by far my most thrilling bucket-list adventure yet. What you need to know to make it happen is contained within the pages of the May 2019 edition of California Game and Fish Magazine.

Read it here!

Grouse of the September Uplands

Publish September 5th, 2019, The Waitsburg Times

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With the summer heat still baking the brown and brittle landscape, dog work would need to be restricted to the precious early morning hours of refuge. Fortunately, we were blessed with an overcast sky; one of the first to come of the early fall season. But the transition to autumn was in full swing, presenting a soothing canvas of large pines towering dark above the reddening of the Oregon grape and snowberry, and the fading yellow of elderberry leaves accented by their rich, black berry clusters.

The remains of an old road wound its way along a tributary of the Tucannon. The native shrubbery was speckled with the remnants of homesteads that once grew lush with apples and plums. The homes are gone, but the old fruit trees hung heavy with bright red apples and golf ball-sized orange and purple plums; their delicate offering a gift to the wildlife seeking to plump a bit for winter’s arrival.

Hiking the road, my mind wandered to days gone by. I pondered what the old homes may have looked like. Had they raised livestock? Did they grow vegetable gardens? I could almost taste the sweetness with a hint of pectin tang from the canned preserves that may have come from one of the old plum trees. Basking in fantasy, my muse was jolted back into reality. My innate setter sense triggered a subconscious reminder that my girls were missing, and dead silent above the ambient roar of the creek.

A couple whistle toots usually brings them back around for a check-in, but not a sole moved for a visible quarter mile. Adrenaline kicked in, and my leisurely stroll swiftly transformed into a calculated search for white, speckled bodies, little orange vests, and high setter tails flagging a pinned bird in the soft breeze.

Ruffed grouse or “ruffies” received namesake from the ruff of feathers around their necks. They are one of many miraculous upland bird species on the Columbia Plateau, and the first of the upland seasons to open in our little corner of Washington. But it’s a tough season, opening September 1st, concurrent with the early deer archery season. Temperature can soar into the 90s, wildfires can diminish air quality, and the thickets that these birds inhabit can challenge the most seasoned of hunters.

Finn Yuba Grouse 1

Hunting ruffed grouse became an upland tradition in Appalachia and the Northwoods many moons ago before the early decline of the northern bobwhite quail. An icon of the northern deciduous and boreal forests, their chest-pounding “drumming” echoes throughout the timber like autumn’s noble ambassador. The literary world offers a wealth of praise to ruffies from a simple emotional mention of grouse drumming, to entire volumes dedicated to what some regard as the “king of upland birds”. And a tradition this strong is sure to span a continent and beyond.

But the plethora of upland bird species and the overlap with big game seasons in the west has made the ruffed grouse seemingly less sought-after quarry, at least here in the Walla Walla River watershed. While I commonly share my public land pheasant coverts with others, I have yet to meet another grouse hunter afield in Washington.

Ruffies occupy a variety of habitats and elevations, but are quite fond of thick cover offering insect and tender vegetation food sources during the summer months, while fruits and berries serve as a winter food source. And a variety of food sources requires a mix of conifer and deciduous forest. In the Blue Mountains, this translates to creek bottoms and draws where elderberry, serviceberry, snowberry, hawthorn, and possibly some aspen occur, intermixed among or flanking fir and spruce species.

Given the tangled and sometimes prickly nature of grouse coverts, walking old forest roads presents the most efficient, and at times, the most pleasurable experience, particularly if working a dog with a GPS locator. Historically, a bell was hung from the dog’s collar, and some folks in the Northwoods still prefer the traditional gear. In any case, letting a dog do the brush-busting dirty work is my preference, although the most successful grouse hunters charge right into the thick of things.

Stepping from the road, I wound my way into a thicket of hawthorn and snowberry with a few pines poking up through for good measure. A darkly shaded mess of impossibility lay ahead as I dropped to a knee, ducked a few low branches, and began clawing my way in. Blackberry tendrils clung to the edges and my flannel shirt as if trying to sway me from entering the torture chamber.

Straining deeper in, I finally spied a speck of white about twenty feet ahead where snowberry met pine; my oldest Llewellin, Finn, on steadfast point. Crashing through the understory, I clambered as quickly as possible to reach her, cautiously optimistic that the bird would hold through the racket. A bit further into the snarl I spotted Yuba honoring Finn’s point, affirming the bird was indeed holding.

Anticipating the flush, planting my left foot forward triggered an explosion of wingbeats against the heavy vegetation. A blur of brown feathers and white setters ensued as my old 16-gauge side-by-side came to shoulder, reporting a clean miss. My split-second shot window vanished with the grouse, now sailing full tilt toward safer cover. Another performance typical of our little team.

Grouse 1

We regrouped on the far side of the jumble for a drink and some puppy praise, then resumed the mission, but grouse hunting does not have to be this difficult. Rain actually plays a major role in my success. Ruffies tend to slip out of the woodwork in the rain, spending time along mountain roads and other more open edges with good cover nearby. A quiet stroll under the pitter-patter of a shower has by far afforded me the most success, no pointing dog required. For this reason, and the likelihood of a spooked grouse sailing into a nearby tree within range of a small caliber rifle or arrow, ruffies in the west have also earned the nickname “fool hen”. But those who utter such blasphemy have never hunted grouse in the deciduous forests east of the Mississippi River.

If September archery hunting just isn’t your game, grab your favorite scattergun and hit the timber at sunrise. According to the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife 10-year harvest trend, grouse numbers in our corner of the state are rebounding from a 2015 low, likely on their normal, cyclical pattern. The W.T. Wooten Wildlife Area and Umatilla National Forest surrounding the upper Tucannon River provide a variety of habitats and opportunities.

Prior timber harvest offers an easy hike for youngster to become immersed in the uplands along old harvest roads closed to vehicles. You stand a good chance at seeing moose, mule deer and bear. The tranquility of a soft, pink sunrise and songbirds welcoming the day is broken only by the energetic flush of a ruffie erupting from cover.

The Autumn Stream Palette

Published October 3rd, 2019, The Waitsburg Times

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Fall is undoubtedly the most anticipated and contested season of the year, and rightfully so in both regards. The fat days of summer are quickly drawing to a close at our latitude, even more dramatically in climates further north. Darkness cloaks our early waking hours and morning routines, not to mention the crispness on the air, leaving little motivation to escape the comfort of our beds, save for the increasingly satisfying steam and piquant aroma of coffee or tea tantalizing our nostrils and taste buds on such mornings.

The transition from a season of glut to a season of thrift. Hunting, gathering, fattening, reproduction, all to the tune of Mother Nature’s rhythm. The birds are heading south; their innate sense of the season to come urging them to seek warmer climates and more abundant food sources. The last of the humming birds are scarcely seen as they migrate from northerly portions of their summer range. Flocks of drab, olive-toned gold finches visit bird baths en route as curious nuthatches and black and tan towhees begin to appear. The vibrant, red berry clusters of the mountain ash begin brightening to brilliant orange in time for the arrival of masked cedar waxwings from higher elevations.

The long-awaited early upland and big game seasons are upon us as deer fawns lose their spots and wild turkeys build their winter flocks. Elk bugles pierce the wilderness canyons, echoing through the timber like an autumn canticle. And the bedraggled, teenage pheasant roosters are finally coming into their handsome adult ensemble. But what lurks below emboldens many, not to be second best among the terrestrial grandeur. There are coho, Chinook and steelhead to be caught, but the high mountain cutthroat, rainbows, and even the eastern transplant brook trout are calling those patiently waiting for the summer heat to ease and the October rains to replenish the headwaters.

Cutthroat trout

The paling of the upland aspen and streamside cottonwood and alder, the blushing of snowberry and the blackening of elderberry fruit paints a soft contrast against the russet, heat-baked hills and basalt. Water temperature is optimal and the trout feisty. Ominous skies draw out the long-awaited October caddis hatch, triggering trout to rise aggressively, snatching the burley, moth-sized flies as they dip to the water surface to deposit their eggs. Among the largest of the caddis species, the October caddis serves to quickly fatten trout for their upcoming months of sluggishness, feeding largely on nymphs.

The final hurrah of the big fly season, hulking stimulator patterns tied tawny with deer hair and eye-catching orange or red bodies fight the slightest of breeze as a floating fly line shoots for the edge of a backwater or pool tail-out. A cutthroat, now coming into its prime, rolls on the stimulator from the shelter of lazy waters. Boasting rich, buttery flanks, an olive-tinged dorsal region and faint flush of pink adorning the belly, the cutthroat is the natural 24-karat gold of many western streams.

Not to be outdone, the rainbow, so aptly named for its prismatic sheen, rockets airborne from the tumult between pools. Preferring faster water, rainbows are the pure muscle of montane waters. Their dazzling shades of blue, violet, olive and rose, decorated with an incredible varying of pepper flecks serves to entrance and addict anyone to ever marvel over such a finned spectacle. Splashing down into the froth, a sizeable rainbow hits top speed in an instant, leaving an unprepared angler fishing for a fresh stimulator in the fly box.

rainbow trout 1

And then there is the master of shadows. The one who seeks brush and boulder seclusion. Their fall routine being quite different from the other trout, possibly because they are not trout at all. Brook trout are actually a char, their scientific name, genus Salvelinus, sets them and their western bull trout cousin apart from the other trout of genus Oncorhynchus. A native of the eastern U.S., their widespread range hard won over ages of fighting steep, flashy torrents and heavy woody debris loads. Their aggressive attitude and insatiable appetite make them vulnerable to angling, particularly during fall as their tenacity and brilliance peaks for spawning.

Soft pink bellies blaze into fiery orange-red. Their dull, gray dorsal darkens to a deep ocean olive-blue streaked by worm-like striations. Their peculiar pink spotting with the sky-blue halo darkens to a stunning hue like decorative buttons on a jacket lapel. But their most unique identifying trait is the mark of the char; the stark-white leading fin spine on the pectoral, pelvic and anal fins, trimmed in pitch black, sets a marvelous contrast to the dominantly red fin. They may pose an invasive species threat to native trout in the west, but their splendor is inarguable.

Bulls, bucks, pheasant and ducks; the allure is potent and justified. But on those heaven-sent, bluebird October mornings when the mercury falls, the waters are calling. Sun-kissed creek bottoms flowing through a kaleidoscope of changing vegetation sets the backdrop for a well-placed fly and a radiant adipose fin. And for a brief moment, painted among the autumn stream palette, may we achieve true serenity, blessed to witness nature in its most vibrant glory of the wild trout.

Pinks on the Fly

Pinks on the Fly

Published at Angler Pros.

Every angler venturing to Alaska in search of salmon on the fly dreams vividly of aggressive coho or chum trouncing a streamer being ripped across the river. Day and night dreams of beautiful roll casts, colorful marabou and bunny streamers wafting brilliantly through prime holding water, and a shark-like wake split by a speckled dorsal fin as it approaches the respectively tiny streamer, haunt us in the days leading up to the trip. Many Alaska trips fit the script recited to us by those who have gone before, as well as those we conjure in our wildest fantasies. But what about the trips that don’t quite live up to our dreams?

Anyone seeking outdoor adventure knows that Mother Nature refuses to play favorites, particularly on far flung excursions into new territory. Given my experience with southeast Alaska, I have come to love and embrace overcast skies and rain. I rely on it, as do the salmon for entering their spawning streams. But salmon sometimes forget to flip the calendar, showing up fashionably late for their date with destiny. All but the pink salmon, anyhow.

So, what do you do when Mother Nature drops a colossal lemon in the punch bowl, such as a stark absence of coho amid a cornucopia of pink salmon after you have traveled so far to live the Alaska dream? Seize the lemon and squeeze the bloody life out of it to yield a sweet, sweet pink lemonade.

With every intention of filling a fish box to the brim with coho filets, I trekked to Ketchikan, Alaska, in late August, 2019, fly rod in hand. My August trips to other areas of southeast Alaska have been otherworldly in terms of coho abundance and action, but no two years or island streams are alike. Having spent the better part of two days in search of coho in freshwater and salt, the writing was on the wall. I was too early for the coho run. But August is the hot month for pink salmon, and with that in mind, one could argue I was right on time.

As an equal opportunity salmon fisherman, I believe that pink salmon get a bad rap. I must admit that I don’t travel to Alaska specifically to target pinks, but their dark olive, pepper-speckled dorsal region, nearly chartreuse fins, mottled gray and white belly margins, and that gorgeous pink tint down their lateral line comprise one finely painted and respectable salmon that suckers me in. Every time. Although pinks don’t exhibit the coho magnitude of aggression once in fresh water, there are challenges and benefits to fishing pink salmon that are just as inciting.

Fecundity

You’ve heard the old expression “salmon so thick you could walk across their backs.” You also know this expression to be true if you have ever experienced the peak of a pink salmon run. Pinks exhibit and distinct two-year lifecycle where fish spawned on even-numbered years do not returning to spawn in an odd year, and vice-versa.

Pinks are the most abundant Alaskan salmon and are secure in their conservation status, meaning populations are healthy and sustainable. While there is no stronger odd or even year return in much of Alaska, the far northwestern Alaska experiences a dominant even-year population, while the northwest U.S. states experience a stronger odd-year population.

There is something monumental to walking upon a stream literally black with salmon backs and watching those fish jockey for position, fight to conquer waterfalls and each other, and spawn in gravel pockets as nature intended them to. Awe inspiring, to say the least.

Tenacity

A pink salmon could not care less about the color or type of fly, the fact that you just slapped a streamer across the water surface, or the fact that you may be standing literally over top of hundreds of them. They simply have one thing in mind. Their fate is calling. Get out of the way!

Sinew

Like any large fish, pink salmon put up a fair fight. These fish are lean and mean; their average weight being in the 3 to 5-pound range and up to 24 inches in length. Larger pinks have been caught but are less common. Pinks can put the bend to an 8-weight fly rod in a second and dog it for up to 10 minutes in the right river conditions. If you’ve ever wanted to hear a fly reel sing, a big humpy would be happy to oblige, particularly on a 5-weight.

Challenge

While fly selection and presentation are of little consideration, fishing the fly through a thousand fish without snagging fins or body is most definitely a challenge. Pinks will strike at and even run down a streamer. You simply need to get the fly in front of the right fish without foul-hooking a dozen others.

Pinching the hook barb is a must. Making a solid hookset is not difficult. Its simply a good conservation practice to pinch your barbs when incidentally snagging fish is a given. This accomplishes two things: 1) In many cases, you can see that you have snagged a fish and avoid an unnecessary hookset by shaking the fly loose with slack line; and 2) If you accidentally foul-hook and break off on fish, that hook will likely drop out in short order once the tension is relieved from the line.

When fishing for pinks, I typically cast upstream and gently retrieve the fly parallel to the fish. Swimming flies across the water in front of them increases foul hooking, where fishing with the flow allows fish that want to strike the fly to grab it while minimizing the body surface area contact between the fly and other fish. Snagging can also be minimized by drifting a fly downstream into a pool and keeping it in front of the fish long enough to entice a strike.

Finally, feeling out and understanding the difference between a strike and a snag can be interesting and fun. You can never get it 100%, but this presents another nuance to the game that requires heightened awareness and attentiveness of the fly and the fish themselves. A truly engaging aspect of the pursuit.

Tenkara

If you really want to step up the challenge, try a tenkara fly rod.  Like using an old-fashioned cane pole, a fixed length of line with a tippet is attached to the end of the rod. Pinks can be caught using traditional tenkara lines and kebari (flies), or with non-traditional floating or sinking lines and streamers. Streamers can be fished the same as with any western-style fly rod, just with a limited cast and retrieve length.

I built a 13-foot tenkara rod specifically for big fish, rated 8/2, meaning the rod operates on a fast or medium-heavy action relative to typical fly or spinning rod actions, respectively. My intention for the rod was to dead-drift nymphs for steelhead in winter, but had only hooked up some decent cutthroat with it to date. My goal for Ketchikan was simple; hook and land a big pink salmon, even if it meant breaking the rod.

Using a 10-foot section of old floating fly line with a 4-foot section of 8-pound fluorocarbon as tippet, I rolled out a small, black, egg-sucking leech pattern with an orange bead head and free-floating trailer hook. I had already landed a few smaller pinks in the 3-pound class, but the giant I was about to hook was beyond any mad fantasy to ever cross my mind.

Casting to the edge of the current in the eddy, pinks darted in and out of the run leading up the pool below me. And like always, as my mind began to wander amid the scenery, a nuanced strike pulled me back into reality. As I noticed a big buck pink below me in the pool tail-out, I spotted the leech bouncing bottom under him and recast. Repeating an identical drift, the buck opened his mouth, snatching the leech with an apparent irritability that struck me with a bit of regret as I swiftly set the hook.

Trumbo - Pinks on the Fly (2)

Treating the tenkara rod as a switch rod, I stuck the butt into my hip and heaved the long cork grip into my gut with my right hand. The buck wasn’t making any blistering runs, but he certainly had me wishing for more line a good drag.

Busting out of the pool, headed back toward the ocean, I was left simply to follow with my net in one hand and the rod held high in the other. Vowing to keep him from hitting the final riffle into salt, I clasped the rod with both hands and turned the buck upriver one last time, all the while fearing the rod or tippet would give at any moment. Fortunately, the rod and tippet held their own and I was able to slip the net under him and bring him to shore.

The magnitude of this fish didn’t hit home until I realized how small the net looked with him in it. I had landed many a solid coho with that net, but a pink had never taken up such real estate. Gently popping the barbless hook from his gnarly kype, I lifted the buck for closer inspection. He was simply magnificent. Measuring around 28 inches with a high hump, yellowing, speckled fins, glorious gray-olive dorsal coloring and a brilliant pinking around the tail, this buck enhanced my appreciation for an underrepresented species among the salmon angling community.

Hitting the Water

Stupid-good action is my plain and simple description of pink salmon fishing in fresh water, and unlike the other more popular species, you will generally find yourself amidst solitude in some of Alaska’s most beautiful and accessible public lands. Exquisite rental properties within a budget such as vacation-rental-by-owner and bed-and-breakfast options are available in most areas in August. Folks fortunate enough to live within a short flight or two of southeast Alaska can find good reason to make a quick trip. For those traveling further and investing a bit more cash in the endeavor, timing your trip to coincide with the peak of the Chinook or coho run would provide more bang for the buck, but make no mistake, hitting the pink run would be no disappointment.

Fixed on Pinks

Published in the Fall 2019 edition of Tenkara Angler.2019-09-21 12_50_24-Window

A rare high-pressure day, the sun shone beautifully across my shoulders into the turn pool where the river met the ocean. The tannin-stained river spilled over the cascade perpendicular to the boulder I stood against, then curled downstream alongside my perch. A large eddy occurred between me and the cascade where salmon were stacking up for the ascent. The rocks deposited on the ocean side of the channel pushed the flow against solid granite. Over time, that flow had carved out a large backwater where salmon, seals, bears, gulls, osprey and eagles all met for a limited time each year.

Having crept out along the edge of a large boulder outcrop at low tide, I stood watching intently as pinks battled their way up the downstream riffle to enter the pool, jab at their salmon brethren, and regain enough strength to traverse the coming cascade.

In my hand I held a 13-foot tenkara rod I built specifically for big fish, being rated 8/2, meaning the rod operates on a fast or medium-heavy action relative to typical fly or spinning rod actions, respectively. My intention for the rod was dead-drifting nymphs and kebari for steelhead in winter, but I had only hooked up some decent cutthroat with it to date. My goal was simple. Hook and land a big pink salmon. If it meant breaking the rod, I was willing to make it happen.

Using a 10-foot section of old floating fly line with a 4-foot section of 8-pound fluorocarbon attached as tippet, I rolled out a small, black, egg-sucking leech pattern I tied with an orange bead head and free-floating trailer hook. I had already landed a few smaller pinks in the 3-pound class, but the giant I was about to hook was beyond my wildest pink salmon fantasy.

Trumbo Fixed on Pinks (1)

Casting to the edge of the current in the eddy, pinks darted in and out of the downstream riffle leading into the pool. And like always, as my mind began to wander amid the scenery, a nuanced strike pulled me back into reality. I noticed a large buck pink in the pool tail-out and my leech bouncing bottom under him. Repeating an identical drift, the buck opened his mouth, snatching the leech with an apparent irritability that struck me with a bit of regret as I swiftly set the hook.

I often refer to sturgeon fishing as attempting to pull a school bus from the river bed. Fighting the big pink buck on my tenkara rod instilled a similar feeling of futility, but a feeling more like trying to overcome the fear of a dire task with some cognizance that the outcome may not be favorable. I can only liken it to stepping out onto the cabin porch in the middle of the blackest Appalachian night you can fathom in just my boxers to investigate what sounded like a human intruder. As my eyes adjusted, the large, round shape of a black bear peering back at me from the steps became apparent in the soft glow of the wood stove. One of us had to give, and I hesitantly stood my ground, knowing the outcome could be quite dramatic.

Fly fishermen know to let the fish fight the rod, particularly big fish. Tenkara anglers know to point the butt of the rod at the fish to accomplish this, but trust me when I say that’s much easier said than done on a fish that has been swimming the ocean for the past year.  Treating the tenkara rod as a switch rod, I stuck the butt into my waist and heaved the long cork grip into my gut with my right hand. The buck wasn’t making any blistering runs, but he certainly had me wishing for more line and a good drag.

Trumbo - Pinks on the Fly (2)

Busting out of the pool, headed back toward the ocean, I was left simply to follow with my net in one hand, the rod held high in the other. Suddenly, I felt like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It as he chased his monster rainbow down the Blackfoot River; an awkward dance of balance and trying to keep the right pressure on the fish among slick, loose rock. Vowing to keep him from hitting the final riffle into salt, I clasped the rod with both hands and turned the buck upriver one last time, all the while fearing the rod or tippet would fail at any moment. With a few more laps around a short run, I was fortunate to slip the net under him and bring him to shore.

The magnitude of this fish didn’t hit home until I realized how small the net looked with him in it. I had landed many a solid coho with that net, but a pink had never taken up such real estate. Gently popping the barbless hook from his gnarly kype, I lifted the buck for closer inspection. He was simply magnificent. Measuring around 28 inches with a high hump, yellowing, speckled fins, glorious gray-olive dorsal coloring and a brilliant pinking around the tail, this buck enhanced my appreciation for an underrepresented species among the salmon angling community. A trophy indeed, I ended my trip on this beautiful salmon, landed against the odds on a fixed line fly rod.

The Rios of Fall

Fall turkey hunting the Walla Walla Valley is as fine an experience as it gets!

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Published in the Walla Walla Union Bulletin, September 22nd, 2019.

The grandeur of a wild turkey in full strut, spitting, drumming and gobbling their hormone-crazed heads off lures the masses of anxious hunters, wrought with spring fever. Spring is an amazing season to hit the woods with colorful tree and flower buds and the first green grasses of the warm season. The chill in the early morning air quickly vacates as golden sun rays breach the eastern horizon. Then there are hunters like myself, who don’t buy into the farce of calling spring turkeys. Autumn is our season of conviction and pursuit of all things upland. Fall may represent the annual cycle of senescence, but the season also holds rejuvenation, calm and terrific turkey hunting.

A heavy November fog hung in the pines, cloaking the forty-some birds in their evergreen roost, high above my brushy ground cover. Turkeys had flocked up for winter, and like clockwork, entered their routine of roosting in a small pine strip along the Touchet River. Soft yelps and clucks wafting from the canopy were barely audible above the babbling river, but soon evolved into a boisterous cacophony as the sun fought to tear through the fallen ceiling. Having never mastered the art of calling turkeys, I sat quietly, awaiting the birds’ vacation from roost.

As visibility increased to about thirty yards, the inharmonious ruckus from overhead fell silent. Had I moved? Had they heard me? My mind raced with the paranoid cogitations of a turkey hunter familiar with failure. And as abruptly as the birds had fallen silent, the pines erupted. Turkeys spewed from all angles in unison, hidden entirely by fog; their heavy wing beats showering the understory with the mist deposited among the trees. A short glide carried them to a nearby wheat field where tender green sprouts topped the breakfast menu. Time to move.

Eastern, Rio Grande and Merriam’s subspecies of wild turkey are found in Washington, none of which are native to the state. Efforts to introduce wild turkeys into Washington began in the early 1900s with present populations possibly containing descendant genetics of those transplanted since about 1960, but an aggressive transplant program from the mid-1980s dramatically increased the state’s wild turkey populations. Presently, the Eastern subspecies can be found in the lower Cascade region, Merriam’s in northeast and central Washington down through Yakima, and the Rio Grande occurs largely in the southeast counties along the Snake River.

The Rio Grande subspecies (Rio) was selected for southeast Washington to match the turkey to the habitat most closely associated with its south-central U.S. native range. Rios prefer to nest within a quarter mile of perennial water and select winter roost and forage areas in wooded streamside habitats. Grasses, forbs, fruits from shrubs like serviceberry and golden currant, and insects make up the Rio diet. Although not expressly stated in literature, turkeys often select conifers for roosting. While turkeys are notoriously difficult to call in spring, having a basic understanding of fall habitat and forage preferences is more than half the battle for fall hunting success.

Trumbo - Rios of Fall (2)

Many of the perennial stream corridors in the Walla Walla River watershed are characterized by narrow riparian strips with a mix of trees and shrubs, flanked by dry land crops. Fall flocks can generally be patterned to roosting and feeding in these areas. Spotting a large flock is relatively easy, and in my experience, they generally remain within an approximate one-mile radius of their preferred winter habitat.

Once a flock is located, spot-and-stalk tactics similar to deer hunting can prove tremendously successful for fall Rios. Using the terrain and other cover to conceal movement as you close the distance on a feeding flock, it seems safety in numbers allows these otherwise paranoid fowl to unwind.

Creeping toward the wheat field using brush and trees as cover, I managed to avoid visual detection as the Rios fed. Although acting in predator mode, I was captivated by the sweet sound of the resuming discordant orchestra of yelps, clucks and purrs. Cover grew thin as I gained elevation on the hillside below the wheat field, so I hit the deck, slithering through mud and grasses to reach a final ambush behind a fence-side rose thicket.

Peeping through the rose on the right flank of the thicket, I spied a small group of hens separating from the main flock and feeding toward me. With movements largely concealed by the rose, I eased my grandpa’s old Ithaca Model 37 pump across a fence wire and selected a large hen. But a turkey’s vision is incredibly keen. Busted.

Remaining stone still, my gut crawled into my throat as heads popped up, necks stretched high, and alarm “puts” began to wave through the handful of birds. With eyes closed, forcing shallow breaths, I awaited the disheartening sound of the flock vacating the county, but much to my surprise, the hen clique began to calm. Cracking an eyelid, I saw the distant turkeys paying no attention to the alarmed hens. Barring mass hysteria, the hens relaxed and began feeding again. Settling the Ithaca bead, I notched another fall turkey tag.

Although Rios appear drab gray from a distance, close inspection reveals marvelous plumage. When viewed from various angles, back and wing feathers boast rich hues of copper, emerald, and auburn. The tail fan is tipped with an elegant tawny band, and jakes and gobblers sport brilliant pinkish-orange blotches on the neck and head. While some turkey hunters are driven afield in search of beards and spurs, the overall spectacle that is a wild turkey, not to mention the table fare, is trophy enough for this upland hunter.

Thankful for the Opportunity

Fall sparks a time of reflection and thanks, and the Thanksgiving holiday is a perfect time to be thankful for our public lands and natural wonders.

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Published in the Waitsburg Times, November 7th, 2019.

The month of November is a special month. Not only because it’s like an extension of October in the Walla Walla Valley, or that the late season big game hunts are open. Rather, November offers a time of reflection as winter approaches and we gather with friends and family to give thanks. Given my love for fall, I spend many cool evenings reflecting on the outdoor opportunities I have been afforded over the years, and the magnificence of our nation’s natural resources.

One extraordinary September evening a decade ago, twelve hours to the southeast of Waitsburg, I stood amid the roar of the Maison River in Yellowstone National Park. The sun had settled peacefully behind the western peaks while the cool humidity of fall sank into the river bottom. A soft, white haze began to form about ten feet off the water as the cool air from above fought to smother the moderately warmer temperature and moisture rising from the river.

To my left was a pewter-colored, house-sized boulder with a massive log jam against the upstream side. The river had undercut the boulder and placed a couple logs on the downstream edge as well. The twilight cast a dense glare across the river surface, but climbing up and standing atop the boulder, I could peer down and see a few very large mountain whitefish in the eddy on the downstream side. They darted swiftly in and out of the flow beneath the shelter of the logs.

Time was wearing thin, so I dropped back into the river on the thalweg side. There was a glorious seam near a gravel bar across the current, and my size 18 Adams was destined to be picked up by a feisty rainbow or brown trout. Preparing to cast, I stripped out a fair piece of my floating line and began loading the rod with short casting motions. Glancing to my left, the sight of my beautiful little blonde girlfriend, Ali, waist deep in the current and laying out a dry fly with her golden locks trailing behind her brought a warm smile.

I stood momentarily entranced in the scene of my future bride fishing the Madison, but my revelry began to fade with the faint sound of a cow elk mewing, and then another, and yet another. Spotting movement behind Ali, I gawked awestruck for minutes as the dark evergreens under the fading light began to writhe with elk. Big, tawny bulls with rich, molasses manes, raghorns, cows and calves maneuvered among the trees on the opposite river bank. They slowly fed and drink directly opposite us as we remained stone still. I felt a fleeting sense belonging, as if welcomed into their world. We were just part of the woodwork.

Ail Fitzgerald fishing the Madison as a bison watches

Daylight vanished with my rod held at my side. I simply stood there and drank in every precious moment of that scene as the final shred of visibility faded around a couple fly fishermen engulfed by the ambient tumbling river and the screams of rutting bulls. We climbed from the chill of the river, stripped out of our waders, and fired up the heat in our rig as we returned to our West Yellowstone hotel. That trip was noteworthy for a number of reasons, all of which are owed their own story, but fishing the evening hatch on the Madison will remain one of my fondest memories of Yellowstone, and early dating with my wife.

Recalling that moment on the Madison conjures another elk story, only this one occurred an hour from town. It was modern firearm deer season and I had packed into the Wenaha, spiked a camp, and hunted the high ridges with my buddy, Marvin, in hopes of spotting a good mule deer buck and making a move on him.

It was frigid for October and spitting snow. The Eagle Caps appeared as two small, snow-covered hummocks to the distant southeast. The atmosphere lit up around the peaks, pink as cotton candy from the few straggling rays of sun clutching the horizon. I could feel darkness approaching; an impenetrable cloak meant to shield the world from its own inhabitants.

In years past, I had seen mule deer in this meadow, and packed a buddy’s elk on a pack string after clawing our way up from the jagged bowls of the canyon bottom. My only encounter this day was cutting the tracks of a lone cougar and wolf, both on the same meadow trail, and both the diameter of a softball. Worn out and cold, I headed for camp only to suffer the fitful sleep of fall wilderness tent camping.

Awaking the next morning, the sky was incredibly clear with a billion shimmering stars. Within an hour, the warmth of golden sun would breach the eastern tree line to end my frozen torment for eleven glorious, yet laborious hours of searching for backcountry bucks. Standing peacefully over the hiss of my pack stove, as the soothing aroma of hot coffee curled up, tickling my mustache, I stared wide-eyed at the first twinge of pink kissing the low horizon.

The black silhouettes of surrounding evergreens stood tall and firm like the sentinels of dawn. And unexpectedly, a bull elk let out a single bugle, not 100 yards from camp. His guttural squeal echoing around the edge of the meadow sent a chill down my spine, prickling me with goosebumps.

Unexpectedly, tears welled up and my throat went tight. Emotion and memories ran wild. Regrets of moving away from home and family; gratitude for the loved ones I have been blessed with; shame for the times that I failed my loved ones; and bewilderment over all of the undeserved blessings I have been afforded, to include the opportunity to hunt our nation’s wild, public lands. My love of the wilderness, fish and wildlife, and my thirst for these experiences are owed to my grandparents and the heritage they passed on.

Such emotion spurred by a single supremely placed and timed elk bugle. We never found our mule deer buck, but time in the wilderness, no matter how long or short, offers some form of profundity and reward otherwise.

Recollections of wilderness adventures arouse further memories of the most beautiful high mountain lakes I have ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on, just a day’s drive south in northeastern California’s Sierra Nevada range. The John Muir and Ansel Adams Wilderness areas provide astonishing scenery, hiking, and one of my bucket-list trout species, the golden trout.

Thirty minutes of channeling my inner mountain goat, teetering and hopping up, over, and across jagged granite perched me 11,300 feet above sea-level. With burning thighs and short breath, I gazed back at Long Lake about a mile and hundreds of feet below. The gray walls of the high peaks reflected off the deep blue of the lake. The solemn green of the pines cast deep contrast against the light granite with a dappling of brilliant goldenrod from sparse quaking aspen and grasses changing with the season.

Turning around, I faced the Treasure Lakes. Thirteen-thousand-foot Mount Dade peak loomed overhead to the south. A permanently shadowed, remnant snow pack, dusted gray by the wind, was feeding the lakes. Below the shimmering surface of the crystal-clear depths lay pure California gold.

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Sizing up the lake, I tied up a size 14 hare’s ear wet-fly on my four-weight. Stepping down onto a boulder along the lake’s edge, I rolled the olive-green sinking line into the depths and began retrieving the fly with short strips. My breath, still labored from the climb, or maybe just the elevation, was sucked away completely as the line jerked tight between my fingertips; the fly engulfed as it slowly sank on the pause between strips.

A moment of panic overwhelmed me as I realized I was playing a trout I had obsessed over landing on the fly for decades. Kneeling on the flat boulder, rod tip held high overhead, I softly cradled my first golden trout in the frigid alpine waters. An awesome spectacle in a small package with a rich auburn belly, buttery yellow flanks, and olive-sized parr marks. A scene so perfect I will never forgive myself if I fail to relive it again in the near future.

We are incredibly fortunate for the opportunity afforded us by visionaries like Teddy Roosevelt, who realized the importance of setting aside public lands and parks for our enjoyment. The beauty of our public lands, our right to explore them, not to mention the most spectacular pieces of our nation being preserved for the public rather than privatized, is a true blessing.

Of equally good fortune, Waitsburg is a central hub to more than a dozen National Parks and Monuments within a day’s drive, not to mention the myriad state parks.

Think of Grand Teton and Glacier National Parks with peaks towering sharply above the Montana landscape. When was the last time you saw the turquoise depths of Crater Lake or traversed the prickly, jagged lava beds of the Newberry Monument in central Oregon? How about experiencing the tranquility of looming redwoods along the northern California coast, or the picturesque formations protruding from the Oregon beaches? Have you ventured over to Mt. Rainier National Park or Mount Hood to ogle the glaciers and marvel at the history and architecture of the historic lodges? All of this awaits at arms-length.

As we share in our Thanksgiving feasts, late fall turkey, deer and elk hunts, and make new memories with friends and family, take a moment to give thanks to those responsible for setting aside our public lands and parks. Thank our fellow taxpayers and sportsmen and women for contributing funds to the operation and maintenance of these lands. Thank our military brethren who serve to ensure our freedom and opportunity to enjoy our nations specular resources. And thank your friends and family who, alongside you and I, work to perpetuate this rich wilderness heritage.

Just Follow the Dog

Breaking into upland bird hunting can be intimidating, what with the spendy gear and quintessential image folks push on social media these days. But the bottom line, the only requirements are to grab your shotgun and just follow the dog.

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Published in the Waitsburg Times, December 5th, 2019.

A hint of the long shadows of evening began to cast across the rolling wheat stubble and amber bunchgrass. A solid cloud of gray dust billowed from behind my old green Ford rolling down the backroads, homebound from work. The navel orange sun dipping low along the horizon left little to be desired in an October sky.

About a half mile from home, a large, brilliantly plumed wild rooster pheasant with a tail stretching to Mexico levitated from the grass buffer above the gravel and sailed effortlessly into the deep draw of the adjacent field. The pheasant season was freshly open, and my Llewellin setter pup, Finn, waited impatiently at home.

A wild little one; her energy and personality were equally spun up to ear-rattling irritation, like a pressure cooker about to blow its regulating weight. We had worked since spring on basic obedience and finding and pointing caged pigeons with little success. But my gut said “What the heck, give her a shot!”.

Applying hard brake, the truck slid to a stop in the driveway of my humble, mustard-yellow, home with the mouse-dropping insulation. I knew Finn’s energy would be unmanageable for a hunt straight out of the gate, so I hurriedly gathered my vest and a few shells, retrieved my old 16-gauge double from the safe, and released the pup for the half-mile trek to the rooster sighting.

At the foot of the draw, we hunted up the roadside where pheasant roost and feed. Her interest piqued a time or two as she inhaled the deep odors from pheasant dust bowls, but not a bird was found. In my mind, we were acting out the script precisely.

finn in bunchgrass

Circling back and into the draw, Finn worked more intently. We cut the expanse of wheat stubble with alacrity, approaching downwind a small patch of dense grasses just large enough to harbor a bird or two. Brief moments passed as Finn halfheartedly worked the grasses; her thoroughness lacking from a short attention span and inexperience.

Calling her back, I directed her to the inside edge along the toe of a twenty-foot sheer slope. Breezing through with little interest, I was certain Finn had run past the bird, like I somehow knew where it was. Fixed on a small hummock of reed canary grass, I called Finn back once again to repeat her last thirty feet of cover. But this time, her head swiveled down as she trotted over the hummock, stuttering to a slow halt with clear inquisition.

Closing the distance, I stomped through the hummock, and was nearly tripped backward as the largest rooster I have seen to this day on the Palouse blew his cover on a near straightaway retreat. From the corner of my left eye, Finn’s head swiveled after the rooster, while my right eye glanced flush down the rib, the bead finding the stark white ring of the rooster’s neck. With a squeeze of the trigger, our fate was sealed. An upland hunter and his first pointing dog were etched permanently into the folds of time, oblivious to the obsession, passion, learning and journey that was to shape our future.

That rooster was my first taken over a pointing dog. I knew little about training a bird dog, just enough about pheasant habits and habitat to be dangerous and carry a shotgun just in case we tripped on a bird. Six seasons hence, I am well versed in upland birds and their habitat, I still carry my old heirloom double, and I run two fine Llewellins with a third up-and-comer in the wings. My greatest fall passion entails shotgun in hand, chasing the tail feathers of a brace of dainty setters across the prairie. I may pass for a legitimate bird hunter, yet I still regard myself as an everyday outdoorsman lucky enough to have reliable canine talent.

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And herein lies the simple foundation that every newcomer to the luxury of upland hunting behind a bird dog should glean. Just follow the dog. But can it possibly be that simple?

In the age of social media, we attempt to put our best foot forward, so to speak, with our highest quality photography, catchy captions, and stunning gear and guns on display, tapping the envy of every “wannabe” out there. In reality, however, none of that matters and should in no fashion intimidate someone from diving head-first into this classic and life-altering activity.

My deliberation on the essence of a bird hunter came as I listened to an interview with Ryan Busse of the Backcountry Hunters and Anglers Association. Ryan is an avid upland bird hunter with an intriguing story to tell that will leave you with a warm and fuzzy feeling about folks in the political trenches, fighting to protect our nation’s public lands. But his message on recruiting upland hunters was simple and hit home. Just follow the dog.

A shotgun, bird dog (if you so desire), and habitat comprise the essentials of upland hunting. Few upland hunters are experts at any one of these facets when they enter the game, and most may never claim expertise. Even the most well studied and practiced bird hunter and dog will continue to learn together for a lifetime afield. The bird and dog can always present new tricks, and no training exercise can supplant the experience of field time.

Ryan was lucky enough to have pheasant out the back door of his childhood home where he spent countless hours with an old shotgun following a dog. His message speaks to the experience of many of us where time in the field lends itself to understanding habitat, bird and dog behavior, and wing-shooting prowess. My experience was much like Ryan’s, only I got started in my thirties.

And what exactly is Ryan’s message? In a nutshell, follow the dog until it finds a bird. When the bird gets up, if its legal to hunt, take a shot. Over time, the dog will find more birds, you will connect (at least some of us…) more often, and one day you will suddenly realize you are an upland hunter. No fancy shotgun, no professionally finished dog or other exorbitant paraphernalia required. Just pick up the gun and follow the dog, and enjoy and appreciate every single minute of it.

In time, you won’t recall how many birds hit your vest or how many misses were volleyed behind the escapees. Rather, the unforgettable facets are the way your favorite shotgun felt in your hand, how smooth and naturally it shouldered and the pride you felt at the sight of your dog flawlessly orchestrating a flush, point, or retrieve.

So, you want to be an upland hunter? The time is now. Just follow the dog.

A Christmas Songbird Tradition

Songbirds are an icon of our natural world, inhabiting nearly every landscape. These remarkable birds are worth noting and saving; just what the Christmas Bird Count through the Audubon Society promotes.

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Published in the East Oregonian, December 21st, 2019.

I talk a good game about hunting and fishing, and most of my fondest memories revolve directly around those two passions. This doesn’t detract from my holistic appreciation for the natural world, sans my double-gun and bird dog.

Among my favorite childhood memories is the barn-shaped bird feeder my grandparents hung in front of their Appalachian living room picture window. Cardinals, tit mouse, nuthatches, downy woodpeckers and black-capped chickadees would chatter and fuss for space at that feeder and suet cakes all winter.

I vividly recall one particular lazy weekend afternoon kicked back in an old recliner, sipping hot cocoa; my grandparents reading the paper and working word-finds. Their wood furnace stood atop a beautiful river rock hearth my grandpa had built. The blower kicked on, filling the room with the irreplaceable warmth of wood heat as I gazed contently at the first snow of December falling around these flittering songbirds and settling thick atop the feeder.

The American robin in its modest appearance has always been one of my favorite birds; their glorious melody signaling spring as the dew settles cold on freshly greened lawns. And then there are the jays. Blue jays were a common bully in my hometown, but the first time I laid eyes on a Steller’s jay was the first time I moved to the Pacific Northwest, cruising Highway 12 along the Lochsa River in Idaho. I still marvel at Steller’s jays as I scramble across the ridge tops in the Blues pursuing grouse and mule deer.

The two masked western species that I enjoy the most are the sleek, olive-yellow cedar waxwing, and the Bullock’s oriole with its black-accented, pumpkin plumage. Each sporting a Lone Ranger eye patch and swapping seasonal appearances at my little homestead near Waitsburg, WA. The Bullock’s oriole drops by in the spring to enjoy fruit bits that I hang from the clothesline and raise a clutch in the massive white alders along my spring seep. The cedar waxwing drops in from the higher elevations about the time snow finally settles in our little canyon. They gorge alongside robins on our ornamental crabapples and mountain ash.

Other common winter visitors to the local drylands are the house finch, gold finch, house sparrow, Oregon junco, white-breasted nuthatch and spotted towhee.

My musing over common songbirds may seem curious, but songbirds are anything but common. Songbirds have the ability to bring nature’s beauty to virtually any landscape. Be it a city block or secluded ranch home, songbirds are ever present. They connecting us with our natural world, inspire artists, develop ornithologists and arouse wonder in young and old. What’s more, songbirds seasonally migrate thousands of miles across North America from Canada to Mexico and points south. Their extensive migration makes songbirds vulnerable to severe weather patterns, food shortages and predators.

Aside from the natural life challenges, songbirds have been imperiled by hunting since the 19th Century. Hunting for plumage caused the extinction of species like the passenger pigeon and Carolina parakeet. Fortunately, our conservation ethics in North America improved, and the Lacey Act was passed in 1900, followed by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act in 1918. Both Acts still stand today, protecting songbirds from harm in the U.S.

Prior to our conservation legislation, early ornithologists sought to change a Christmas tradition known as “the side hunt” where folks would choose sides and descend upon the hills. The side returning with the most species of fur and feather claimed a win. One hundred nineteen years ago on Christmas Day, the bourgeoning Audubon Society and ornithologist, Frank Chapman, imposed the Christmas Bird Count in lieu of the traditional hunt. That first Christmas, 25 different counts tallied 90 species, and the tradition stuck.

One of the longest-running datasets in the history of wildlife science, the citizen-driven data collection effort provides critical input to long-term population trend monitoring, as well as helping to guide conservation efforts in North America.

“The data collected by observers over the past century allow Audubon researchers, conservation biologists, wildlife agencies and other interested individuals to study the long-term health and status of bird populations across North America.” Explains the Audubon Society.

Understanding population trends is important for understanding the effects of environmental changes on migratory birds and natural resources. And, in some cases, population trends can serve as the proverbial canary in the mine shaft.

The beauty of the Christmas Bird Count is that anyone with the desire can participate. Bird counts are held within a 15-mile radius of a designated point. Participants may travel to a common location and disperse with an organized group or, if living within that 15-mile radius, folks can simply report the species that visit their feeder on the given count day.

Presently, Umatilla, Wallowa and Baker counties have a designated count center with point of contact information below. Union County has a count center but is not currently available for new participants. You can learn more about the Christmas Bird Count, participation in counts and review prior year and population status data by visiting https://www.audubon.org/conservation/science/christmas-bird-count.

If you are looking for an exciting family activity over the holidays that gets you outdoors and contributes to a good cause, look no further. Even a hunter like myself is fascinated with the splendor of our native songbirds and bird-watching. And who doesn’t enjoy some friendly family competition over the holidays?

Hardwater

Ice fishing Washington State can be hit or miss, but not because of the fishing. When the weather is cold enough to pack on the ice, the yellow perch and trout fishing can be excellent, and with a few simple techniques, anyone can get in the game.

Published January 2, 2020 in the Waitsburg Times.  

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January is a tough month. Barely emerging from the shortest day of the year, we immediately embark on those dreaded New Year’s resolutions while looking across the arduous 348 days that lie between us and the next Christmas/New Year holiday season.

Even more frightening is the impending closure of the upland game and waterfowl seasons later in the month. February cabin fever looms on the horizon like a blizzard riding an El Niño jet stream. The doldrums are nearly upon us, and it seems that the only folks with something to look forward to are those who ski.

Back in my high school days, I would fire up my old Bronco, kick it into 4X4, and blaze a few snowy mountain trails on the National Forest. Sadly, I matured just enough over time to kick the joy-riding habit, yet fell victim to another vice of the winter months. Picture a wind-swept landscape with snow-covered, timbered ridges rising in every direction. A small jet sled rests at my side containing an ice auger, chisel, depth flasher, a couple 30-inch jigging rods and a thermos. My pocket contains a bathymetric map of the lake that lies cloaked in darkness beneath my feet.

My first experience with ice fishing was like baptism. It opened my soul to winter rejuvenation. A college buddy and I rolled up to southern Vermont to meet his uncle and a friend of his on the ice. We fished tip-ups, which are small, folding frames with a spool of line and a flag. You drop the line through the ice, bend the flag to a catch point that also holds the spool in place, and set the frame over the hole. When a fish takes the bait, the flag pops.

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Regulations allowed six lines per angler at the time, so we set 24 tip-ups baited with live minnows. The action was slow. At first. A flag would pop here and there with plenty of time for chewing the fat and sipping cayenne-laced hot chocolate. But as the day wore on and the temperature warmed a bit, the flags came quick and steady. I don’t recall how many fish we caught that day, but there were times when all four of us were running between tip-ups with as many as a dozen flags up at once and more coming.

That was the first time I caught northern pike or chain pickerel. I was instantly hooked and immediately invested. How I ever earn my bachelor’s degree is mystifying given I lived out the remainder of my New England winters racing toward a PhD in ice fishing.

The hardwater season generally runs January through early March, and is dictated by ice as much as fishing regulations. The season is a bit shorter in some areas of Washington as temperatures don’t stay cold enough to make safe ice or keep it safe very long, particularly in our little corner of the state. But if you are willing to put a few miles on the SUV, north-central Washington provides some fine opportunities beginning in January.

One of my favorite destinations is Patterson Lake in Twisp. Twisp is a quaint little mountain town, good for a visit any time of the year, and its cold enough to keep Patterson locked up safely for some good ice fishing. Rainbow trout and my first kokanee came on tip-ups at Patterson a few years ago.

Another solid choice, seeing more than its fair share of pressure, is Fish Lake by Lake Wenatchee State Park. The scenery is gorgeous and the yellow perch plentiful, but finding a fishing spot can be tough on the weekends with the wealth of fishermen, ice skaters and hockey players, when the ice is good.

Also, in the Chelan area are Roses, Wapato and Antilon Lakes. These lakes all offer warm- and cold-water species. Roses is one my favorites with chunky sunfish and black crappie, feisty rainbows, and the occasional largemouth bass, but it’s the trout and yellow perch that really draw me.

Have you ever eaten walleye? (Assuming you nodded “yes”). Closely related to walleye, yellow perch offer equal table fare; flakey, white and mild flavored. Lightly battered in the pan, yellow perch makes Baha fish tacos to die for. Trout are tasty too, but they have nothing on yellow perch when it comes to the dinner plate. On the other hand, trout fight well in cold water and get big in many Washington lakes. The yellow perch; not so much.

Given the two-pole limit in Washington (that is, if you are willing to fork over extra cash to use a second line), I set a tip-up and jig the time between flags, or explore other areas with the jig rod while still fishing the tip-up. I generally target the same areas for either technique.

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Bathymetric maps are critical to identifying productive areas. I look for humps with a base between 10 and 20 feet deep that rise up four to eight feet. Yellow perch spend time on top of and around these humps. I like to drop my bait or jig to the base of the hump, then work my way up the side to the top. This means punching a few holes around it to work it over properly. Another option is looking for saddles between two humps within that same 10 to 20-foot depth range. I punch a series of holes across that saddle to fish each depth and location.

Yellow perch tend to school up. Finding one generally means finding many. Conversely, trout tend to cruise around, requiring a bit more patience. One technique that has worked well for me on trout is finding a shallow point extending from the shore into deeper water. If I can locate a sharp drop on that point, I will set up and jig there for up to an hour before trying another spot or moving shallower along the same point. This has put some of my largest trout on ice.

Meal worms and nightcrawlers are my go-to baits for tip-ups. I prefer to jig with glow-in-the-dark jigs about 1/32nd to 1/64th ounce. I usually tip the jig with a small piece of nightcrawler as well. Drop the tip-up bait or the jig to about six-inches off the bottom. You may need to experiment with jigging speed to entice a strike.

Regardless of what species or technique you try, don’t be afraid to move around. Sometimes you have to probe the depths of a few different areas before you can locate feeding fish. And I don’t recall a trip where I didn’t catch trout when targeting yellow perch.

Best of all, ice fishing is family- and pet-friendly. Dogs, kids on skates, lawn chairs and grills are common among hardwater fisher folk of all nationalities stretching from here to Maine, in my experience. The only way to avoid fun is to take it seriously.

If you take to the ice this winter, remember to exercise caution. Six inches thick is my minimum safe-standard for weight-bearing ice as I am coming in at about 270-pounds these days. Clear, black ice is as pure and strong as it gets. White ice has impurities such as air bubbles and potentially debris that can cause weakness. Always carry a length of rope to toss to someone in the event they fall through. Never try to approach too closely and risk falling through yourself.

I personally wear a Coastguard-approved arctic survival suit with built in thermal and floatation layers. I look foolish, but stay comfortably warm. I also keep a pair if ice picks strapped to my body that I can used to pull myself up onto the ice if I fall through. A wealth of additional safety information is available online.

With that said, don’t let the safety talk deter you. In all my years of ice fishing I have yet to see anyone break through. And, to be clear, the only necessary gear is an ice auger and a fishing rod. No need to drop a paycheck on Amazon for a boat-load of gear that you may only use twice per decade.

If you are anything like me, you dread the months ahead and suffer an unfortunate ailment for northern latitude; a severe allergy to downhill skis. If so, round up the family, throw the dog in the back, and slip out on the ice for some care-free fishing. By the end of the day, you should have a few tasty fish for the pan and plum tuckered kids. And if all else fails, you will at least enjoy a renewed appreciation for the warm confines of home.

Late-Season Roosters

Published in the East Oregonian, January 18th, 2020. 

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Let’s face it. Whether satisfying a hard-charging, time-consuming passion or taking afield as a weekend warrior, hunting hard can wear you down. And, Heaven forbid, at some point you may even want to take a break. From my perspective, I don’t necessarily want a day off. But the pre-dawn wakeup calls get old in a hurry once the temperature dips below freezing. This is where pheasant and I have something in common.

A general theme among pheasant hunters is to bust thick roosting and refuge cover all season long. This is a solid, proven tactic. However, the terrain and expanse of wheat in our area can narrow covers and funnel the wind, setting up a repeated, ideal scenting approach, worn out by the hunter/canine duo.

Rooster pheasant are some of the sharpest game birds out there, sporting incredibly fleet feet. They wise up quickly, particularly to repetition. And by the end of the first month of the upland season, finding roosters willing to hold for a pointing dog is like telling your buddy with a straight face that his Griffon is “stylish” as it backs your setter. Not happening! (Relax, I am only kidding.)

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Understanding pheasant behavior provides insight to changing tactics throughout the day, as well as across the season. Pheasant spend a large part of their day working edge habitats such as the crop field/grassland interface common among our rolling ag-lands. It’s true that severe cold will force birds to seek heavy refuge cover and stay in it or near it much of the day. On average winter days, bird may sit longer in the morning before leaving cover, but they will lazily leave and move upslope to feed and loaf in the sun in often overlooked covers. And the bonus goes to the uplander who capitalizes on this behavior, enjoying a later, more relaxed morning before heading afield.

Late-season roosters are bound to flush further ahead and out of gun range relative to early-season. The majority of the birds will vacate public land when pushed, but a handful are likely to drop back into the refuge cover and sit tight or disperse to predictable pockets. If the roost cover is what you and your dog work best, go ahead and hit it early, but consider this: There may be another approach angle conducive to pushing fleeing birds into strategic locations for a second contact.

The experience of flushing a quail covey and hunting singles sprinkled across the prairie can translate to pheasant, particularly when flocked up at the tail end of the season. I have found this productive with flocks generally of more than a dozen birds.

Another strategy is to hunt with partners and additional dogs. I spend the majority of my season alone with one or two setters on the ground at once, which puts me at a disadvantage over those who hunt with friends or run flushing dogs in the thick stuff. First, identify any likely escape routes and try to cut them off. Also, narrow points that you can spread across and push birds into are likely to hold birds longer as some will be reluctant to flush into open areas like an expanse of planted wheat field.

Vary your path through cover. If I had a nickel for every rooster that ran around the dog and flushed behind me, I might have five bucks by now (you can do the math). Walking a predictable path allows a wily rooster an easy escape. By varying your path, you are more likely to encounter that escape artist trying to pull the end-around on you, forcing a flush out front, opposed to over the shoulder; a much higher-percentage opportunity. The only downside? There are no [legitimate] excuses for a miss out front.

Alright, we’ve covered the coverts. Let’s consider a few other points. How often do you hunt quietly? Pheasant will flush at the sound of a distant car door or voices when heavily pressured. Leave the whistles and beeper collars in the truck. Speak only when necessary and use soft voices. This sounds a little silly and extreme, but is a must if you hunt public land or public access.

I use a whistle and run my setters in vests. I have seen roosters flush hundreds of yards ahead at the blast of a whistle or the sound of brush against the vest as the dogs close in. I avoid all unnecessary auditory communication with my dogs by mid-November, relying heavily on visual cues to direct them, even when they want to run big.

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Now, what are you shooting? I have been a 16-guage fan for years, but finally broke down and bought a CZ Bobwhite G2, chambered 20-gauge. Loaded with 3-inch magnum Kent steel 4-shot, this little gem has secured more pheasant this year than I have ever touched in my upland career. While some claim that the 20-gauge is best swapped for a 12-gauge magnum load when hunting extreme cold, I have no intention of switching out for late season. With that said, I do agree that magnum loads are a must, as well as larger gauges if you consistently shoot lighter loads, as extreme cold can rob power from the powder charge.

Another consideration is choke, and I do recommend choking up with colder weather and the potential for pheasant to flush further out. Remember that steel patterns tighter than lead. This means that when changing out choke tubes (if you have this luxury), swap to “improved cylinder” if you want to shoot a “modified” pattern, for example. For a double gun, I recommend “improved cylinder” and “modified” chokes for steel shot and “modified” and “full” for lead shot.

As the season progresses, get creative. Try new territory. Don’t be afraid to get a late start. Play on pheasant feeding behaviors considering upland food sources over lowland coverts. The pheasant season ends December 31st in eastern Oregon, but the eastern Washington season runs through January 20th this year (two days left). You can pick up a 3-day non-resident small game license for $68 and there is plenty of “Feel-Free-to-Hunt” land within an hour of Walla Walla.

Regardless of how you play the game, bask in the moment of every hunt. Our passion is stoked by the time afield, the work of the dog, the feel of that coveted scatter gun, cold in our hands, and the distant cackle of a rooster making a fool of all who pursue him. Tail feathers protruding from the vest, while hard earned and respected, is mere icing on the cake.

Winter Birding Brings Nature to All

Published in the Waitsburg Times, February 6th, 2020.

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Growing up a hunter, my mother and I agreed rarely in our views of humans interacting with our ecosystem, save for our thoughts on habitat conservation and a deep appreciation for nature’s beauty and songbirds. Sitting together by the back-porch door of her Appalachian home, sipping a warm beverage as a light snow falls through the naked deciduous forest, marveling over visitors to her bird feeders is something I have dearly missed since leaving home.

This is a simple example of the power that songbirds have on society as a whole. They may seem common, but are extraordinary in their natural abilities and habits. Equally extraordinary is their ability to bridge the gaps among cultures, ages, and social differences, connecting us with our natural world, inspiring artists, developing ornithologists and arousing wonder in young and old.

Birds represent spiritual and religious symbolism among many nations. They stand at the helm of conservation movements and non-profit organizations. They represent sports teams. Racheal Carson’s incredibly motivating Silent Spring touted the detrimental effects to songbirds from rampant DDT application in the 1950s, swaying her readership to pursue environmental legislation which eventually led to the formation of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.

Songbirds serve as our most common connection to nature and can be admired by anyone, virtually anywhere and at any time, like today, right now, outside your kitchen window or patio door, from a city block or a secluded cabin.

Some of the typical species to the Waitsburg area in winter include the house finch, cedar waxwing, red-winged blackbird, house sparrow, Oregon junco, American robin, brown creeper, red-breasted nuthatch, golden-crowned kinglet, northern flicker, and the list continues. The cedar waxwing is the masked species I enjoy the most as it descends from its montane habitat to overwinter in the foothills and valley floor.

One of the most fascinating aspects of songbirds is their plumage that changes with the seasons. The brilliant spring and summer colors, like the sunflower yellow of the gold finch, are shed for calmer winter plumage suited for survival. Songbirds can tough out incredibly cold temperatures by fluffing up their feathers, creating an insulating layer around their small bodies. Some species grow additional plumage to serve this purpose when molting during late summer or early fall.

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⇑⇑ A sneaky wren grabs a seed from beneath a flock of voracious gold finches as a female cardinal awaits her turn. Photo courtesy of Carolyn Phillips. ⇑⇑

Feeding and metabolic strategies support songbirds through the winter as well. They generally maintain an active body temperature at about 106 degrees Fahrenheit, and may slow their metabolism to reduce body temperature and conserve energy as they sleep. Like other animals, songbirds store fat to fuel their metabolism and insulate their bodies. Some species will store as much as 10 percent of their body mass as fat during winter.

Additionally, songbirds seek strategic roosting areas like natural tree cavities, dense grasses and evergreens or shrubs. While a common practice to remove birdhouses outside of the nesting season, Birds and Blooms recommends leaving them up over winter to provide safe, warm roosting opportunities. Specific roosting houses are available on the retail market as well.

Similar to birdhouses, hanging bird feeders is the most common method of “backyard birding”. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s 2016 census, over 65 million Americans have hung a bird feeder at some point, if not consistently. In winter, high-fat food sources including black oil sunflower, safflower, and suet cakes packed with seeds are what birds seek. But beware of “economy” seed mixes as birds largely discard the filler millet, milo, corn, etcetera, to get at the fattier sunflower seeds.

Would you like to see a specific species frequent your feeder? You may want to consider separating food sources or feeding stations. This will allow species to hone in on their favored items or feeding methods rather than jockey for space at a crowded feeder or avoid the feeder entirely. Additional information on different types of bird feeders and setting up feeding stations can be found online at https://www.fws.gov/birds/bird-enthusiasts/backyard/bird-feeding.php.

What about the birdbath? Having a water source in winter is important to songbirds. This is less critical in our banana-belt area of Washington, but when the temperature dips below freezing, birdbaths are well attended. A wide range of birdbath heaters can be found at Amazon.com. It need not be spendy, just reliable, and they actually make excellent holiday or birthday gifts for the birder in your family.

 

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⇑⇑ Eastern bluebirds flock to the birdbath on a frigid, Virginia afternoon. Photo Courtesy of Carolyn Phillips. ⇑⇑

With the above in mind, feeder and birdbath placement for birding from the comfort of home is important, particularly for photography. Place the feeders where you and the birds can access them easily in all weather. Maintain a good line of sight to the feeder and place it an appropriate distance from the house to provide the desired photo effect (or to ensure that those of us with failing vision can still identify the species). Maybe you have a spot inside to set up a tripod and train the camera to the feeder. This will allow you to capitalize on quick opportunities when that special bird shows up. This can also contribute significantly to photo quality and clarity, as will clean windows.

Songbirds are the tie that binds humans to our natural world, and clearly arouse interest and emotion. The ease of birding at home provides an undeniable opportunity to experience that emotion and wonder from our couch or kitchen table; an especially attractive prospect when the jet stream delivers an arctic blast.

Regardless of how you do it, birding is entertaining, and a great way to knock the edge off of cabin fever. So, are you ready to get your birding on?

SIDEBAR:

Suet cakes can be made at home with a simple Crisco, peanut butter and sunflower seed recipe. Place ingredients in a medium sauce pan and warm. Mix ingredients together, let it cool, shape it in a container or on wax paper. Place in the freezer for 30 minutes to solidify and it’s ready.

  • 1-1/2 cup Crisco
  • 1/2 cup peanut butter
  • 1 cup sunflower seeds.

Swinging the Runs for Wallowa Steelies

Published in the East Oregonian, February 15th, 2020.

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The majority of my winter trips to the Wallowa River are characterized by slippery travel across Toll Gate under an active snow or ice storm. The five-foot walls of packed snow confining the highway are intimidating, yet comforting in the fact that I might simply bounce off the wall rather than ditch my rig in the creek draining the Elgin side of the mountain. Needless to say, as I stepped out of my rig at Minam State Park one glorious March morning, the bluebird sky offered immediate victory. The day was shaping up beautifully; my confidence high.

Flow conditions were about perfect. I typically fish steelhead on the descending limb of the hydrograph after a slug of water has coaxed fish to move upriver. I got a few nods from folks headed for the State Park honey hole as I donned my waders and strung up my fly rod. I am stubborn, like most fly fisherman, identifying almost exclusively as a swinger. By that, I mean I “swing” flies. It’s an artform that, when executed properly, is reason enough to fish. Steelhead be damned.

Once fully rigged up, I strolled down to the nearby run that was entirely vacant, save for the peculiar little American dipper that bobbed along the rocks at water’s edge. Across the run was a series of boulders that had dislodged from the railroad grade where the river pushed along the toe. The depth was right and I expected steelhead were holding in the current breaks behind the boulders.

Wading out to about mid-thigh depth, I rolled a short cast to the far side, threw an upstream mend, and waited as the line swept down and sank a few feet. I could envision my purple, egg-sucking leech wafting temptingly in the current. The cast resulted in a beautiful presentation and clean drift, but no grab. Typical.

Repeating the cast, I methodically worked downstream to cover the entire run. And to my surprise, half way through the run, a solid thump transferred through the line. Steelhead typically hook themselves when smashing a fly on the swing. Without a hookup, I moved on, dismissing the whack as a resident rainbow or bull trout not large or serious enough to bury the hook in the corner of their jaw.

Crossing over to the tracks, I headed toward the confluence with the Grande Ronde. The sun-warmed canyon hit a balmy 50 degrees. Fat, steely mule deer fed on greening grasses across the open south- and western-facing slopes. Steller’s jays and magpies screeched and flittered, among other songbirds, fleeing from the “swishing” of my waders.

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The railroad winding through the canyon cuts through a variety of large rock outcrops that typically hide critters on their shaded side. Passing through the cold shadows of a towering pillar, the hair on the back of my neck bristled. Instinct suggested a lurking cat, yet I’ve never laid eyes on a cunning cougar along that stretch of track.

The river was superb, boasting a vibrant emerald tint through the deeper pools and runs. Shockingly, I was one of very few to venture down the track this day. Just as surprising, my casting was on fire. Everything played out spectacularly, save for the conspicuous lack of steelhead.

Over the course of about five hours I fished a number of runs, each promising enough to stimulate overwhelming anticipation. Butterflies danced in my gut with every swing, yet ended uneventfully, stripping the leech back in, taking a couple steps downstream and repeating the gig. The motions and results were always the same while my expectations remained of something different. The very definition of insanity.

Upon my logical brain regaining control, I turned upstream for the truck. Along the way, I came across a gentleman with a bobber and jig working a tight, deep cut at the base of a rock outcrop. He had a steelhead on a stringer and was fighting another. Admittedly, I was jealous, but simply admired his catch and moved along, not to spoil his revelry or sully my pride. I shot him a nod which provoked a satisfied smirk.

Not quite ready to quit, I waded into the run where I began the day and worked it just as I had that morning. The only difference this time was the steelhead that nearly ripped the rod from my weary hands on the fourth swing. My mind had already drifted to hot coffee and kicking my feet up when the characteristic tight-line slam of an eight-pound freight train trouncing my little leech jarred my brain into utter panic.

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Hanging on and feathering the spool, I was prepared for a long and strategic run, but something was amiss. Realizing the horror that my line had wrapped under a boulder distinguished that I was about to lose my only steelhead of the season.

Dashing into the current up to my waist, the rush of the river eroded the rock from beneath my feet. Being swept downstream and dancing to stay upright, I somehow freed the line. The fish responded immediately, turning tail and heading for the 150-yard-long riffle below the run. With few options, I gripped the reel tightly, stuck the butt of the rod into my hip and began backing toward the shore. If my aggressive effort didn’t break the fish from my eight-pound fluorocarbon tippet, the long riffle certainly would.

Surprise, relief and excruciating optimism collided as the rod rebounded, the fish turning upstream. Reeling wildly to keep the pressure on was all I could do. Tense moments of give and take finally ended as a massive tail sliced the water surface in the shallows downstream. The fish was spent.

Gliding the steelhead into my feet, I noticed the adipose fin was clipped. I beached her immediately, gazing graciously upon the brilliant, rosy stripe spanning the length of a healthy, speckled hen measuring somewhere around 26 inches. She was outright magnificent. And destined for my dining room table. I’ve never felt more accomplished or blessed upon landing any other steelhead in my fly-fishing career.

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Shed Hunting the Wheat Country

Published in the East Oregonian, March 21, 2020.

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March is a fine time to work a bird dog on the Palouse. With the upland season a couple months past and the snow freshly off the wheat fields, my girls and I took to a secluded parcel for a run and maybe put up a rooster or two. A bitter wind howled across the emerald green of the thriving winter wheat, battling the warmth of vibrant sunrays cast sharply from a bluebird sky.

Approaching an island of black locust and wheatgrass about 20 acres in size, a white object caught my attention. Beneath a golden fold of grass mashed flat from its former snow blanket shone a heavy chunk of what appeared to be bone. “How sweet would it be if that were a giant shed!” I thought to myself as I approached. You can imagine my surprise when I unearthed the only drop-tine whitetail antler I will ever lay hands on, complete with a split brow tine and soda-can base circumference.

The antler was weathered and cracked and had clearly lay there for several years. I wondered where that buck had come from. There was no other cover for miles and we were nearly 20 miles from a brushy river corridor in any direction. How had that buck dodged the modern firearms seasons so many years to put on such character?

I may never have such fortune to stumble upon a better shed in my lifetime. Whitetails are known for their adaptation to postage-stamp, patchwork covers. True to form, this guy clearly followed the playbook, shedding where no one would think to look in a relatively tiny and inaccessible patch of cover.

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Bagging elk sheds is exciting, but in my experience, it’s deer in the wheat country that offer the best shed hunting. A solid rule of thumb is to seek out bedding and feeding areas. South and west aspects are the warmest this time of year and typically offer better food sources. Deer spend the majority of their time in these areas and are more likely to shed there. While well-worn travel routes are hard to pass up, I have found so few sheds on trails that a nice walk or the occasional small forky antler is about the main prize.

You can dodge the masses by knocking on a few doors and maybe find some ground all to yourself. Small woodlots and eyebrows with a few trees to provide a windbreak should be given fair inspection. Deer will paw at the ground around these trees to create flat beds on steep slopes.

Deer generally shed their antlers from late December through March. Mule deer tend to yard up in large, visible groups on the open, grassy slopes, while whitetails commonly feed in the unseen crevasses of wheat fields this time of year.

Cabin fever pushes most big game hunters to wit’s end by now, and the prospects of shed hunting are too inciting to ignore. However, there is an ethical consideration to early shed hunting. March on the Palouse can be a deadly month for wildlife as they have hit rock bottom on fat reserves and food sources. A year like the present causes little winter kill as snow accumulations is minimal and temperatures are generally mild. But tough years with lingering deep snow and single-digit temperature can take its toll on a deer herd.

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Waiting to hunt sheds until about the time that spring gobbler opens is a best practice to leave critters unperturbed when they cannot afford to suffer additional stress and energy expense. The Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife doesn’t enforce restricted shed hunting seasons, but does offer tips to keep wildlife healthy, such as not pushing a herd too hard or pursuing them over consecutive days. One advantage to shed-hunting the wheat country is being able to spot sheds in stubble or green wheat with binoculars before hiking through feeding or resting critters with nothing to show for it.

Additionally, respect for public and private land and landowners is paramount. Sheds are the property of the landowner where they fell, requiring permission to collect them on private land. If you run a shed-hunting dog, ensure that it doesn’t run deer or elk as you hunt for antlers.

Bottom line: shed hunting is a lot of fun and a great way to get outdoors, kick the cabin fever, and grab some sun and exercise while waiting on spring gobbler or fishing seasons. Load up your pack, grab the binoculars, and enjoy the warmth of the sun on your back for a welcome change from winter. You just might find that shed of a lifetime.

WDFW Revising Game Management Regulations

Published in The Waitsburg Times, February 20th, 2020

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February 6th, The Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) opened the public comment period on proposals to update regulations for a variety of game hunting opportunities, as well as the proposed 2020 hunting seasons. Among the proposals, two changes in particular have potential to influence hunting opportunity in southeast Washington.

The proposed elimination of several elk areas due to the success of depredation hunts and overall population declines include what the proposal lists as area 1011 for Columbia County (present regulations show this area as 1010). Additionally, area 1082 in Asotin County is proposed for elimination.

Proposed changes to cougar management and harvest are the most significant. Presently, WDFW uses the mean (average) cougar density across five years and five research projects throughout the state to set Population Management Unit (PMU) maximum harvest or “harvest guidelines”. The WDFW developed four options (rewritten here for clarity as alternatives) for adjusting cougar harvest guidelines and propose extending hunting seasons in areas with high cougar/human conflict.

1) Alternative 1 – Status Quo. No change with the exception of changing the harvest guideline from being based on a mean density to being based on a median density for studied populations. The rational for this proposal is that the mean density includes outliers (abnormal extremes) in the data that may drive the mean and harvest guidelines higher or lower than what is appropriate for a given population. The median is simply the middle number in the range of density estimates, which is influenced less by outliers than the mean.

2) Alternative 2 – Similar to status quo, but proposes to use the median density calculated only for adult cougars that are 24 months or older. This option reduces the harvest guideline slightly, but sub-adult cougars harvested under this option would not count toward reaching the guideline and informing season closure for a given PMU.

3) Alternative 3 – The harvest guideline would increase for units that exceeded the harvest guideline by December 31 at least once in the past five years. This alternative assumes that cougar density is higher in units where this occurs because hunters are encountering many animals and quickly reaching the harvest guideline. The new harvest guideline would be based on the highest harvest in the past five years.

For example, in two PMUs, harvest guidelines would be adjusted so they do not exceed an assumed density of 4.15 cougars per 100 square kilometers (62.1 square miles). This would keep the density within an acceptable range based on research conducted in the western United States. This harvest guideline would include adults and sub-adults.

4) Alternative 4 – Same as Alternative 3, but considers only adult cougars that are 24 months or older in meeting the harvest guidelines in a given season.

The “non-status quo” Alternatives 3 and 4 are intended to extend hunting seasons where higher harvest is warranted and where human/cougar conflicts are higher.

The complete set of proposals and 2020 season dates are available for review at https://wdfw.wa.gov/hunting/regulations/season-setting, as well as an online comment form. The public comment period closes February 26th. As a steward of the public’s wildlife, don’t miss your opportunity to participate in this important review process.

 

 

LETTER TO THE EDITOR ON PROPOSED COUGAR MANAGEMENT REGULATIONS

Upon reviewing the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife’s (WDFW) presently proposed cougar management regulations, there are considerations I believe the general public should have more clarity on regarding the science behind the proposed alternatives.

Scientifically, there are cautions with every alternative, all for the same reason; setting and managing “harvest guidelines” appropriately to maintain healthy cougar populations. The example given in Alternative 3 that relies on a target population density to inform harvest guidelines is the most scientifically defensible method and should be the standard across cougar Population Management Units (PMU). The harvest guidelines may be set with the intention of maintaining a healthy population density (e.g. 4.15 cougars per 62.1 square miles) in all PMUs. This is implied, but not necessarily clear in the proposal.

Alternative 3 may also result in higher harvest in PMUs where harvest exceeded the guideline by December 31st at least once in the prior five years. Our local PMU 10 includes Game Management Units 149 (Prescott), 154 (Blue Creek), 162 (Dayton) and 163 (Marengo). The 2019 harvest guideline for PMU 10 was 4-5 cougars. Total harvest in 2016 was 11, 15 in 2017 and 18 in 2018; as high as three times the harvest guideline. It appears that higher harvest may be warranted in southeast Washington.

The PMU 10 harvest numbers likely offer a clear example of why WDFW is proposing to set the harvest guidelines on the median population density rather than the mean. There may be a low population outlier that is keeping the PMU 10 harvest guideline lower than it should be.

The “non-status quo” Alternatives 3 and 4 are intended to extend hunting seasons where higher harvest is warranted and where human/cougar conflicts are higher. A perfectly acceptable proposal. Extending the hunting seasons will shift the removal of a proportion of problem cougars from WDFW responsibility to the general hunting public. As a hunter and steward of public resources, my first instinct is to ask how the hunting public can help manage wildlife when animal removal is necessary.

Extending the cougar hunting season is solid logic for a couple reasons. 1) Per law, wildlife is under the ownership of the state and general public, regardless of where that wildlife occurs. Transferring agency removal of problem cougars to hunters through enhanced opportunity offers the public greater ability to participate in the management of OUR wildlife; 2) Sportsmen and women buy licenses to have hunting opportunities. Allowing the hunting public to participate in population management increases hunter opportunity and reduces expenditure of WDFW tax- and sportsman-paid dollars that could be better used on conservation programs, for example; and 3) More liberal seasons and additional opportunities may entice additional license sales. This is important because license sales support habitat management that benefits all wildlife, not simply game species, as well as hunter access programs. Over 70% of hunters in the western U.S. rely on public land and public access for their hunting opportunity.

From a biologist’s perspective, WDFW has developed an appropriate array of alternatives to improve cougar management in Washington. Alternatives 3 and 4 appear to be scientifically sound and offer additional benefit to sportsmen and women. Review the proposals yourself and represent your responsibility to the management of public resources by submitting comments on the proposals.

 

Dreams, Misery and Steelhead

Published in the Waitsburg Times March 21, 2020

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The unusually warm 34 degrees greeted us under bluebird skies as we turned up Highway 153 toward Twisp. My last trip up this highway was five years prior in 2015; the last steelhead season open to the public on the Methow River as fish returns to the Columbia Basin continued to drop precipitously.

Memories of that last trip flooded my mind as I rode shotgun with my buddy Chas Kyger, a fish biologist with Douglas County Public Utility District in Wenatchee. If ever a man was anointed with supernatural powers through a fly rod, it was him. He taught me the ways of swinging flies for steelhead, the Methow River my training grounds.

Swinging flies is one of fly-fishing’s most artistic acts employing “spey” casting techniques and heavy sinking lines. A streamer is cast on across currents where steelhead hold during the long winter days. Placing a mend in the line to encourage the fly and line to sink, the angler then holds the line tight and lets the river push through it, creating an arching belly in the line. The fly swings across the river, following the arched path as the current pushes the line downstream, traversing steelhead holding waters at their eye level. At the end of the swing, the fly swiftly rises directly downstream of the angler. If a fish doesn’t take the fly mid-swing, the rising fly almost always entices the strike from a fish willing to play ball.

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A particular day of my February 2015 trip dawned just as serene, identically emerging from weeks of single-digit temperatures and chill-to-the-bone wind shear. Our first stop of the day, I found myself casting across conflicted currents, the sun glinting at retina-burning intensity from the river surface. Chas offered a bit of guidance. “Send the fly across that run and swing through the downstream trough. At the belly of the swing, hang on.”

Chas’s words echoed in the back of my mind as I set up a swing on our first run of the day, five years hence. I have never been great at the technique. But swinging flies is like riding a bike in the sense that you never forget how it feels to do it properly. Pulling tight on the line as it bowed, sending the streamer into the heart of the run, the feeling of perfection flushed over me. My body erupted in goose bumps. “This is the cast.” I said to myself, as if somehow mentally or spiritually connected to the fish that lay 60 feet off shore. The swing was perfect.

My feet were nearly numb in the 33-degree water, but I scarcely noticed at that moment. Entranced in the artform as if painted on a winter canvas amid a naked granite-strewn canyon, the world faded into the background. I had nearly forgotten that I was fishing roadside among a few of Chas’s colleagues. I could have been deep in the heart of Kamchatka sharing a river bank with brown bears and felt no further separated from the world around me. It was just the river and I, and a few weary steelhead, soaking in the warmth of the golden sun to the soothing roar of the crystal-clear lifeblood of our planet and all that inhabit it. Precisely the moment when fate and timing collide with luck and instinct.

Serenity shattered among the riverside boulders as my 11-foot fly rod nearly left my hands at Mach speed. A sizeable fish swiped the fly and turned downstream, hooking itself deeply in the corner of the jaw. Frantically, I grappled the reel to retrieve the slack line and put the fish on the drag. With the butt of the rod buried into my hip, I read the fish’s movements, giving line when pressured, and taking quickly when relieved.

The hum of the drag and the feel of line gliding through the guides sends a chill down my spine simply recalling it, much less living it real-time. Witnessing the elegance of such a stunning critter utilizing its power and heft to stymy an opponent is an intense experience. Each terrifying downstream charge could be the last, leaving the steelhead triumphant. Yet, my handcrafted rod has landed dozens of salmon, steelhead and big Lahontan cutthroat over the years. Barring a faulty hookset, my connection with the rod leads me stealthily between aggression and compromise.

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Suddenly entering the scene, stage left, Chas extended a large landing net onto the submerged rocks before me. I carefully guided the fish toward shore, wincing with every barrel-roll as the fish fought feverishly to shake the fly. But alas, Chas lifted the net up around the fish, and I marveled at the 28-inch beauty that lay before me.

A wild hen, no doubt, brilliant with an olive dorsal, stark white underbelly, pepper-black speckles, and a rosy-pink lateral line. She was magnificent. A true phenomenon of nature’s grandeur.

The Methow fishery remains closed to the public; our opportunity to fish it being tied to our professions as biologists cooperating on a broodstock collection program with the Winthrop National Fish Hatchery. Assisting the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, we quickly tagged the fish and moved her to a transport truck. She was destined to be spawned at the Winthrop hatchery and later released back into the river.

Landing a steelhead on the fly is a life-changing experience. It makes idiots and addicts of grounded folks, cultivating a sudden willingness to brave the most frigid, icy conditions and swollen rivers. The act itself, while an artform, is born of strict insanity. Cast, swing, move, repeat. No steelhead. Sometimes for days. Even weeks. No inkling of fish presence. No amount of technical savvy can change the outcome at times. Conducted in utter glacial misery. All while anticipating the unlikely bone-jarring grab of a weighty ocean-run missile that continually haunts our dreams, yet rarely our (my) flies. A single grab can carry an angler through a full season.

The sun glistened from the flanks of the hen as we lowered her into the hatchery truck. The high of having landed a steelhead on the swing was quickly replaced with despair. When would this happen again? It had already been five years since my last steelhead encounter. The Wallowa River in March lies ahead. The prospects are maddening.

Embracing our Native Mason Bees

Published in The Waitsburg Times, April 2nd, 2020 

NOTE: Featured image of a blue orchard bee taken by the US Geological Survey. 

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Early morning strolls through the summer garden at our little McKay Alto homestead can only be described as an angelic wakeup call. The capacious songbird melody wafts on a gentle breeze as the golden rays of sun push through the cool air that has settled in our little draw. The dahlias, peonies, sunflowers, yarrow and lupine bloom rich burgundy, cotton candy pink, canary yellow, snow white, and intense purple. The flowers are abuzz with bees busy at their morning routine. As the steam rises from my coffee mug, tickling my nose hairs, a small, dark, peculiar bee avoids the others, settling in on an unoccupied sunflower bloom. I lean in for closer inspection.

What’s your first thought when someone mentions pollination or pollinators? Is it flowers? Bees? Honey? Allergies? A gambling man would put money on it being honey and honey bees (why wouldn’t it bee, right?). While none of us could fathom a life without honey, the pollination is what’s critical to the success of native plant reproduction and diversity, and crop and fruit production.

Honey bees are a vital part of our ecosystem, and because of the succulent honey they produce, they are most commonly recognized for pollination and conservation efforts. But when it comes to effectiveness, honey bees will forever live in the shadow of our solitary natives.

Washington State is home to approximately 600 native bee species, ranging in size and shape from bumble bees to sweat bees, none of which build hives. But the lesser known and easily confused with other less desirable flies are the mason bees.

A few common species like the blue orchard bee (Osmia lignaria) frequent our gardens and orchards, as well as our landscaped city blocks and urban homes. While some native species, like the emerald green sweat bee Agapostemon femoratus are obvious, mason bees are nondescript, dark colored or lightly striped, and smaller than honey bees. These are the bees that we see frequently but pay little mind or mistake for something else.

Mason bees are aptly named for their reproductive habits. The female mason bee often occupies holes in wood with larvae secured behind mud plugs for safe development. Mason bees don’t excavate holes, rather they clean debris from suitable spaces, pack them with pollen that they carry in on their belly, and seal in an egg. The female repeats this process until the space is full with the female eggs deposited at the back of the space for protection from predators. Eggs are laid in May, and larvae hatch and feed on the pollen until the following spring, when they emerge to complete their lifecycle.

Mason bees are quite docile and lead solitary lives. Since they only reproduce once each year, they don’t need extensive hives or honey production, but also forfeit the glamour of their extraordinary pollination abilities. A single mason bee can visit up to 2,000 flowers per day and just a few orchard mason bees can pollinate the same number of fruit trees as thousands of honey bees. For this reason, the blue orchard mason bee is prized as one of the few native pollinators managed in agriculture.

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Similarly, mason bees have become rather popular on the pollinator market with bee houses readily available. Many houses use small, hollow bamboo shoots that can be replaced over time. Some scientists caution against the bamboo shoots in store-bought houses because the porous material holds moisture, promoting disease, mold and parasites. Other experts with the Xerces Society support the bamboo shoots, which seem to be a suitable material when kept sheltered from the elements. Storing occupied houses in an unheated shed or greenhouse over winter is a good practice. Materials like paper straws and breathable woods need to be replaced after the larvae vacate each spring.

Houses can also be hand-made by drilling holes in wood blocks 19/64th to 3/8th inch in diameter and six inches deep. Be sure not to pack them in too tightly, maintaining a minimum of ¾-inch spacing between holes.

Hang houses about six feet high and secured on an east-facing surface where they will receive morning sun to stimulate activity. Ensure the house is secured tightly and doesn’t swing in the wind. You may also want to enclose it in chicken wire to keep flickers and woodpeckers from discovering the tasty larvae. Finally, once the larvae have hatched in the spring, replace the disposable parts and sanitize the rest with a 1-part water to 3-parts bleach solution before rehanging.

Native mason bees are a treasure of the Pacific Northwest, encouraging biodiversity and enhancing flower gardens and fruit crops. If you really want to see native bees at the height of their glory, take a hike in the Blues around mid-July. The wildflowers are at peak bloom and thick with native bees of all kinds.

If you are a gardener, have an orchard, or have an interest in conserving our native pollinators, you can reap their pollination benefits with a fraction of the time and space required of honey bees. Hanging a bee house sounds a bit silly, as does being excited to see the little holes plugged with mud. But it’s another way to interact with nature at home, and that is something worth celebrating.

Now is the time to hang that house given spring has sprung and the mason bees will emerge very soon. If you give it a shot, drop a Letter to the Editor this summer with your observations. Let us know if you can identify the other native bee making home alongside the masons (they use leaves rather than mud to secure their larvae).

For more information, the U.S. Geological Survey and the Xerces Society provide excellent online resources.

Speaking Valley Quail

Published in the East Oregonian, April 18th, 2020

During these days of house-arrest, I am lucky enough to telework in my basement “deer room”, yet maintaining sanity within the confines of my own property is largely left to sunny day chores like gardening and tending to our small orchard and food plot. Unfortunately, no matter how enjoyable the chores, when the turkeys are fired up and the walleye staging for spawn, there is much to be desired away from home, among our public resources.

Did I mention the valley quail are paired up? One of my homestead hobbies is enhancing habitat for upland birds. My local quail numbers range between 60-100 birds at any given time. The past few years I have taken a greater interest in quail, having fallen in love with the scurrying little gray ghosts with the top knot that bobbles carelessly as they feed and run. Valley quail are a “gentleman’s” bird, meaning the coveys hold for the dog, they get up two or three flushes per covey, the singles are a hoot to pursue, and they are simply gorgeous. One of the most pleasant upland birds to hunt over a pointing dog.

I began reading up on quail behavior and studying their vocals and soon found myself immersed in a new learning opportunity. Given my science background and upland hunting obsession, and my present state of stir-crazy, the prospect of quail calling piqued my interest. It never before occurred to me that I could call quail, and for several reasons. 1) I had no clue that quail calls existed; 2) I am a miserable failure at calling turkeys, which is an entirely different story of its own; and 3) I run a decent brace of setters in the uplands. Why would I need a bird call?

Being a connoisseur of handcrafted woodwork, I was easily drawn to a Jim Matthews Signature rubber band call. A beautifully crafted tool that allows me to interact with upland birds outside of hunting season was simply too tempting. When my call finally arrived, I rolled the handsome, walnut quail harmonica in my hands and admired the RST 12-gauge brass that Jim embedded for me. It provides a nice touch of bling. Just how in the hell to work the thing was another consideration altogether.

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Rather than read up or watch You Tube “how-to” videos, I like to leave an element of mystery to be figured out on the fly with these sorts of endeavors. It’s not because I am stubborn or think I am too intelligent for a little instruction. Trust me, I read the manual when piecing some store-bought gadget together. Rather, I find it part of the adventure to figure things out on my own, particularly when the risk of catastrophic failure is low.

Skipping the tutorials, I stepped outside and rasped on the call. And, as expected, lessons were learned immediately. 1) There are two sides to the call; rounded and square. Both produce sound, but the rounded side is much louder and activates a “sound chamber”. 2) A little cheek pressure wasn’t going to cut it for these calls. I am talking full diaphragm engagement to hit the right pitches and timing of the three part “Chi-ca-go” call (which I will explain in a moment). 3) The call was raspy like an old hen turkey. Like all animals, quail have unique voices, but I am certain every quail within earshot went silent as my caterwauling drifted across my property.

The beauty of the rubber band call is that its adjustable on the fly. Pulling an end tightens the band and changes the pitch and rasp instantly. You can actually imitate multiple birds. Having mastered this in a matter of moments, I belted out a few acceptable “Chi-ca-go” calls and called it good on disturbing the peace for an evening.

Trumbo - Speaking Valley Quail (2) “Chi-ca-go” is the most identifiable call a valley quail makes and is used to “assemble” the covey. Anyone having experience with these birds can picture the male standing tall atop a fence post or tree branch, watching over the covey as they feed, and vocalizing the “Chi-ca-go” call. Also of note, this call was documented in literature as “cu-ca-cow” back in the early 1900s. I found it only recognized as “Chi-ca-go” in literature from around the 1970s and later. I am left to believe the phonics of “Chi-ca-go” more closely resemble the “syllable” enunciation of the call relative to human interpretation and description.

I typically carry my call when working around home because the quail are always about and calling, except midday when they loaf in the brush piles and blackberries. Recently, while building new brush piles, I took a seat on the hill overlooking the property and broke out the call. With the elegance of a pro, I cut lose a superb “Chi-ca-go” call and was answered almost immediately by a male down by the pond.

This time of year, as the quail break into pairs and sub-coveys, I like to whip out the call and sneak in between groups. Mimicking the number of calls in a sequence as those calling around me, I most always elicit a conversation. Taking a seat for a moment to enjoy the interaction, I usually spot a few quail poking their way through the brush, working in to my call. Additionally, when calling to a covey in plain sight, I have noted the senior male is the only bird that takes notice and returns the call. The remainder of the covey continues its business, uninterested. That is, unless I am too close. The call volume alone can blow the entire covey into the nearest thicket.

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While calling quail is not quite like following that high-tailed setter in search of a covey held tight to a creek-bottom snarl, calling is delivering quite a social education. As fall approaches, I will to try my hand at locating coveys afield. Calling in a busted covey can be quite effective, so I hear. Regardless of a covey’s affinity to vocalize with strangers come hunting season, I travel in the good company of three Llewellin setters with a knack for working over the silent type. In the meantime, I’ll continue to enjoy small talk and social distance with my covey at home.

Phantom of the Uplands

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I must admit I am my mother’s son, and apparently that of her mother as well. Both enjoy collecting beautiful things to display, as well as practical materials that may be of use at some unknown (and inexplicable) point in time. I am not a collector, per se, but I am guilty of keeping things like useless wood scraps and old nails and bolts. And I just can’t bring myself to discard antlers, handsome game hides or upland bird plumage.

Art is a recurring theme among my tales and reflections of venturing into our natural world. Whether wielding a fly-rod or chasing my setters across the autumn bunchgrass, the poetry of interaction with our ecosystem, and the brilliance of the autumn canvas, upland bird plumage and the rich colors of high mountain trout always provide fodder for my pen. I find the beauty in these things so significant that I feel responsible for somehow preserving the memories of fin and feather through practical application and admiration.

 While I enjoy crafting varied upland bird displays and shadow boxes to perpetually capture experiences, a friend of mine takes the artistic side of the uplands to a new level.

I met Janet Marshman during my graduate school days at James Madison University’s Edith J. Carrier Arboretum. I was a staff arborist and Janet arrived as a welcome volunteer. And it wasn’t long before her talents turned up in our visitor center.

Channeling her creative side, Janet decided once upon a time to make a drama-style mask as a birthday present for her sister-in-law, an art teacher. Clearly impressed, she encouraged Janet to sell her masks. Running with the idea, Janet sold her first lot to an art gallery in Charlottesville, Virginia. That was 1983.

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Upon learning of my hunting and fishing hobbies, Janet asked if I had anything furred or feathered that I could part with. And, given my tendency to hang on to such items, I returned with a variety of material from whitetail and mountain goat hide to eastern fox squirrel tails and thought nothing more of it. Until the day Janet presented me with a shadow box containing a mask made largely of moose hide, tree bark, shelf fungi and lichens. Its natural beauty was so striking, the shadow box was one of the few “natural displays” that made the living room wall after I got married.

When asked why she appreciates natural items like fungi, Janet replied “There is so much beauty in natural materials.”

Fungi and lichens are among the common “fauna” I have noticed in Janet’s masks over the years. But what draws her to these materials so readily?

“I love fungi, lichens, moss, and textures of bark. The colors are often muted and blend well with colors of feathers, but provide variation in texture to the mask.”

While Janet’s affinity to use natural materials has always spoken to me, her tastes and innovation dive far deeper and include mechanical and electronic items like sprockets, wires and mother boards, even digital camera parts used for her husband, Frank, who once owned a camera repair service. Abstract, eclectic, organic.

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She never took it full-time, but has sold at shows across the eastern U.S. from New Orleans to Philadelphia, and regularly donates to charitable causes. Interestingly, somewhere in there she took a 20-year hiatus to raise her family. An experience that she claims brought her “…visual maturity and creativity into bloom” and contributed to the depth and intricacy of her later pieces.

Janet has collaborated costume design with the James Madison University dance theater. Her masks have been on display in various galleries and restaurants, as well as the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington D.C. She has even won a Halloween contest or two. But she doesn’t stop there, keeping her fingers in photography, sculpture and mixed-media.

“I believe a true artist continues to grow in their art and see things differently. I don’t believe in finding a niche and staying there.” Janet says.

This past winter I sent Janet a few pheasant capes, only to unexpectedly have them partially returned in March, stunningly crafted in dramatic whimsy. Her use of lichens, rooster tail and body feathers, corn husks, dried brome, and river birch bark delivered multiple complex layers of the environment in such a way to compliment themselves to their utmost potential.

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Clearly, I feel a bond with Janet’s masks; her tie of my passions to true artistic talent and conception. She captures my eternal desire to immortalize the memory of those who have blessed my home and table.

Additionally, Janet’s creativity exemplifies the beauty and elegance of our natural world, cast in the glow of perfect complement between flora and fauna. Her masks emphasize the intrinsic value of the natural world to human existence and emotion, portrayed through the eyes of an esteemed artist and her theatrical design.

Spring Trout on the Fly

EO published

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My Tundra bounced up onto the old wood plank bridge. The dark planks rocked and popped beneath the weight. I was pushing the width limit. My hands, white-knuckled on the wheel, managed to avoid shredding a quarter panel against the steel rails while the Selway River boiled a bit off color below.

Upon a safe dismount, I started the climb to a trailhead where I would embark on a journey into trout country. I knew nothing of the destination but suspected either cutthroat or rainbow. After all, it was Idaho.

Rounding a bend in the old Forest Service road revealed a breathtaking meadow reach. The stream meandered its way to the Selway through a lush carpet of brilliant green grass and forbs. Native Trillium was blooming cotton candy pink in the company of a snoozing whitetail deer. A tantalizing plunge-pool appeared dark and fishy below a cascade of boulders and log jams. My foot mashed the brake pedal. I never saw the destination trailhead.

Large caddis were hatching as I donned my waders. Ogling them lustily lulled me into a giddy, unfounded anticipation.

Early spring fishing can be a straight up crap-shoot. Steady water temperature and relatively stable flow through the winter can offer equally stable action (albeit slow at times), but as days lengthen and air temperature increases, snow melt-swollen streams begin to change the game a bit. Nevertheless, I selected a classic high mountain pairing, a size 12 caddis dropping a size 16 pheasant tail nymph. And the dice rolled.

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Selecting the finest habitat set my confidence high, but the water temperature was glacial. I found the runs moving a bit too fast to present the fly well, even with a flawless dead-drift. I turned to the pocket waters and failed, then moved to the fringes where water velocity is slower with warmer temperature.

Young trout will often seek the fringes during spring high flows where holding water meets cover and food sources. With hopes high, I placed the caddis on the outside edge of a flow seam and just downstream of a boulder. At once the caddis vanished beneath the surface, the nymph taken by a young rainbow parr.

The parr life stage is physically characterized by a size range of approximately two to five inches and large “parr marks”, which are dark, oval-shaped marks along the lateral line. Parr marks serve as camouflage and are generally lost as the fish matures. In some cases, trout older than a year may retain lighter, yet obvious parr marks.

Modern fishing emphasizes the trophy fish, but the brilliance of a young wild trout returns the angler to a universal experience. A wild trout parr is a spectacle to behold, rich and vibrant with various mottling. The white anal fin tip, the fine black speckles among an olive dorsal, and the rosy pink lateral stripe of a rainbow express perfection as only a wild fish can. With a gentle pop of the barbless hook, I sent the parr on its way. Shuffling up to another hole, I was met with an encore performance, my three-weight rod dancing under the inconspicuous weight of the tiny gem.

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Mountain streams can run strong and cold in spring but can turn on in June if the flow is fishable. The best choice in spring and early summer may be desert water, and desert streams are not to be overlooked. These little blue lines flourish in May and June with aggressive trout and abundant food. Flows are typically fishable and many of these streams lend themselves to a number of fly-fishing techniques including traditional tenkara.

Desert streams provide prime opportunity to get creative. If you have been curious about a crack in the middle of nowhere spewing cold water through a sagebrush canyon, go for it. Seek pockets and plunge pools. Although the local game and fish office may not post anything about it, if it’s legal to fish, you may just find a new favorite stream. The Owyhee can be dynamite. What about its tributaries?

Desert lakes are ablaze in spring as well. For Lahontan cutthroat, I generally fish shorelines with scuds or buggers. If the fish are not up and cruising the shallows, they can be found deeper along shoreline boulders. A full-sinking fly line is about the only way to reach them, counting down to 20 feet or more before beginning a varied strip retrieve. Lahontans either hammer the fly or simply engulf it and just sit there, creating awkward tension. A sixth sense tells you when to set the hook. Heavy head shakes and deep runs are left to the drag.

Desert lake rainbows are cruising shallow weed beds at the edge of deep water, providing the appropriate mix of food and depth through the June time-frame. Dry flies are working now and traditional tenkara flies and methods can be effective as well. When the water is cold but a hatch is on, a dry fly with a dropper nymph is a fine option as midges dominate desert lakes, but matching the hatch can be crucial. When all else fails, sink a small streamer. Never will a 15-inch trout work the drag on a five-weight fly rod like a desert lake rainbow.

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Now, more than ever, you are itching to wet a fly. As a sunny day blooms, you need no excuse to shuck responsibility and undue stress for the symphonic chorus of the flush of courting songbirds, the mesmerizing roar of a stream or serenity of floating a lake as the water surface dimples from feeding trout. It’s time. Drop everything. Go fishing. And cherish the wild trout, big or small.

Tenkara Angling for Mountain Trout

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The sun sets early in the deep canyons of Kelly Creek in the Idaho wilderness; the opulent evening glow casting an amber hue upon considerable granite outcrops and emerald pools below. Rugged ridges and peaks reach skyward looming over the river, defying its brazen attempts to break free of their control. Diminutive yellow stoneflies flitter sparsely through the cooling evening air, seemingly slowed by the rich, evergreen scent of western cedar and grand fir.

Angling pressure was picking up late in the week and the fish were feeling it. I typically fish regular fly rod and reel, but my suspicions of stressed trout led me to reach for my tenkara rod. I wanted the ability to present a flawless drift in the hard-to-reach pockets overlooked by others. The rod I brought was a bit overkill at twelve feet with a heavy spine, but the reach was a must for dropping flies into midstream eddies and flow seams. Additionally, the rod was fresh off my dryer at home and I wanted to get a feel for its capabilities before heading to Alaska to try it on salmon.

Tenkara angling, in its purest form, is a Japanese traditional fly-fishing method developed on small, mountain trout streams, using a fix-length rod, a fixed-length line tied to the end, and a small wet-fly or “kebari” that is dead-drifted in the sweet spots. Basically, cane pole fly-fishing. Traditional tenkara carries great history and detail on methods and gear, which is available in other literature and worth the read. The two truly defining features of tenkara angling are its simplicity and ease.

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⇑⇑ The Essentials ⇑⇑

Fly-fishing is easily perceived as far too complex for newcomers and youngsters. The myriad fly rods and reels, line choices and fly patterns, not to mention their hefty price tags, are frequently beyond attainable on cash and time budgets. One can make a successful career on second hand and hand-built fly rods, but tenkara angling requires the bare minimum in gear, is deadly effective and can be learned at virtually any age.

My first rise of the evening came on a voluptuous, blonde elk hair caddis as it floated the seam where riffle met pool. A scrappy fourteen-inch cutthroat pounced with conviction, almost with vengeance, and put a sweet bend in the top third of my heavy tenkara rod. As the evening wore on and rises became few, I scoured the drainage in search of sunlit reaches. In the canyon streams, the bite tends to wane as the mountains force the river into the evening shadows. East-west oriented reaches carry daylight and fish activity a little longer into the evening.

               My final reach of the night was a boulder-strewn field of pocket-water with a few small runs that have produced well for me in the past. I switched to a behemoth of a foam bug called a “Chubby Chernobyl” to draw some attention. Sizing up a large eddy formed behind a car-sized boulder, melding into a soft run with deep, swift flanks, I could envision where the fish were lying. Gently dropping the Chubby along the flow seam between the eddy and the sweep around the river-right side of the boulder invoked an explosion of ferocity and a firm hookset deep into the jaw of a sixteen-inch cutthroat.

Playing the fish to net, my admiration of the profound lateral reddening painted against the thick gold, speckled body and the blaze orange under-jaw cuts lit a fire of anxiety in anticipation of the next catch. The fish returned softly from the net into the cold, clear water.

Trumbo Tenkara Angling (5)

A flip of the rod landed another cast in the same general vicinity, the size-8 Chubby immediately met with a repeat performance. It simply couldn’t get any better than this before dark. Completely at peace, I collapsed the rod and slogged for the rig.

I rig my tenkara rods with sections of old floating fly line cut to approximately the maximum length of the rod, and a fluorocarbon leader between two and four feet. I continue to use typical dry and wet fly patterns, a departure from true tenkara angling, and largely referred to as “fixed-line fly-fishing”.

Opportunities to fish high mountain wild trout near Walla Walla are fewer as many of our headwater streams are closed to fishing to protect spawning and rearing salmon and steelhead (which I support completely), but the Tucannon and South Fork Walla Walla Rivers are fishable. Some friends visited from Virginia this past summer with their seven-year-old son, William, a fishing prodigy. William had his heart set on visiting the local streams, so these are the creeks we visited.

Having never touched a fly rod, I handed William a Rhodo series rod from Tenkara USA. It’s a very small, delicate action rod built for tight mountain streams and small, native trout. With the briefest of instruction, he took to it like a seasoned pro. Pointing to a log pushing the current from shore and forming a deep pocket with an eddy on the downstream side, I advised William to drop the fly behind the log at the point where water broke around it. On the third attempt, a small rainbow rocketed from below the log in a burst of zeal that caused it to whiff the fly completely. But it didn’t miss the second time.

Trumbo Tenkara Angling (4)

We fished the area for a while, enticing a half dozen little guys to take a fly before moving on to repeat the performance elsewhere. William masterfully cast a tiny Adams to feisty six-inch rainbows, and the incidental Chinook salmon fry. His first western fishing trip and he quickly and excitedly checked the box on these two native fishes, caught on the fly, nonetheless.

I began fly-fishing at age 12 and rarely pick up any other rod. I have enough gear to keep a fly shop in business. Yet, the first time I fished with a tenkara rod, I found its simplicity and minimalism utterly liberating. Young or old, novice or pro, you can realize the art and effectiveness of fly-fishing while channeling a centuries old tradition, and for a fraction of the cost relative to regular rods and reels. And the possibilities range far beyond trout and freshwater. For additional tips, techniques and stories on gear and fishing of all species, check out Tenkara Angler on the web. You’ll be hooked.

In Pursuit of the Eurasian Collared Dove

Published at Duck Camp Co June 23, 2020.

“If there were ever a time to doubt Wikipedia, you can count the claim that ‘The collared dove is not wary…’ a busted myth on rural farms and public lands… A perfect opportunity to introduce a young hunter to wingshooting or soothe the gripping withdrawal mid-way between the end of the prior and beginning of the next upland season.”

Read more at Duck Camp Co

No Shortage of Good Days

“Any day catching wild trout on the fly is a good day”

I said to my buddy Derek as we traversed a bedrock cascade on one of our favorite mountain trout streams. It had been a couple years since I visited my Virginia home town, so we capitalized on my impromptu June arrival to carry on a tradition of fishing this particular stream.

Adjusting my Tenkara USA Rhodo to 9-feet, 9-inches, I set my sights on a pocket where the stream dropped over solid granite. The water was incredibly low for June, resembling the trickle of early fall. The pools were mirror-flat and crystal clear forcing us to endure a painful crawl across cobble streambed to approach without spooking fish.

Clinging to an algae-stained granite slab angling into the stream and forcing the flow to the far bank, my knees made relieving purchase on a soft jade mat of moss, cool and moist with river water. A gentle cast landed a small, blonde elk hair caddis with an olive body at the head of the cascade feeding the deep, emerald pool.

Derek Blyer fishes an Appalachian stream cascade for native brook trout

The caddis bobbed through the narrow cut between granite slabs, dappled by sunlight fighting its way through an eastern hemlock canopy. As the caddis rounded a large hunk of sandstone, an explosion led to my first fish of the morning. With the rod stuck high, I guided the 8-inch fish to shore and photographed its varied hues. The rosy speckles with the sapphire halo, the worm-like striations across its back and the fiery glow of its belly tugged at my soul.

I cut my fly-fishing teeth on Appalachian brook trout over 25 years ago and still find them challenging in tight cover and low flow. And they still hold high rank as one of the most beautiful specimens of the salmonid family, in my humble and biased opinion.

The wild Appalachian brook trout – a true spectacle to behold

In the west, some of the best days fishing wild trout have come from Idaho where big flies entice ravenous cutthroat in steep river canyons. On evening in particular, the sun kissed the mountaintop on its descent, casting a rich glow across the river and illuminating a dense mayfly hatch. Perched atop large riverside boulders, my buddy Chas and I were casting Chubby Chernobyl dry flies the size of a hummingbird to fish that were thrashing the water as though they had never eaten before.

A sweat-soaked straw hat shaded my face as I stripped and launched each cast in the evening heat. Hotter yet were the 16- to 18-inch cutthroat holding in eddies and along flow seams, erupting on the fluffy white flies like a champagne bottle blowing its cork. Evenings like this spent stalking these luxuriant bars of finning Idaho gold remain forever engraved in in our memory of good days.             

Another Idaho trip, I rigged up my tenkara rod with a Chubby and drifted it down a riffle into the head of a massive pool. The riffle filtered into a run before the flow encountered a house-sized boulder and turning 90-degrees. Dead-drifting the fly perfectly along flow seams fooled big fish where they had been educated by a generous number of anglers previously.

Chas Kyger fishing a glorious Rocky Mountain stream

You know when you get that “any moment” feeling when the drift is just right? At that moment, the brilliant, buttery glow of a cutthroat would rise from beneath and roll on the fly, hooking perfectly in the corner of the jaw. The throb of a heavy cutthroat against a tenkara rod in fast water feels nothing short of a spiritual experience.

Mountain streams tend to wash away the burdens of the day and fortify the soul. Songbirds, deer, chipmunk and squirrel, the roar of the stream and humidity of the transpiring forest canopy engulf our worries. We find ourselves lost in our natural habitat, having escaped reality, if only for a brief time. Mountain time is timeless yet tangible. Cleansing. A reset for bruised souls amid hardship like a pandemic and social unrest.

Wild trout and mountain streams are everyone’s resource in which to seek joy and solace, July being a prime month. Be it the Minam, Lostine, Wallowa, or somewhere further flung in Montana, California or Appalachia, John Gierach could not have said it better. There is no shortage of good days on wild trout water. We could all use a few more good days.

Hunt it, Grow it, Cook it

I truly believe the best ideas are hatched at cocktail parties (or maybe just over cocktails).  But  an idea was born. Brad’s an outdoorsman, his wife Alexandra (Ali) is an expert and prolific gardener, Daniel is a professional chef, and me – well, I do dishes and love to eat! Hence, we decided to combine our talents and appetites to develop a menu, because we are lucky enough to live where it’s possible to truly eat local!

Ali, swooped by our front porch one morning, dropping off venison roast from Brad’s hunting. And from their garden; asparagus, spinach, radishes, red onion, shallot, chive flowers, rhubarb and six farm fresh eggs. It was like the TV show “Chopped,” but thankfully, without a weird ingredient. Daniel was in chef heaven. Our menu was by no means typical or conventional, but it was spectacular!

Garden and venison harvest from Brad and Ali’s homestead (Photo by Vicki Sternfeld-Rossi)

The three-course menu was:

Appetizer

Melon soup garnished with pickled radishes, cucumber gelée, sweet pickled ginger, chive flowers and mint

Entree

Sous Vide and blowtorch-charred venison, with red onion marmalade, spinach spätzle le, fresh steamed asparagus, tossed with tarragon butter.

Dessert

Rhubarb compote, yogurt custard, topped with rhubarb granita

Here is a glimpse at the process:

Venison – Daniel portioned the venison into 3 “logs” along the grain of the meat, which allowed him to slice against the grain for tenderness. Before cooking them, he gave them a dry rub of British sweet spices (think mulled wine), vacuum packed them, and cooked in a water bath for 12 hours at 131 degrees. Before serving, he caramelized the meat with a blowtorch.

SoupFirst, he pickled the radishes, (sweet pickling spices), pickled julienned ginger in simple syrup, then made a cucumber gelée by juicing the cucumber and setting with agar, (acts like gelatin), that chilled in the fridge to set. Next he juiced a melon (cantaloupe).  The cold soup was garnished with chive flowers.

Spätzle – (think tiny dumplings). The spinach was blanched and chopped very fine, then added to a batter (similar consistency to pancake batter), that he made into spätzle by running through the holes in a colander over boiling water, drained and tossed with olive oil.

Dessert – first he made the rhubarb granita, which has to be frozen (it’s a like granular sorbet).

Rhubarb compote, yogurt custard, topped with rhubarb granita. Delectable! (Photo by Vicki Sternfeld-Rossi)

For those who don’t have a professional chef in their kitchen, here are some other suggestions.

Quick pickling is easy – and it is an interesting and fun way to use all the radishes (or carrots) that are ready for harvesting. Added to a sweet type of cold soup like melon, it’s a good way to wake up your taste buds for the meal to come. Or, even more simple, just wash the radishes and eat them (my favorite way).

I love a spinach salad, and with hard boiled farm fresh eggs, and bacon -it’s always a winner. The asparagus is always tasty tossed in butter, and like most Waitsburgundians you have herbs in your garden, an easy addition to elevate fresh asparagus. Chive flowers are a fun kick to add to a salad or vegetable dish, and they’re pretty.

Roast the venison like a roast beef; set the temperature of your oven at 350 and cook about 15 minutes per pound (final result should be pink like a medium rare steak). Asparagus – steam and then toss in a simple mixture of tarragon butter (or another herb you have in your garden).

We learned about hunting and keeping chickens, they learned about cooking, while social distancing!