THE FIELDS

THE ULTIMATE QUAIL HUNTER

2012-01-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

Desert Hawking by horse takes quail hunting to a new level. I came to visit the Zen Master, Harry McElroy, a Hemingway lookish male who at 82 has the energy and drive of a 40 year old. He is from a cast of Tucson character I've known from Margaret Sanger, to "The Godfather" Bonano, and Norm Borlaug, father of the Green Revolution. I knew Harry as an apprentice astringer in the incredible 60's. He is renown sportsman, an author on Hawking, earned a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology, a Texas bred democrat, and above all a gentleman of the "Old School," with a slight drawl that makes you instinctively listen. Harry was a Kellogg fellow trained as an educational Psychologist but quit. He discovered, it was the teacher not students that required intervention with behavioral issues.

And so Harry is my oldest living teacher who took the route of an obsessed human, a life without hesitation inventing desert quail hunting with with Gos Hawks, Coopers, Sharp Shinned the Harris Hawk ,a parabuteos and aplomado falcons. His summary: Coopers get the quail, Gos fly faster and HArris's are hunting machines. Harry added horses to his team and moved his attach methods up a notch. He refined ancient hooding techniques with modern day weight control and modern telemetry. Harry, the professor, changes the wild raptors fundamental hunting instinct to kill to eat. Instead he made them a quasi domestic predator, akin to walking the T.Rex on leash through downtown Manhattan.

Harry is as agile and fit as a man in his late 40's. I feel young and hopeful watching him saddle the horse, weigh the hawks and plan the attack. He is slow, a deliberate man much like a desert tortoise until the hunt begins. He morphs to a Mr. Hyde. I apprenticed under Harry back in then 1960's and early 1970's but choose grad school over hawking life thanks to the glorious 60's and Woodstock generation. I often wonder where I'd be if I choose the falconers life. I made the right choice but I long for the happiness that hawking gave me.

I enjoy my visits with Harry and his wife Beth a well traveled patient women. Today's hunting group, two Peruvian Paso horses, two pointers who can barely walk due to their cactus impaled paws and of course the stars; an imprinted male Northern Goshawk and a passage Harris Hawk. Each species is fined tuned to this high energy quail hunting. The Goshawk an accipiter, from old English, gōshafoc, meaning goose hawk, is Harry's secret love although he craves the para buteo wolf pack social hunting skills of the Harris Hawks.

I hadn't seen Harry for awhile. And after three weeks in the Sonoran desert camping, hunting riding dual sport KLR 650 and pass shooting , I promised myself to reconnect with this legendary man and his hunting style. Being with Harry floods my memory banks with warmth and joyous times before the crush of adult survival. As a teen housed in a Catholic minor-seminary, Harry gave me advice on bonding skills learned with with raptors. Catholic minor-seminaries were designed to preclude human bonding, women in particular, which I soon discovered was the nest route toward enlightenment. I was fortunate to get exposure to highly educated men like Harry and learned priests and teachers who imparted an obsession for knowledge. But, it was not enough for curing the hormone rage. I was homesick for the passions of my father; the hunting dogs, fine guns, camping, fishing, skiing, horses, music and family and on. I had no bonding skill until I meant Harry and learned the essence of life bonding thru falconry.

My father was a persuasive man who gave the seminary priests many perks from golf course passes to hunting trips. He convinced them to let me train hawks while attending seminary school located in the desert. I think he knew where that might led. I learned the bliss on bonding that quickly reveal those forbidden items like 60's music secret radio we heard on a handmade made with copper wire and a crystal set that we listened to in the Hawk Mew with a Coopers Hawks inside. Then best bonding experience of all- girls, a candy stripper to be exact. I my confessions on Friday before mass were legendary. I LEFT THE SEMINARY SOON AFTER. I thank Harry and my hawks for what I am today.

At 2:30, Harry handed me his portable cadge that housed the hooded Harris Hawk.

"Keep him on your lap, tight."

"Sure Harry." I mumbled concerned such a killing machine perched over my jewels

I was amazed how light the bird weighed and grinned how heavy my 20 bore Holland and Holland was. We gathered the dogs and drove down the steep hill to the stable. The horse were at the gate ready to be saddled A fellow falconer, Jamaica and her young daughter joined us flying their aplomado peregrine. Within 15 minuted we had the horses cinched, stirrups adjusted, we mounted and were ready to ride. Quiote, Harry's name for the Gos, the first to fly was at 590 grams,

" A little lite but within the margin of error," according McElroy.

Just over a pound, I calculated.

"How do you like my happy hunting grounds? Its my heaven and there are many quail," Harry said with sublime certainty. He was right..

We were off in a quick trot. Harry led the way. My horse 14 hands had a smooth trot. He followed the dogs . I didn't have chaps on and he came too close to the cholla cactus and so I would give him a ear twist after removing two cacti from my thigh. He nodded he was going to listen. Straight ahead I saw a thrasher flush to a cactus. Seconds later a pile of dickey birds. Harry had his Goshawk on fist and that sight of a raptor in the field scattered everything in complete terror. Within seconds, the Goshawk exploded from the fist. His horse didn't move at the comporting and dogs gave chase after hawk. Harry shouted, "Whoa, whoa." The accipiter beat its wings several times and was to the horizon. The hawk was onto to something. At a three hundred yards I couldn't tell. Harry knew from the flight pattern he was into quail and the hoot shouts alerted the dogs. Suddenly the Goshawk veered sharp right lifted up and crashed to the ground. Harry said he wanted the dogs alerted to stay with the Gos to prevent other raptor from killing his bird. He had lost several hawks to redtails and golden eagles.

NEXT THE HUNT

THE ADULTS ONLY WINTER HUNTING CAMP

2012-01-12T16:03:00.000-08:00

Empty nest, thank God this year. Don't think ill of me for wanting be separate from my independent children. Without dependents, the dynamics of our winter campaign would be different my not having to do the 10 a.m. bugle call. I wouldn't invite those that could not camp anymore. We wanted to hunt solo with dogs, keep it simple enjoying the splendor, sights and sounds of late season doves without the call for, "what's for diner Mom."

I have a friend who fly fish with us in the Sierras and Montana and is game for adventure. He was invited with his single Brittany to join us. He is a self sufficient guy and never had to hover. In fact, he pitches in without ever being asked. I like that and being the son of a devout preacher man from the old school, he brings much humor to camp. He loves his simple camping style and enjoys the field with his dogs.

Doves were still up north so we had to find flights that were stable. We could shoot a fair bit but the roost or fields wouldn't hold much pressure. It was a just one shoot and had to find other roost. My young retriever was in training to mark and stay on heel until sent. She behave so valiantly always in command and her name was coined back in North Dakota when she managed to recover a double on grouse. I called her super dog because as she is the happiest dog I ever have trained although I have not collar conditioned her. Her disposition in part is due to her older companion Fe a German Wirehair who was imprinted by a famous lab mother daughter relationship.

I began shooting these high flyer with a 1872 Damascus 30 in bar action I. Hollis and Sons stunning wood/timber with high profile rebounding hammers. It is a pigeon grade/ weight and so I shoot 2 3/4 inch, 7/8 oz, 7 1/2. I restored after I discovered it in New Zealand. It has a deadly pattern. Next, I moved up an era and across the channel to a 1892 French bespoke FAVURE LePAGE y FILS PARIS MAKER with gold washed locks, ejectors and the finest rose and scroll engraving . This is the finest double made in the era under the tillage of Napoleon III. It is a finer constructed weapon than my Holland and Holland Royal and equal or exceeds in some feature my Purdey.

We were starting to devour many doves so I switched to my Browning O/U superposed to improve their odds, cheating but it was a gift from my wife. Soon we were in dove heaven and my 8 shot was bringing the high flyers down from 50 yard. I ended the season with my Hollands 20 bore royal but my last shot was with my 1876 WC Scott and Sons Premiere hammer.

We were broiling fine grain fed doves with a Chilean red with brown and wild rice and a garlic bread. Hard to beat camp food made in a slow cooking dutch oven. To finish it off we delighted in a homemade fruit cake.

IRONWOOD CAMPFIRES, PASS SHOOTING WITH ENGLISH SIDE BY SIDES AND ANCIENT PEOPLE

2012-01-12T13:51:00.000-08:00

Not much English is spoken here. I checked in with my Mexican friends who farm the vast acreage where we have shooting rights. Luis is already drunk on Christmas Eve busy enjoying his beer and mescal chaser. I decline his offer for the worm but will take a beer. "There are a few cordoniz (desert quail) this year," Luis says, "and the Paloma (doves) still winter up north but still there are some. You will have to hunt for them. "HaHa!" he laughs and goes back to check his mesquite fire. Luis along with the ten families are making carnitas a holiday mainstay in these Mexican farm camps. Luis's wife is busy holding her new grandson and wants nothing to do with the men who are drinking and will continue well past midnight. They will be ready after several hours of sleep enjoying their day off one of the few they have off.

Our camp site is well isolated and so we will have clear night skies. The moon is waxing almost waning. Our first order of business is to locate wood for the fire. Arizona is dry and there is much dead wood and so I chain a limb for the night fire. Besides, in several days, a friend with a varied camping, rafting and bloodsport experiences will join us for a couple of days. He will enjoy my wood collecting madness.

TIS THE SEASON CHRISTMAS 2011

2011-12-22T00:11:00.000-08:00

Greetings to Family and Friends

Patrick, Ellen, Nick, Cate and Tom are well and in great spirits. We started 2011 celebrating in Mexico. We like Alamos ,Sonora and were there for the traditional Mexican Posada that celebrates the travels of Mary and Joseph looking for a room in Bethlehem. The Posada is a very colorful and solemn tradition. After a wonderful Christmas in Alamos, we headed down to a favorite camping RV beach north of Puerto Vallarta overlooking the ocean kayaking, swimming and watching the sun set over a warm Pacific. Mexico was deserted because of the fears generated by news stories. It reminded Patrick of being there in the 1960’s when his family had the beaches to themselves. Nick took time from the University and traveled with Ellen and Pat and the boys took their dual sport Kawasaki 650 motorcycles. We managed to get way back into the mountain with these motorbikes where the bird life and coffee plants thrive. We ate giant lobster, shrimp, fresh fish and street tacos until we couldn’t hold anymore. One night Nick came home with 8 whole shrimp he bought off the fisherman and they were 10 inches. Cate moved from San Francisco, where she graduated from the University of San Francisco, up into the foothills of Sierra Nevada. She traveled over to Taiwan in the spring to visit our son Tom and explore the Far East. Our youngest son Tom is a student at the National Taiwan University a program funded by the University of Nevada to study Mandarin. He has spent two years there and after our scout, Cate, returned raging about the beauty and wonderful people, Ellen and Pat flew over in June for a visit.

To say the least, we were surprise at how advanced Taiwan is compared to the mainland; such vibrancy. Ellen saw her friend from high school who works the nuclear reactor and we visited a graduate student from the Purdue days. What impressed us the most was our son had matured so quickly and spoke Mandarin which enabled the three of us to tour the back roads on the Island. No wonder China wants to own Taiwan. The Taiwanese are the model of free enterprise, a highly educated population and a unique democracy. Not once did we see a policeman, chewing gum on the pavement or litter. The transportation system is excellent, the cultural and ancestry honored and in the end, Tom had a developed zeal in him that only youth can inhabit.

Upon our return to the Sierra Nevada’s here in Reno, our first impression was how uncrowded and quiet RENO is. Our research company Maxell has taken on a herculean task of data mining for answers that might explain the crash of the Mule Deer population in the Great Basin. An exciting project that will have profound impact as 87% of the land base is public lands and open spaces. The research require the latest in data mining and forecasting systems that have never been applied to biology in a quantitative manner. I thank Purdue University each day for the exposure it provided us toward taking an engineering approach toward biological problem solving.

Summer was long in coming and Patrick traveled to Montana with our hunting dogs for his annual fishing time. He met several friends in Missoula and found that fly fishing was slow due to a prolonged snowpack but came with a bang. Many trout came up to visit the dry fly the King of Sports. He fished the Missouri, Beaverhead, Ruby, Odell spring creek and then traveled down to our family land on the Madison River near Quake Lake. Ellen spent most of the summer trying to develop a forecasting model for the behemoth Canadian company Telus and so her fishing days were in check. She vowed never again to miss a Montana summer

In the fall Patrick traveled north again to train the dogs on the Canadian Prairies where the ducks and geese congregate before heading to their winter grounds. You can follow his travel blog at http://thesportingfields.blogspot.com/.

Winter is here and there is no snow in the mountains. Often we have a white Christmas but not this year. We are preparing to head back to Arizona where Pat was raised and all our children spent many Christmas camping in the desert. Being there in the Woolsey Wilderness, we skip the hectic commercial side of the season and experience spiritual time. Tis the news from the Sierra Nevada’s wishing our family and friends the warmest holidays with loved ones.

Cheers Patrick, Ellen, Nicholas, Catherine and Thomas (Fe and Tess our faithful dog friends)

WINTER PLANNING TO HUNT THE DESERT DOVES AND QUAIL

2011-12-08T00:02:00.000-08:00

I still want to ski but can not handle the cold anymore. I miss moguls skiing in the old days so my need for speed is satisfied by four cylinder 1300cc Royal Star and a KLR650cc. I wish, though, I could live in Montana sometimes in mid December and hunt the roosters on sunny days, no wind in the mid teens. My dogs really don't give a hoot about the cold as long as there is game. And to get game, I will to go back home to Arizona, feel the warmth of the sun and camp in the Sonora desert that Edward Albee so loved with campfires and then hunting for flights of doves and wily quail.

Doves cooked almost tartar quickly over a open fire basted with beer cut in half, Curritck sauce then a air chilled Merlot is so rich you eat ten of them. The preparation for gear, clothing, guns, ammo, provisions transitioning from a drift boat Montana trout expedition all summer to a Canadian Prairie campaign for 5 weeks, Nevada Chukar, celebrating Christmas and New Years pass shooting in the desert can jade the the man. I look forward to each journey and wonder if the birds will be there (THEY ALWAYS ARE) AND IF MY AIM IS GOOD ENOUGH TO GET GAME FOR MY DOGS.

I'll know in a couple of weeks

DUAL SPORTS ADDED- THE 650 ENDUROS

2011-11-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

Toys, they're not toys, they're tools to advance the passion. Motorbikes for the speed monger can take many forms, from my Nortons, to Harley, to BMW Airhead, to present Royal Stars and the most compelling the KLR650. While in the back country near Copper Canyon in Sonora Mexico, our KLR got us into some way back villages where tangerine and Indians treated us with great difference. Riding was akin to the moguls skiing at Ajax or Buttermilk.

Stay tuned as we discover the best carrier system are discovered

STUCK AND WOLVES HOWLING BUT LOVIN' IT ALL

2011-10-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

It finally happened. After 25 years in the Canadian Bush I was stuck deep in the bush, stranded, center stuck, high centered, marooned without a shovel or hi boy. For two sleepless nights and almost three days, I grew to respect those that lived by trapping of homesteading. What raised the hair on my back was when the pack of wolves come to visit and howled for some time within 30 yards. I dare not get out of my bag to stoke the fire. There were six and had the Grand Cherokee surrounded. I imagined the movie "American Werewolf in London," and I was on the Moors. I was 15 miles back into the Saskatchewan FORREST. I had fire, water, sleeping gear by accident weapons and my two faithful dogs but I was stuck and was not about to walk the 20 miles back into town.

I counted on being found by Moose hunters. Who drove the trails in their quads looking for the elusive animals. We were coming back after a day of ruffed grouse hunting and with my limit I was anxious to return to the town bar where the Owner Carmen promised to let me watch the World Series. I would miss the greatest game ever played in the World Series where LaRussa and Lance Berkman undid the Sabermetrics and made baseball a game of magic again. Thank God they beat the Texans with two strikes against them.

By the second day, I was getting concerned as the snow fell. There was more panic than real but with the instinctive reactions to wolves singing at night and little progress trying to get the Jeep of center stuck and hoping for a sound my imagination was going wild. If I had SPOT but then again it is a weak system in the deep forest.

NORTHERN LIGHTS ARE RADIANT AND MOVE THE WATERFOWL SOUTH

2011-10-19T02:32:00.000-07:00

The cold nights make for great sleeping as long as it doesn't get below 20. I detached the Jeep and went into the Badlands in search of grouse and found they had not conveyed up. Instead of 50 eyes looking out there were only 12 to 20 making for excellent rough shooting. Sharptails after feeding on grain and alfalfa make excellent table fare and since I was on a "bush meat" diet for the next 3 weeks I cooked the whole birds. I prefer grouse of the Hungarian Partridge.

The Drahthaar, Griffon, Poodle Pointer, Wirehair combo hunting machine, Fe her nick name for Drath Fe Dar was in her elements and overshadow the Labrador Pup. She was so intense on her hunting that quickly she was on point quivering at a buffalo berry patch.I closed my Hollis hammergun I kept the Lab at heel like we do on the grouse Moors in Scotland and when I got within 10 feet the brush exploded with the familiar AHAHAHAH cackle of flushing grouse. I remember a right to left swing flush, then a faint recall of a fallen grouse before turning to a quick straightedge flush but I went blank. Rarely can I recall anything after the mount until a bird has fallen. It is all instinct. When I can recall I miss because I am bird watching lifting my head to high watch the beautiful flush. Sometime I think I miss just to watch the grouse sail across the slough.

The pointer quickly retrieves the first grouse and I must get the birds from her quickly for she loves the taste of blood. The lab bring the second grouse to heel and I have a brace in the Filson. I tag my birds as required in Saskatchewan and decide to hunt for Huns

THE WESTERN-PACIFIC FLYWAY STAGING WAS INCREDIBLE

2011-10-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

One never tires of the journey northward to witness the waterfowl staging. Magic and miracles are the best way to describe these days in the field camping alone, I prefer western staging to the forest. The process place your soul into a zen meditative stare knowing there is no rush and you can make camp anywhere you wish . I watch for hours bird behavior and flight. They meet and travel in group towards they south eating and playing along the way. The resident game birds endure all seasons the Prairies throw at them like many Saskatchewan Farmer but many other take heed and follow the waterfowl. I've been blessed and often with my wife and children and certainly my firends the canines drive the same routes of the Western flyway for the last 23 years spending the new years and winter in Arizona and Mexico camping, hunting and fishing

THE SKY OPENS AND I AM ALONE FINALLY

2011-10-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

I never have problems with Canadian Immigration when I pick small towns. Avoid Sweetgrass, Montana crossing at all cost. It is run by trainee trying to make a mark. I can chat with Canadian Immigration about hunting, politics with crops as oppose to the American who are testosterone driven in full flack-jacket regalia with Glocks, mace and Tasers weighing them down. They watch too much TV. Once through the American maze across the border, I signed my declaration forms for my smooth bores totally seven side by side. They included my

1876 W.C Scott and Sons Premier Grade thumb-lever Hammer gun with dolphin head rebounding hammers. The wood was Turkish walnut and was without doubt the finest handmade gun of its kind. It was made the same year and month Cuter bit the dust at the Battle of Little Bighorn. The weapon 2 of 4 belonged to Earl of York and was used by Lord Ripon when he came home from India
Winchester Model 21 made in 1947 Duck model that brings down biggest of waterfowl. Tom Clancy, the author, once told me this weapon was on par with flak batteries over Normandy. It shoots sweet with my Hevi and Bismuth Shot. Stan Baker the Seattle wizard of barrels modified the tubes to handle steel. The Model 21 was commissioned by General Omar Bradley
A Holland and Holland SLE 20 bore royal ejector circa 1936 for upland. I compact wello made weapon a new as the day it was made. It was brought over by Marshall Fields of Chicago and given to my father for an Architectural favor when he lived in Barrington, Ill
I Hollis 1873 12 bore dolphin head rebounding hammer bar action with with exhibition grade timber and engraving worthy of Sharptail. I acquire this masterpiece on a trip with my eldest son to the South Island of New Zealand on a camping and fishing trip. It was acquired the same day Pope John Paul died in Rome.
Work of Art an exquisite Favure LePage y Fils and Son PARIS, a 1892 12 bore SLE with the finest engraving I've ever seen. Made with articulated triggers circa and was a gift of Napoleon III to a Scottish courtier who lived to Oban Scotland to shoot driven grouse and wood pigeon. I acquired the rare LePage in Oban north west of Glasgow on our 20 wedding anniversary trip for grouse hunting near Balmorl. Made in 1892.
AYA model 53 SLE 20 Ga with Picasso style engraving Many trips to Argentina
Lastly a 1864 McCririck made in Ayr Scotland. A rare under lever back action with Damascus tube worthy of North Dakota Pheasants. This is the only under lever hammer gun I have located made in Scotland.

I look back to America and remarked that the new American border complex seem over-the-top in such a small place with less than 20 crossing a day. The Canadian laughed and said they built six of the 70 million dollar bunkers across Montana and remarked, "no wonder the government has a debt problem." How right he was.
At last I was on my way, felt the freedom to hunt and camp any where I choose, a feeling I am sure many cowboys experienced before the fences.

My first night was off the road next to a stream where I shot a mallard for supper. Camping , hunting, beaching with our Lance Camper remind me of my days with unlimited expense accounts but only better. It had everything to make the adventure comfortable and hunting a pleasure. Of course it is my incredible Ford 7.3 crew cab dually that was the horsepower to carrying my backpack us from the Great Basin up to short-grass Prairie home to spectacular upland and incredible numbers of waterfowl and then onto the forest where wolves greet you with songs and the ruffed grouse flush like no other game bird. We would in 4 weeks,weather permitting, pull the plug in the North Country usually near the Pas or Flin Flon as winter came to Saskatchewan.

For the next several days I jump shot mallards and teal and chased Huns who managed to escaped the brutal winter. You must be self sufficient out here. There not no towns or accommodation for 70 miles and that is why the hunting is superb.

IT WAS HUNTING SEASON AND THE 2011 CAMPAIGN BEGAN BACK IN JANUARY

2011-09-14T23:08:00.000-07:00

The stars has crossed in Nevada. The Reno Air Race, left me speechless. You shouldn't have 75 year old men playing with gravity and expect not to have tragedy. I wanted was to get going with my hunting companions fab English doubles guns and drive to the Prairies via Sun Valley and our place in Montana for some streamer fishing.

The early storm swept in quickly as I approached my favorite camp spot near Silver Creek, Id. My young pup was so excited to hit the ground when we arrived at our night site. My vetran, Fe was relieved and immediate went into her hunting mode. A quick whistle blast, as cup of mash and the canines were put away content. They were loving the snow anticipating the upcoming journey.By mid morning I crossed tho Montana. Henry's Lake looked inviting but I was on a mission.

I was on the Madison by two and had two massive hits that took me down stream and pings 4x like it was rubber. Switched to 3 x with a spruce fly and managed to land a hook jawed pre spawn male brown. I was looking for egg hungry rainbows and so I switched to an egghead without success until I went back to 4x. The Billy goat hovered over the river looking down at me as we managed to hook and land several more Madison River trout. I had enough time for a dram and some meat and potatoes.

SEEING TOM AND GERRI MORGAN

2011-09-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

On a stormy Sunday several weeks ago on our way back from Bozeman I called Tom Morgan Rod Smiths http://www.troutrods.com/ to see if we could stop by for a visit and see some rods. Tom answered the phone and we chatted about mutual friends and our we stayed at El Western in Ennis back in the early days when his parents built it the famous rest lodge. We shared memorable haunts on Odell Creek and Tom said he came up with the design for his TMF. Tom was alert and very commanding remembering the smallest details of our last visit. Gerri ,his saintly wife, and Tom along with the cats live on the Norris road overlooking "Uncle Ted place," the valley bounded on the North by the Madison Range, and West by the Tobacco Roots.

Tom recalled the moving g of Winston to Twin Bridges from San Francisco and how he and Glenn B decided to make Winston a the Hallmark of Western Fly fishing. Tom was fascinated with taper design and the concept of a progressive action and why the 2 piece 4 wt WF-TMF was still one of his favorite rods. We spoke of the Fisher brothers in depth and how he directed Joe to develop his taper when making the Winston's rods. Tom was always dedicated to design. He said he never could wrap as good as Glenn nor even close to Gerri Carlson who finishes Morgan Composite. He described his sale of Winston to a Southern Californian as bitter sweet

I had just finished taking several freshman MSU student from "back East" down the Madison on a drift as part of their welcoming to the West. All were equipped very fast action rods and hell bent on casting across the river to only to be thwarted by the numerous mini current endemic to pocket waters. When a trout did rise they pinged it often. I asked Tom why the emphasis on faster action and his response was simple and true. He said fast action skipped many important learning lessons as one could learn to fling a line quickly. Accuracy suffered and bad habits were hard to correct.

We spoke with Gerri about her trip to walking trip through Europe and her passion for printing. He rod building skills are superb. She is self publishing an almost bespoke Italian bounder book with her own print covering Tom stories and favorite flies. This edition will certainly become highly collectable and part of the Winston - Tom Morgan legacy. The winds were growing stronger and we felt driving in rain and hail might make the Bozeman pass a little shaky and so after an hour and half, good tea and small talk we were on our way feeling that time was important to Tom and Gerri Morgan and I was a tad jealous of not feeling so compelled with time

A DAY ON A WESTERN FLY FISHING RIVER

2011-08-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

Day on the Western River:

6 a.m. Our 14 month old lab stirs below. Tess wants to get going. Outside it is nippy around 45 and the sun is not out above Quake Lake. Coffee espresso thanks to a Honda EU2000 and Tess exits her kennel like the super dog she is. She will be in fine form for our Canadian expedition this fall. I am anxious to try out my newly acquired Winston WF TMF 4 wt. with a Ross post 98 G1 DT XPS. I will fore go using my Beaverhead Cane Rods to give the composite a shot with PMD’s. I spent the afternoon visiting Tom Morgan and Gerri Carlson… will talk about later

7 a.m. run up to Cabin Creek for breakfast. Been doing this for the last 40 years on and off and the cheese omelets seem to get bigger. I miss the Williams back in the 60 and 70’s. Never could get Chuck in the 90’s to smile. Now Jim and Wendy the new owners are recovering from the health department shutdown last year. At least Jim is a serious fly tier. Even though it’s August, I see several giant Stoneflies.

8 a.m. Trout are rising along Quake’s shoreline probably gulping spruce moths.

9 a.m. On the Madison….Tom Morgan’s Favorite (TMF) is rigged and ready and with Tess at heel I cross over to the first pool near the willows to test the new old rod made in 1991 Tom’s last year at Winston. Second cast with a PMD and a 16 inch brown lying 12 inches from shore grabs the bug and the fight is electrifying. The 4 wt action handles the fish with authority and I am gladdened by the TMF.

11 a.m. Action is over for the morning. Get back and ready for the afternoon hopper float.

12 p.m. We hitch up the Koffler Rocky Mountain Trout Boat (RMT). This is an all-aluminum boat low profile with pedestal seats made in Oregon that has an almost occult following here in Montana. Compared to the Hyde’s and Clackacrafts it handles like a Ferrari. Last week, I had my whitewater expert oar this boat. He got us out of shallow water rather nicely. It was so sweet on the upper Missouri as well. We had a few takes on hoppers last week but hope this week will be different.

1 p.m. We put in and shuttle from Pine Bluff and will float and pop hoppers down to the Palisades.

2 p.m. We are into hopper heaven and have double hookups right after the Sun Ranch Bridge. All are browns until we the shady side and like magic all bows. Last week was the Whitlock patterns now it is stimulators size 14 on 6x. Last week we had a MSU student just out from New York. He was infected from all the magazine and fishing TV cartoon plugs over the years and decided to “Go West.” He couldn’t fight the fish as his very fast rod that cast a mile “pinged” the trout and with so many mini currents on the Madison he failed to get drift. We suggested a slower rod which he had a very difficult time casting but he will learn.

3 p.m. The wind is up and so is the hopper pop. We have hooked good fish within 2 feet of shore. We anchor and wade as the guide boat blow by having tgo get their clients down for the cocktail hour. We see few hookups on the “bumper boats.”

4 p.m. We arrive at the Palisades take out and back to the camp for a nap and ready for an evening fish.

6 p.m. The Bar B is fired up and we have corn on the cob, elk back straps, coarse greens cover with Newman Balsamic and a chilled White Zinfandel that opens nicely as the supper unfolds. I will fish with my friend in New Zealand next years for browns on the West Coast. He selects the wines

7 p.m. We are early for the spinners but I spend time with my new old Winston TMF. The more I cast the more enjoyable it becomes. I use a spinner pattern and cast across a pool with only a single tongue and a fine 17 inch bow sips the spinner and the splashing begins. Luckily I managed to keep the trout in the pool. If the trout had driven into the Madison current this 4 wt could not have controlled it. Luck was with the Irish that evening.

9 p.m. The action was fast and furious this evening. Many trout heads were sipping and hookups were almost anti climatic. I enjoy watching others follow lessons and get into serious dry fly action. Maybe this will cure them of “bobber nymph fishing.”

10 p.m. The action is over and back at camp a brief brandy, we count shooting stars and plan for tomorrow. Guess we’ll do it again. I hear the nighthawks buzz and the lights go out with the first cool mountain breeze

FLY FISHING TAIWAN

2011-07-04T09:19:00.000-07:00

The island never ceases to amaze me. Taiwan produces 85% of our laptops, most LCD, and LED screens and host a population not shackled by alcohol or drug abuse. We were visiting this tropical island to see our son studying Mandarin. I envision a mini Silicon Valley void of greenness, embedded with pompous materialist University culture with parochiality and urbane arrogance. How wrong I was. All's well in Taipei. And there is time for the gentleman's pursuits including fly fishing.

Mastering the Chinese dialect at the National Taiwan University and organizing a fly fishing expedition was more than I could wish. I was stunned at how accomplished the baseball mad man-boy had become and how confident Tom has become within this vibrant culture. Talk about fanatics fishermen. Although there seems to be about 50 fly fisher out of 22 million, they are a dedicated bunch fishing gin-clear streams albeit too warm to support reproducing trout. Their weapon of choice is 2 or 3 weight fast action rods. Although I never had the pleasure to cast a 2 weight before, there is a place for them on our western beaver pond brookies and high elevation goldens.

We spent hours in 90/90 weather casting dry flies attached to 8x tippets. The river was filled with rising 6-8 inch red tails a native chub type. I couldn't see a hatch and suspected they were sucking up air to compensate for the warm waters lack of O2. But they provided great angles on a 2 weight. Baby tarpon was a blast on 6 weights. Needless to say, these are island people and so they are obsessive travelers. Many had fly fished Montana, Mongolia, Japan even Korea. We are going to have a reunion next year in Montana

Taiwan's east coast is an undiscovered saltwater fishery. Within 20 minutes, you are into dorardo, (dolphin fish for the Floridians), wahoo, yellow fin tuna and a sailfish. And this isn't the best season for blue water fishing. True the waves were almost typhoon class but the Philippine Sea is a gold mine. It made Mexico and Panama seem tame. The fisherman didn't know the finer points of handling boats (panga class) for fly fishers but fish is a fish.

"In Taipei, everything is new", my friend Tu said as we drove out to watch the sunset over the Taiwan Straits. Tu got his Ph.D. several weeks after I and never saw another Purdue grad student until I showed up in Taipei. He had risen high in the government and I could tell he missed doing the science he was skilled. The island, Taiwan, was known as Formosa, Portuguese for beautiful, until 1952. The mountainous island rest upon the Tropic of Capricorn and will never host the winter Olympics unless....

A varied history lends itself to the uniqueness of present day culture. It was conquered by the Dutch, the English, then came the Missionaries, Chinese again, the Imperial Japanese and the Chiang Chi's KMT whose 2 million members fled the mainland by boat after loosing the 1949 civil war to the Communist.

The last occupiers, the Japanese, inhabited the island from 1919 till 1945. They left an indelible imprint many Taiwanese claim is responsible for the rise to an economic power. It wasn't the Japanese, in fact as my history enrich son said, "It was Stalin's brutality and the Americans fear of the "Red Menace." Truman and Eisenhower, pumped billions into this tiny island to offset this threat." This "Red Threat," and the Americans reaction to it eventually led to the Korean and the Vietnam war. Had only Eisenhower and Truman listened to General Patton who wanted to cripple Stalinist after the fall of Germany, we'd would have dealt with Islamic extremist years ago and won the battle for the minds. The Taiwan Straits, I fear, again will soon be center stage when the China -American debt crisis escalates

Taiwan is a refuge where freedom to worship, a strong work ethic hybridized with the Japanese-British influence and thriving Chinese culture freed from 1,500 years of imperial social biology. They combined a transition from hectare agriculture to high- high tech.

The island has an real anxiety and lives for the moment. Taipei, a city of 6 million, is 50 years old and reflects the miracle of economic prowess. They've built a subway system second to none and a road infrastructure that rivals anything in America. And best of all, they broadcast Yankee baseball 24/7. They sense their future is dictated by the American's debt to China. But they have learned never to underestimate the, "Yankee Trader."

DIVING AND SO MANY FISH

2011-04-03T22:41:00.000-07:00

Once a blue Moon, my jaded eyes will stumble upon a place that I dream about. I was looking for isolated fishing villages like the pre-Jack Nicklaus golf course era. We found one located between parallel matter-anti-matter worlds. No potable water, no power, no refrigeration except ice brought by the fish mongers trucks. This village was neolithic but hordes of fish and then more fish thrived nearby to ambush the bait fish that traversed this section of the Cortez Sea.

The hotter it gets the bigger the fish but I was satisfied with cabrilla in the 4-8 lbs class all day long and making red lip clams ceviche with clamato and Pacifico beer....outstanding. It was silly to catch these hunger monster. I quit after 2 hours and watched the sun go down.

SAN BLAS

2011-04-03T18:23:00.000-07:00

We are finally at road's end for this trip and decided everything we wanted was here. San Blas was a tropical paradise home to 60's American Hipsters. The water was warm, tacos fresh and seafood everywhere. David Crosby would find the Tacos beyond description and the lobster and oyster as fresh as the day they were caught. Here we would just be warm, kayak, ride the KLR650's up to the Coffee hills and birds watch as the sun set.

TO EL SALTO SAN BLAS AND TO HEAVEN

2011-04-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

AH! When you laugh and smile you know you're in Mexico. All the news from American news had frightened the tourists. And fear is a terrible thing to live with. For us who grew up in southern Arizona and knew better about the "bandito" myths it was a time throwback to the ealry 70's before Mexico was discovered by the post jet set class.
Sonoran mountains provide a great ride with our KLR 650 motorbikes, kayaks, bass boats and enough fly fishing gear and jigs to land Moby Dick. We crossed at Nogales without a hitch until the infamous 21km mark. Everything was in order until it came time to issue the 90 day car/motorbike permits. My son was traveling under my umbrella policy had his passport but no way to prove he was truly my son. And so we had to call back home get a hold of Nick friend a savy mechanical engineer female student who was watching the house for us. Daniele followed followed my wife's instruction on on the cell phone to open a huge safe to extract a birth certificate and fax it down to Mexico. They would take a faxed birth certificate to help us when they found we were going to Alamos, a city, Sonorans are very proud of.
We crashed in back of a PEMEX near Benjamin Hill. Nick found the Tecate deposito and immediately was back in his element charming the women of course. Once you pass Guaymas the road widens and American SUV's passed us with over burdened with Christmas gifts and kids visiting the grand parents on "Old Mexico." Hundred of cars passed us. We were rushing to Alamos to witness Posada at Hacienda de Santos. Alamos. where my father the founder and chief Architect of Green Valley, Arizona got most of his design ideas.

Carlos Acosta an outfitter for doves was our stopping place. He had almost all his America hunter cancel because of the fear that grip the Americas about Mexico. We had the place to ourselves at the to entrance to Copper Canyon at off road bikers paradise. We had the machine to do the deed and were chomping to get camp set up and hit the road.

FROM NORTH DAKOTA TO ARIZONA

2011-04-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

The winter had come to the Prairies but my farmers in Arizona were still see 90's and the doves were piling in. This year was going to be a short trip to southern Arizona for pass shooting, quail and camping.. It was a stop over on our way to Mexico to hunt fish and beach again this time for a month.

The Valley we shoot was planted with winter wheat and the birds were thick. My young pup Tesds was not used to pass shooting and marking but quickly picked up the teaching moment of looking up, marking the fall and not going until sent. She was a super-dog and this time shooting down here turned her lights on completely. I had a dog that at less than a years hunting like a master at 7. Nothing like getting up to Canada and North Dakota and finishing in Arizona. She had learn to quarter on Huns and Pheasant and following the incoming from a hide. Of course the pointer, Fe, remained aloof but she knew she had a hunting pard

4TH WEEK ON TO NORTH DAKOTA

2011-03-31T11:57:00.001-07:00

The first thing you noticed after crossing the U.S. border how wonderful are the American roads. We have the finest highway system in the world. I was caught in the Wildcat mountain with by a fast moving deadly Winter Storm that brought records lows to the Prairies. When a Canadian tells me to stay put and hunker down until the storms passes, I know its a serious weather pattern.
I was snow bound for 4 days but I was cozy and warm with plenty of whisky Single Malt, heat and my ever faithful companion Fe and Tess. Each night the the howls of the wolf came closer. By the fourth day I heard a grader off in the distant. I meant him on the road and he would pull me off the trail back to the road and could follow him if I wished. I decided I would make camp on the road that day, hunt for grouse as following him for the next 40 km would take forever, Besides the storm has passed and this was my last hunt before returning

By the time I made Williston ND next evening I was ready for a hot bath. All the rooms were taken. The city was in a frenzy with oil riggers and explores. I talked to a rigger who was staying in an Embassy Suite. He had lived there for a year at $120 a night. So settled for a hookup a fresh grouse fillet and I would get out of town early.

I headed south dodging huge oil trucks carrying the crude to the depots. I made the fateful decision to head south on side roads to avoid the flying oil trucks. As I reached the Dickinson area pheasant were everywhere and the kenneled dogs couldn't keep their eyes off the roadside birds. By the time I reach my hunt area the weather had turn BALMY. I meant my farmer contacts and within hours the dogs had flushed and or pointed over 50 birds. Shooting my 1876 W.C. Scott Premiere with dolphin head Hammers was thrilling. I had it re-barreled to an improved modified and modified making it possible bring bring down rooster at 30 yards or more and in December late- season doves at 40 yards. I could feel much like Lord Ripon could with out the baggage of a class society.

After our hunt through the CRP and creek bottoms each evening we would settle atop a hill to watch the sun set, grouse fly into the stubble and Mule Deer graze. There is a God saying hope you had a great day

OUR 3RD WEEK AND THE BOYZ WERE GETTING HOME SICK

2011-03-31T10:48:00.000-07:00

These guys were no Jemimah Johnson but I knew that. Sure they loved the adventure but they were totally being tethered to their cell phones the wives calling them everyday. They had a hard time breaking off from the digital fiz they had to live with. Finally I gotthem deep into the bush where the cell couldn't penetrate and by day five they were untethered and happy as one could expect being decompressed. I call it digital fixaation, "digitalis," a poison so deadly it deadens the mindscape and prevent the human from becoming instinctive a predator. It often requires an intervention. I think this is the cry for help my hunting companions wanted from us... a deep intervention

I am so fortunate to have a highly educated wife of 32 years who doesn't need to cackle and control and enjoys being alone and thinking about how much fun I am having with my friends and our dogs.

By late October, filling our bags were filled many Huns, Sharptail, Ducks and Geese and so we moved camp to the upper northeast forest of the Province. Here the late migration of giant Canadian Geese was about to unfold. There were Moose , Bears grubbing for winter fat, Wolves all around, plenty of Ruffed Grouse and giant Canada geese

It was a hunter paradise but the dangers of impending winter and being caught was very real. And so after several goose and duck shoots my friends decided they had better beat the winter storms and head south to meet me in North Dakota. I needed the break. It was quite baby sitting but being a MAJOR DOMO for weeks was trying. I could linger here wanting much needed solitude with my dog friends camping deep woods and just being alone before heading south to my North Dakota Pheasant grounds.

The woods smelled sweet and as I walked the trails in search of grouse carrying my 1877 Isaac Hollis hammer gun with high profile hammers. I felt what many American woodman's experienced in the early 1900's before the hordes populated the hardwood forests. This is why I have come here for the last 20 plus years to make my DNA kinder with the Charles Russell West or Longfellow's Hardwoods

THE SUNSETS, THE PRAIRIES MAKES BIRDS

2011-03-30T22:04:00.000-07:00

The shoots were almost silly. Too many birds came into our decoys and for the first time most of us quit shooting and watched the waterfowl work the decoys. We were bird watchers now for killing had no purpose. The dogs would feast like us on wild delicately cook grain-feed goose. Even cranes were off the list and so we focused on having great times on the farm getting ready for the Thanksgiving feast We could even watch the FARM boys chase Bull Moose which they filled after we headed up to Hudson Bay

My new pup was in heaven. All the months of daily training watching her eyes following the incoming birds and she held steady for the send. It was satisfying to see her get it. She was out producing the other lab finding cripple as we sweet the fields and marsh for cripples. How much could we stand only the dreams of tales next winter drove us onwards.

I was total in love with my exquisite Winchester Model 21 Duck made in 1947. I shoot them all from Boss double to Holland and Holland to W&C Scott and Sons but inside the blind raising up to greet eh incoming ducks or geese over Decoys,with this American beauty-gun is nothing sort of putting yours truly in a zone where it all comes together with labs, waterfowl and great company.

After unreal weather, surreal sunset, home cooked food I decided we need to move north and east towards the Quills and see what excessive rain had done to the Prairies

MAYBE A LINK WILL HELP UNTIL I GET BACK

2011-02-18T14:28:00.000-08:00

MAYBE

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/album.php?fbid=1582190919255&id=1370186702&aid=2074319

2010 THE CAMPAIGN WAS IN FULL SWING AND SO WAS THE PARTY

2010-11-20T11:53:00.000-08:00

The Prairies are booming. Make no mistake about it, the eastern side of the Canadian Rockies from the Oil Patch, to Cropping, to an Indian Summer, makes for a festive mood. It is sad to see the Americans so wired to their cell phones and internet buzz try and cope with the world of farmers, cattlemen, oilmen, tradesmen and folks that connect with their eyeballs over coffee. Most newbies American hunters are suspicious of these people also wanting to know why they are so open and transparent.. they must want something from me.

I decided, with reservation to allow a Californian hunter to come with us this year. He seemed pleasant but would later turn out to be a hunter, "from Hell." He seemed fine for the first week always being on his cell phone. We had enough of him constantly being called by his while we scouted so I declare no more cell phones in public. Quickly figured he was addicted to painkillers and by week two he was running out. By the second week he was so hyper as he was taking three a day and constantly rambling telling us about his days as a nasty Union organizer. He was asked to leave.

Thanksgiving in Saskatchewan is early October and in the farming lands asll foods are homegrown. After a morning shoot, the spirits came forth and it poured Rye Whisky and then the, "Moonshine." John's brew was a true 98 proof and mixed with Pepsi. It made one of our group almost go blind. Dinner was served and by 6 we were watching the San Francisco giant in the playoff

IN THE VALLEY OF GEESE AND CRANES- PEST CONTROL

2010-11-20T10:15:00.000-08:00

Depending on snow cover and spring runoff, there is this very special valley in Saskatchewan that will hold all waterfowl species and many migrating shore birds. For me an avid bird watcher, when the Gods have decided to give the Prairies good water, the farmer are delighted and so are the migrating birds. Within the Valley, all flyways, except the Eastern are represented here. The birds gather meet their cousin they haven't seen since last falls staging and like most Prairies Canadian , they know how to party. The song fest will last all night and day until winter comes to the Praires and like many Canadians after the harvest is done, Thanksgiving Dinner serves to family they are off to warmer climates.

All night the geese, ducks, cranes and snipes drink at their roost. Although not the Canadian Rye, there has to be something in the water to make them so happy, fat and content.

My Prairie farmer friends called me early September. "Get up here and get these frigging birds off my crop." This year was a very late harvest. It was bountiful, the price was solid and the geese were taken 6-9 acres a day from my bachelor friend Kevin. Crop Insurance would only cover so much so they needed our pest control methods

2010 TRAVELS FROM SUN VALLEY TO SASKATCHEWAN

2010-11-18T11:19:00.000-08:00

There is a wonderful valley north of Twin Falls, Idaho that reminds me of spring creek fishing haunts for big browns near Haast on New Zealand's West Coast. I will camp near Sliver Creek. Idaho just west of Picabo. The valley was the play grounds for Hemingway his shooting and drinking buddies from the heady 50's. After visiting Hemingway graves site many times over the years and retracing his final hours, I am convinced he never did blew his head off with a pre-war 1902. London Best, Boss Side by Side 12 bore. In fact, he still lives and I saw him in Las Vegas recently. I would camp near Love Spring Creek and watch wary browns sip midges. The dogs were delighted to get out and stretch. They had been wonderful for the last two days in their kennels. Tess was content to live in her cave.

Fe had been here before and knew what was unfolding. Her excitement infused Tess with curiosity and she became infected by the cool valley air that the clung heavily to the nearby chalk stream lined with pungent red willows. Fe pranced about in anticipation awakening her dormant hunting skills that were going to be in demand. A Picabo night would wash way all desert dust for the next 6 weeks it would be Prairie night filled with arctic geese and wolf calls.

After Tess had meant her litter mate by accident, I knew the world was getting smaller. I craved elbow room and so I pulled the plug and headed up to the Canadian/U.S. border and WHOA was I in for a rude meeting with US officials. I was taking a new hammer gun into Canada and decided to declare it on the US side even those it was made in 1872 and considered an antique not a weapon. The official by the name was Fish made me take all my pre 1800 double barrels out so he could check them into his data base of course with my personal info. Now I know why they call it fishing. I asked for statues and he said he could not allow me to cross into Canada unless I declared all my guns. I did and let it go. I can see the angry of the Tea partiers. It took five minutes to declare pay for my guns in Canada and he bid me adieu and told me to enjoy myself. He apologized for the America saying they are over the top thinking that everyone was a boogieman.

Five miles down the single road I was humming a John Phillip Sosa tune thanking God for me allowing me to cross over to freedom of openness. Our first night was by the big Coulee I usuall camped at when hunting Huns, Sharptail and jump shooting teal and Mallards. The morning couldn't come soon enough.

THE 2010 TRIP UP TO CANADIAN PRAIRES

2010-10-27T13:10:00.000-07:00

I had many question after months of training our new pup, Tess. Sure, she was hard wired like the bunny in the battery adds with enough jets under her hood to hit warp speed, but could she sep out of the shadow from her older sister Fe, the Wirehair. In the end, she performed and exceeded all expectation. She out did, by leap and bounds, a 3 year old male lab who had show qualities but was "brain dead." I knew the pup was a quick study, could take a line, do a blind, followed hand signals and was forced fetched in days. How would she behave under combat stress, whistle commands, wily upland and icy water retrieves. It was time to put her months of training to test and so Tess, short for Tessarosa was to begin an adventure to make her a , "Super Dog."

Tess, was a 9 month female black lab. He older sister Fe, a Germain Wirehair, at nine, had seen every form of hunting from Canada to Arizona and was willing to share her wisdom with her younger sister Tess. We left on a warm sunny Nevada Fall morning. I decided at the last minute to try and make it up to Canada with the taking an Interstate. I headed West on my favorite road Highway 50 billed as the "Loneliest Highway in America."

My Lance camper sat comfortably on my 7.3 dually diesel Ford F350 Super Duty. I could haul a house with this machine and it would be my Waldorf for the next eight weeks with every convenience existential for a Prairie Safari. I arrived in Eureka late afternoon to talk with the Wildlife Commissioner who had engaged us to do a science review of The Great Basin Mule Deer herds. I loved the history and quaintness in Eureka. It was a classic "boom and bust" small Nevada town with lots of revenues from nearby Gold mines. Eureka was in a Boom while the rest of urban Nevada wolfed in depression after many fat years.

I had taken a very nice antelope nearby several years ago and central Nevada was a special place. I camped in town, after a Chinese supper hearing after much prodding that our Wildlife Commissioner was inches from being assassinated while serving in the foreign service in Honduras. Alls well and in the morning after a bagel and cream cheese from a local Mennonite cafe, I was off towards Ely before finally heading North to greet the migration

My next stop was in the Clover Valley at the base of the Ruby Mountain south of Wells. I meant a local rancher who had helped me find an elk several years ago. He was an avid hunter and was busy raising his family. He had some insights to what was happening to Mule Deer. We would talk further. He told me I would make it up to Twin Fall that evening. Still no Interstate

I would make it to Twin Falls that evening resting at the new Walmart. What a drive today! Eye candy with open vista so wide I never saw a Contrail. I was a blessed man with a new pup, warm weather and knew this year was going to be special.

THE ZENNING in MONTANA

2010-08-29T11:11:00.001-07:00

THE BUG RIVERS of MONTANA

2010-08-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

Montana is a state of mind. For those fortunate to shed the routines and ruts of urban stress and rediscover the habits of trout, you are reborn. Watching the waters, talking to bug and fish gurus, then humiliating yourself trying to bring a trout to a fly reminds us we are out of the zone. It usually takes us ardent fisher five to ten days to ,"get it." Within a week, motor neurons fire off dormant signals to refine the of cast and most important, create the free-drift. All the while, Montana rivers and tea colored streams change daily and each insect genus hatch's until there are no more and the trout key in on another hatch . You had better adapt.

Trout thrive and ready for the winter in those unseen feeding zone and it's up to you to discover the algorithms to unlock the door. Your eyes tell the hand to grip the cork, to shoot the sharkskin line and lay that bug right where you think a trout hides. You hope it brings up a bug eater. And in Montana, you can be confident that a trout lies waiting there.

There are many ways to zen Montana; flushing a wily pheasant, or taking a pair of Huns with your English hammer gun over a pointing Wirehair or adjusting windage and elevation before dropping an antelope at 500 yards. Even watching a World Class Dog Trainer send his client's Field Trail retriever on a 400 yards blind without handling the mark is sufficient to rest the soul. But, the finest and purest zone is reserved for the dry fly fisher.

Over forty years I've been blessed to rebirth in Montana. The waters still hold many surprises even as new anglers pound the banks with huge bugs attempting to bring up trout. This year was special, as I watched my experienced fly-caster wife shed her strict routine and join me dry fly fishing for aggressive rainbow and stealthy browns. By week five, my eldest son a University Student arrived with a friend and quickly regained his beautiful casting and enthusiasm for trout fishing. He was coached by the best. Lefty Kreh gave him many lessons during when we home schooled him in West Yellowstone. Dave Whitlock let him in on secret to hopper fishing the Madison and Bob Jacklin told him about fall fishing. Then my youngest son arrived after an immersion summer at Middlebury Vermont studying Chinese. He was jaded, after catching 6 pounds rainbows on every cast while traveling with me in Canada by age 7.

Period one was the post Salmon fly to the Mayfly time. When there is so much insecta emerging feed in the rivers the trout will only move an inch or two to seek a drifting fly. They are feeding aggressively so that a well cast free-drifting fly with the proper size and tippet combination will induce a big trout to slam your bug, take you into backing as you helplessly watch it head down stream to eventually ping you unless you can run the banks

ON DOG TRAINING

2010-06-04T14:23:00.001-07:00

There is so many way to teach you dog but only a few ways to take the transmission out of the animal. I guess I was fortunate to be raised around professional dog trainers like the Hogan's of Ireland and Barrington, Illilonis, Dave Elliot, Cotton Pershall , Charles Morgan, and David Lorenz. They all knew how to get into a dog's head in many different ways to bring out the natural talents.

As everything good and exciting, it all starts in California and moves outward. Dog training was no exception. Dog training took a quantum jump when the techno guru, Rex Carr decided that wireless collar to reinforce expectations and curtail unacceptable behavior had a place in the dog's life cycle. Rex Carr made the common man able to own, train, field trial and hunt exceptional dogs previously available only to the titled gentry of America's upper Mid West and East Coast.

Today there is no reason an individual can not have a family pet that is so well mannered and trained that it can lay at your feet during winter nights, scare the juice out of an intruder and find and retrieve a crippled game bird 500 yards away. You just have to learn how to get into the animals head.

For me having great teachers helped but one teacher in particular open the door and he had nothing to do with dogs. Harry McElroy trained Hawks to hunt. He trained all hawks to the fist and taught me how to enter the domain of an animal through Falconry. Once you have knowledge of you animal their is nothing you can not do if you have the patience

LOOKING FOR GOOD TIMBER

2010-05-27T20:25:00.000-07:00

It is not enough to have a handmade shotgun made by craftsman with candlelight usually in the back road of the Birmingham or London you need to have good timber You want you work of art to be adorned by high figured wood and so I went in search of woods blanks for high grade guns mainly double barrels and found that Walnut whose genetic Center of Origin is the Cacusis Mountain were harvested and cross bred by the French, later the Brit to adorn their bespoke weapons.

I heard often of Turkish Walnut but really it is Franquette a Walnut variety created by the French for their table. I have all English Walnut stocks but I knew little of the genetics or geographic until I was educated by a stocker in Oregon.

TO FISH NEW ZEALAND

2010-04-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

A tiny set of islands southeast of Australia is so vastly different from their English homeland that the first settlers imported their bloodsport follies to make paradise livable. Like Joni Mitchell sings, "find paradise and make it into a parking lot." Unlike Australia , New Zealand had no deadly snakes, not even a bad predator akin to saltwater crocs or four legged dingos. New Zealand is a temperature Hawaii, a pastoral refuge for the second- sons of British gentry. They imported there Tahr , Chamois, Red Stag an old-world Elk, new World Elk, even a Moose or two and most fitting the trout.

I have fished the worlds flats, blue waters for billfish, stalked exciting tarpon, and fooled pargo. I was raised by my gentile father, a successful community developer in Trout Valley and caught his big-spring creek brown named Bertha one fine summer day. From them forth it was the Loch Leven Brown that infected my brain . It is trout with cane rods, water cress choked spring creeks and Montana freestone water that have my keen interest. From Alaska to Europe across the Americas trout are a fancy especially when they are rising to sip a evening bug floating through their lie. IN the early days, my scientist friends at Genentech blew off pressure by Fly fishing Pyramid Lake in Reno or the Stone-fly hatch on Madison in Montana. I kept hearing rumbles of New Zealand and back country fish as long as your arm. I took my eldest son Nicholas who was home schooling with us and in early February after a family reunion in Lake Tahoe where we were buried in avalanches, we flew down to the South Island and headed to the Twizel area to stalk these mythical trout.

I fell in love with Zane Greys trout fishing exploits and we were seeing the Southern Cross swaying to Stephens Stills epic song. Always keep left, I was told by the car rental man and when you're driving and turn on the light and the wiper come most Kiwi will pull off the road. We were driving on the proper side, eating minced meat pie at every gas station
and learning the Queen's adjectives like, "Magic", "Brilliant", " "Good as Gold" and "Good On You."

And there it was a lone brown trout, I guess to be at least 22 inch. I told my son to keep his shadow off the water as we walked the banks of a back water lake. A dandy brown on his beat and with the flip and two false cast I flayed the fly ten feet away before he turned to circle his beat again. Slowly he came in my direction and within three feet of the gnat my wrists tighten in anticipation. Once he saw the bug , the big brown flipped his tail to attack the high profile dry fly. He came over without a care to sip and when his jaw broke surface I lifted the 5 weight rod, felt his weight and set the hook... Too fast and he drove back to the deep. But there would be many more stalking and , when I was told to mutter, God Shave the Queen," my hookups increased logarithmic.

MY SMOOTH BORES

2010-03-31T21:53:00.000-07:00

A sample of my smoothbores maninly from London. My objective is to collect the finest made gun from each country that were made from 1860-1930's. They must be field hunted over trained hunting dogs on fair chase birds and we must eat what we shoot with these wonder works of art

1st. Model 21 made in 1947. It is a Duck that was restocked for General Omar Bradley who collected the English Walnut as the troop invaded Normandy. There was so much artillery fire that the trees absorb the iron and the rootstock and the figure were blacken by their uptake. This is Fluer de Lys engraving and the tubes were opened by the famous Stan Baker of Seattle. This weapon has been very solid under heavy use in Canada. Picture taken with two canvasback ducks.

2nd My 1872 Stephen Grant and Son London Sidelock Ejector. Engraving is superb and the fences are a moniker for Stephen Grant

3rd. A very rare James MacNaughton 16 bore long thumb tang made in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1886. This beauty is a round body blitz action with crystal cocking indicators

4th. My composed pair of Browning Pointer Grade 28ga and .410. My Browning buddies go gaga over these but they are not even in the same league as bespoke English.

5th The first hammer less London gun made in 1872 by T Murcott. It was called the Murcott Mousetrap. 12 Bore and is deadly on Pheasant in North Dakota

THEY POURED IN FROM ALL DIRECTION

2010-03-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

Few hunts rival the magic as a continuous stream of late season desert doves twists and turns from the roost to their daily winter feeding grounds. English smooth bores over heat to the touch and pass shooting put your head into a zen state while heated dogs in a frenzy to retrieve search for water and you cap your field day with a chilled beer chased with a warm single malt. This is an addiction that infect my sons and a few special friends. that share our secrets hunting grounds.

Dove shooting is social event akin to ladder fly fishing on Pyramid Lake casting a giant Wooly Bugger to cruising giant Lahonton Cutthroats. These warm desert days, hunting dogs behave like lounging lizards and huge campfires cook chorizo and fried eggs served on a tortilla and fresh made pico de gallo laced with chilanto, those times are as sweet as it get for my family.

This is our twenty third year camping within in the giant washes in Southern Arizona near the Mexican border where I was raised. I would never dream of camping here during the summer monsoon. Each year our camp site is washed away, cleansed by the torrents and we return to a new site. Doves and quail are still plentiful away from the urban dwellers and in the end is it is all about the fine English double guns, well mannered hunting dogs, women who love for their men to go out and return with fresh ki8lled dinner and stars so bright shadows make our kit foxes seem to have colors

IN SEARCH FOR A SOUL MATE

2010-01-12T22:15:00.000-08:00

I believe in the beginning when God finished throwing his cosmic dust around, poking a few holes into his time-warp black hole continuum, he sat back puffed on his cigar and peered into his celestial mirror. HE saw his name tag reversed in the mirror and quixotically spoke out loud, "DOG," and immediately assembled a twisted ladder of newly fashioned Nucleotides called DNA and created his first companion, the DOG!
There comes the time when the alpha canine steps aside and says it's time to begin a search and begin the arduous training for a sporting dog. For us, there is only one breed that will do all we ask of it.
We have trained and owned Irish setters, English Pointers, Brittanies, German Short Hairs, Golden's, and Springer Spaniels from the Hogan Kennels. Presently, we hunt over a magnificent German Wire Hair, clone of a Pointing Griffon and just retired a stunning black lab FC/AFC female so well mannered.
Uncle Frank Hogan, son of Martin Hogan, Dean of the Retriever Trialers, gave my father several labs from a litter intended for John Olin of Winchester fame. He raised and hunted over them and I remember how well they behaved with Illinois corn-field pheasants. We lived in the Fox River Valley near Barrington, Illinois and some of my clearest memories as a young boy were winter sleigh rides around the Hogan Kennels being chase by Frank and Mary Lorenz (Frank's sister and Dave Lorenz's wife) world class springer spaniels and champion Labs.
So there never was second guessing as to breed. Even my wife never thought to question the intensive quest about to begin. She was totally devoted to her German Wirehair, Fe, a bond seldom experienced by this Breed, however she knew this new pup had to be a Black Lab. In mid November the research began. I reviewed all the AKC retriever stats for the last ten years, the field trial news letters, the chat boards and skimmed over the hunt test results. I was stunned how diverse the utility the breed had changed. With the advent of Hunt test, the "Common Man" got into the game of retriever trails normally held for the well heeled and although not as stringent as field trails they were more applicable to real world hunting. As a result, it is almost impossible to find a high quality blood line that was not scooped up before the whelping. You had to be an insider or in the inner circle of the elite Field Trialers to even be considered. Most of the field trial litter that were hot were never advertised and so this quest was a challenge.
A new test was developed for deleterious homozygous recessive single genes yet trainer and breeds were still breeding carriers to carriers trying to get that extra money. Many of the Champion bloodlines used several generation ago that commanded premium stud fees and litter prices were indeed uncovered by the new DNA tests.
We spent numerous hours calling old friends asking for advice on bloodlines. I was looking at litters from Maine to Texas to Tennessee to Wisconsin, over to California, southern Idaho and the breeder egos were as huge as what was being asked of these highly breed wonderful lab.
One evening, a friend told me about a top performing Field Champ that was breed in house. The sire had been to the Nationals in Delaware in 2009 finished the 9th series but had won the total high point award for the year. That consistency was what I was looking for. I call the owner who probably had more top performing dogs in his stable than anyone I've some across. I expected the same ego driven "take it or leave attitude" I had to endure during my last 10 inquires. Instead I found a down to earth gentlemen who enjoyed talking about a wide range of interest. He was a very competitive man but never once did I hear him disparage another field trialer or champion dog unlike all the other owner. I was at ease with this guy and he turned me over to this whelper who also was a accomplished kenneler.

I would have to cut my annual Mexico trip out to get the pup on her 49th day of which I am a believer. The rest will be history

TO THE ARIZONA DESERT FOR HOT BARRELS

2010-01-08T21:34:00.001-08:00

Driving Highway 95 south through Nevada during the shortest days of year can be numbing. You are sort of steering on the straight shot steering maybe listening to Willie, "On the Road Again," and so your mind has a tendency to wonder. That can be fatal on these narrow roads. I know by heart what lies over the next summit and each town sparkles like Christmas lights. Small isolated cow towns like Yerington or Hawthorne put us into the Holidays mood. We have driven this way for the past 29 years at Christmas time. This year we the high chilling plateau in west central Nevada around around 7 p.m. near Tonopah and Goldfield where bitter cold can freeze your RV pipes. The town is aolway quiet except for the passer by filling on $3.00 gas. I got sick at the Mizpah Hotel once coming back from a wrestling tournament so I'll wait till Beatty to fuel up on highway food probably at Eddy's
I associate Christmas with Arizona warmth so the high desert coldness is meant for Montana and my hunting friends up there all those gray days for southern Arizona mainly chasing quail. After descending picturesque Goldfield grade we call the Rosary grade, it is down hill to the warm Sonoran desert and best of all the massive wing shooting that lies ahead. We are seeking the desert morning doves that fled, like us, south to a softer warmer sunlight.
Driving through Las Vegas is akin like combat driving to avoid IED. This year the roads are civil and we pass through without the City Bitches and EuroBoyz shooting the gap texting and blabbing on blue tooths. Maybe they left for some where or grewnup. Hoover Dam is a breeze and the monster underbelly of the new bridge is almost complete. I will miss driving across the dam setting my watch ahead. By Kingman its time to close the eyes, air the dogs catch a few moments of "The Hunt for the Red October," before we awake in the WalMart parking lot ready for a cup of richly roasted coffee. It is beginning to feel like Christmas.
A half day later, we are crawling 4x4 low to our family Christmas camp site in the Sonoran desert. Our arroyo spot is still pristine and no one has been there since we broke hunting camp a year ago. It time to collect firewood and find Yule logs that keep the fire ready for next morning breakfast. I worry as usual. We must find the flights and the roost for me to feel at home again.
How hot can our barrels get. They have sizzled for the past 17 years of pass shooting these desert rollers. We gently remove the Lance Camper a snap with the remote jacks, level it and we're off to scout the desert. Our dogs know what lies ahead. this year our Lab is down and the burden to retrieve the fifty or so birds days fall to our German Wirehair. Will she handle the heat and pressure.
At first I can not find the flight and I suspect they are not here until my sons laugh and remind me that I always go through this process each year, They are not concerned and they assure me the flights are around but we must scout hard and we will find the flights. And so we did. By next morning and for the next 14 days we camped, shot over 10 cases of shells, exchanged Christmas gifts, shared campfires with friends and the local Kit foxes then dinned on grain feed doves ala Sonora.
Will the birds be there next years I ask

IT IS TIME FOR A SWAN

2009-11-22T11:30:00.001-08:00

Around Thanksgiving, the Whistlers or Tundra Swans (Cygnus Columbianus sp) descend to the Great Basin. In Canada, while hunting waterfowl, they migrate in family flocks usually two all white parents with two or more grayish juveniles. By the time they reach Nevada they have grouped, still in their primitive state and easy to decoy. In Nevada we are allowed take one with a tag which must be immediately ID by a conservation officer. If a trumpeter is harvested, the season is suspended.

The Stillwater Valley near Fallon is an ancient basin that use to stretch across the Mountain Island Valleys Newlands Irrigation Project diverted Carson River to the thirsty Alfalfa fields. Ironic that most of Nevada's Alfalfa is exported to Californian. Stillwater is near where the first Pre-Colombian duck decoy was discovered as a tulle reed canvasback. These migration path are thousand of years old and are driven by iron laden nerves cells embed within the central nervous system. Magnetic fields guide these iron based cells of these giant birds as they align during North to South and return migration. These patterns are magnetically set and this epigenetic event is passed parents to offspring.

We set out a few white decs and within an hour a lone mature birds swings by and a single shot with bismuth from my 1947 Winchester "DUCK" Model 21 brings down our Thanksgiving diner.

2009-11-19T11:24:00.001-08:00

A dog is man's best friend. How do you pay tribute to a companion that has been with you, never asking, always giving enjoying life to the fullest. They truly are our guardian angels. They never get into a snit, kanipation fit or need antidepressants. You give them honor by moving ahead in the Fields. We are about to lose the wonderful Lab after 10,000 retrieves to hand. Saskatchewan and the Dakotas were her happy hunting grounds so this year was for her and it was just as expected. Wonderful migration plenty of birds.. Stillwater's Belle was out of FC/AFC Code Blue x FC/AFC Magic Pearl. She spent her time under LuAnn Pleasant's Red Rover training system and how she thrived.

The fall staging this year was compressed and very cold weather forced the birds to huddle up fast . Being mobile and having farmer friends give scouting reports is essential. The birds rarely return to the same Stage 2 area unless there is good water. Hunting in Stage 4 or Stage 5 area is a zoo with guides and free lance and beside the flocks are educated. Camping on the Prairies is the secret to having the time of your life during this miraculous.
thrived

WINTER COMES TO THE PRAIRES THE HUNT IS ON

2009-10-25T16:53:00.001-07:00

Fe, our quiet but horse sized German Wirehair Pointer, quietly took field command once our alpha female Lab showed the sad signs of aging. In her heart, Belle a stylish field trial lab without a gray hair, awoke on a Canadian arctic blast morning barely able to lift herself. I call my older hunter friend and he said to get her on Rimadyl, an anti-inflammatory nonsteroid but it was too late. Age had settled on Belle and all she desired warmth and soft bed and canned dog food. Fe was in charge and lifted her head in triumph. She was a Lady in waiting for the last six years and was out to prove her worth. Now was her time like a young baseball player she was ready to step in the and replace the veteran.

Darth Fe Dar or Fe is the type of animal you do not want to let loose at night. She would easily revert to her wolfish habits. Several years ago she escaped near the Quill Lakes in Canada. For three days I looked and searched along the shorelines and woodland patches. Finally at two nights later during a full moon and a blast of northern lights, I heard a whimping outside my camper and Fe was there humbled , cold but alive. I rushed her to the big animal clinic an hour way and waited till the clinic opened. I could feel a huge bulge in her stomach as she lay silently with her head on my lap. The vet was amazed she had survived the wilds. In the end Fe managed to eat whole a muskrat and it was extracted with some laxatives that the Vet used on larger animals. By morning Fe was in the fields retrieving and pointing birds. For now, she is such a gentle, well-mannered German Wirehair intense on finding birds. With her hunting is no game, she is on a mission from God. She wonders why she much take command this year.

Our first 2009 hunt was upland, Huns the querry and it was short sleeve weather. The first coveys of the years held tight and Fe in control held point steady for the first explosion. I would use only a 28 bore this early season and this added to the excitement of up close shooting under extreme weather conditions that came the next day and last for the next four weeks. Hitting doubles with a 28 bore on wild game is as exciting as one deserves.

In driven snow the next day, each step closer I took on point made the moment seem timeless. I gave Fe the order to flush and the explosion of 12 Huns is almost as powerful as chuckar. I rarely recall the mount, point and shoot. I see the fall of a bird or the getaway. The mild crack of the 28 bore burst the bubble and into a conscience world. I wonder where I go during those blackout phase. I am an instinctive shooter and had to reduce my trap and skeet shooting as my shooting habits handicapped me in the field where nanoseconds are driven by impulse and instinct.

THE HIGHWAY TO HEAVEN

2009-09-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

Idaho's Silver Creek could inspired Hemingway to write until he came back from Cuba just after the Communist took power. A lonely two lane highway is about the only way to get to Sun Valley, unless you fly a Lear Jet. The old wagon road heads north from Idaho Falls, through Shoshone crests into the next valley choked with cold clean spring creeks that ooze from the towering Rockies Mountains ahead. This two lane highway cuts a vast ocean of fragrant sage that ranchers have tried to eradicate but they now realize to live in balance is better than the bastards invasive annual cheat grass the scourge of the West.
Farm trucks haul sugar beets to the local refinery. They are the only reminders that this beautiful Valley was once farm land. Now it host the "aspres- ski" crowd.

Belle our aging black lab lifts her nose to scent the desert. This time of year for a week or two the sage oil fragrance infuses the air and all things are in balance.

Ernest Hemingway might write, the road well traveled took Nick Adams through the stark desert. The pungent sage flowers signaled it was time to hunt and trout fish the local creeks. It was still early in the fall and birds could be taken by surprise

Ernesto Hemingway indulged himself with wine, strong women, double guns and trout. In the end, his depression could not over come the Valley's harmony. He knew pleasures in simple things of Sun Valley, sportsman routines, or the seasons especially the Fall. He learned money made him fearful and so much like a Hemingway character, he quit his fear blew his head off.

The Fall in Sun Valley makes jaded man feel something. By 60, Ernest had nothing left. He said that when you leave in search for other beautiful places, you leave behind everything. The pleasures on return are never the same and that is excruciating

Waterfowl still seek nightly sanctuaries to escape the coyotes and trout rise to sip 24 sized midges and the spring creeks sway with water cress. I watch as they sip the midges and cast my eyes towards a lone fly fisher. His slow long cast lays the tippet on the slow moving creek with great delicacy. A quick mend upstream hopeful to produce a free drift does nothing to entice these trout who seek selectivity.The stream takes my heart away. I could be casting to huge brown trout in New Zealand or on English waterways. It seems everywhere I travel these days I am transformed to another land chasing trout and game birds. Life is good and I am not to far from the "mecca of Holy Waters, The Yellowstone Plateau, the emerald of special places. Ellen and I will move on but we savory the richness of Stanley and Picabo.

Canadian bird hunting can not be to far off after touring the Yellowstone.

ANTICIPATION GROWS DAILY FOR THE JOURNEY

2009-09-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

Ellen is ready to cast her dry fly to a rising Madison River rainbow. Even our dogs sense the trip. This year we will stop and fish the South Fork of the Boise on to Ketchum and then up to our place on the Madison River below Quake Lake. Where the cool night and warm days have the browns getting in the mood and the rainbows feisty. We will spend a day or two within the Yellowstone Park camping and fishing our old spots like Slough Creek.

We've been traveling up to the Yellowstone Plateau for over 40 years. We fly fished, told tales of grizzly bears in Slough Creek since there were no rattlers and caught a 100 trout a day on the tributaries of Yellowstone Lake. We fish and learned from the old timers like Charlie Brooks, Pat Barnes, even the easterner like Bob Jacklin. Our eldest was Baptized in these Holy water and time spent up there renewed us.

Ellen and I will separate after 10 days. Ellen loves her alone road trip and in her new Lincoln will drive through the Great Basin back to her fall gardening in Reno and time alone which she cherish. I will take the hounds past the Hi Line cross into the Hudson Bay watershed and camping on the Prairies where God entertain us with ruby sunsets and turquoise northern lights. Several friends with come later to camp and travel with me in Saskatchewan. We live off the land eating game birds, garden raised turnip, tomatoes potatoes and Hutterite non homogenized milk. The dogs gain strength feasting on wild ducks and geese and listen with ears perked to their ancestors, the wolves howl at the moon.

The Ford 350 crew cab dually 7.3 diesel has performed flawless. Living within the Lance Camper powered by solar and propane, we live quite well off the grid for 4-5 weeks until the winter storms drive us south. Anticipation and hope are good thing

THE SPORTING FIELDS ARE CALLING

2009-08-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

The Glorious twelfth has passed again for the 30th time when we were married in Lake Tahoe. It was the last time my family would be together. I miss the Scottish moor red grouse hunts especially the rough shoots but this year I am consumed by planning our annual Canadian hunting now in its 23 years and for our upcoming Mexican fishing and whale watching adventure to the Baja.

Even though the mornings are finally cooler and by mid day the sun is no longer a reason to wear my hat, I am not going to dove shoot. Those will come later in Arizona in December. My two hounds are excited about the shortening photo period. They have been there many times. When I pack pack the Lance camper and fire up the dually diesel my lab Belle whines like a ... She and the German Wirehair, Fe sense the prairies hunting fields as they are tired of their morning walks with no game to chase. I am up before the sun waiting on our new Mexican Patio styled are sipping fresh ground, listening to the ipod playing a Rachmaninoff piece before the sun hit the garden and the birds are awake. We enjoy watching the the varied birds come to feed in of native plant garden. First the paired Valley quail, with the hordes of English sparrows with yellow goldfinches fighting for the Ethiopian thistle seed. The mountain mahogany (Cercocarpus ledifolius) a Frankia nitrogen nodule fixer attracts the blue jays, the Sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata) and bristlecone pine Pinus longaeva shelter the many newly hatched Valley quail

Our popular trees are shedding their leaves. We raise red tail hawks in these stringy trees each year and when one of the fledgling flew into our home, I was able nursed it back to health using my falconry skills. I released it to it's screaming family. They recently left in search of prey. The Valley quail are still raising their broods and come feed morning. The buzz of the hummingbirds who nested in the crab apple tree comes within feet of my face seemly to stare me down. They show no fear and whisk away after feasting on a morning's nectar supply made overnight. Even the males doves have quit chasing and "cooing" the females.

I am calling my friends and farmers in Montana and the Canadian Prairies to get report on crops and water supply. It is a cool growing season and harvest will be delayed by weeks. The upland report is good with Huns and sharp tail highly localized. Ruffed Grouse is up in areas but crashed in more traditional regions.

Looking through the closet I search for camo. Move my trout fishing shirts back behind my woolens and hunting vests. I will need good warm camo to let me feel hidden as my flak batteries pound the skies for geese. Hard to contain desire of seeing the northern lights on the Prairies when we tactically position of decoys before sunrise. I dream of the silence as I will slowly move north through the Great Basin maybe taking the back roads passing through Great Basin National park near Ely.

MEXICO FISHING/CAMPING AND SPRING IN SIERRAS

2009-05-03T13:38:00.000-07:00

Mexico is magic. The media has managed to scare our urban brethren from visiting this intriguing land and so we have the beaches to ourselves like the 1970's. Ellen, I and the canines drive down to my research center in northern Sonora before heading to the beaches. After a quick visit at CEDO we are off to find great seafood, spectacular sunset, mighty fish.

Mexico is a land of vast diversity. For us we pheasant hunt near Yuma in the warm of the sun, fight marlin on light tackle, or jig for mighty yellow tail. This was my 61st trip and Ellen's 24th. We are looking for land to setup camp near the pheasants and doves fields and be close to the beaches. We love Alamos, Sonora for doves and bass. This colonial city was where my father generated his Architectural design for his Green Valley project near Tucson. Dad would take us there in his Sky King never having to pass customs and we all shot doves, ducks and caught huge bass on a fly rod. Little has changed since those memorable days.

THE BLACK LABRADOR and THE GERMAN WIREHAIR or THE BEAUTY and the BEAST

2009-02-19T13:00:00.001-08:00

ADVENTURES INTO CANADIAN WOLF COUNTRY

2009-02-01T11:34:00.000-08:00

The vast skies give way to the Park lands as we pull stake and headed northeast. The hunters wanted a taste of ruffed grouse, huge Canadian geese and to then hear wolves howl at night. We found a great camping area next to a seclude lake far from crowds. The birch fires burned well into the night and the sky was ablaze with the early fall constellations. There are moose, elk and deer every where and the grouse are holding tight a joy for Fe.

At day break we walk the cut trials. I am letting my lab and German wirehair range a little further in to the bush to point and then flush these outstanding birds the can put a birch tree i n your way faster than a banker would give you a toxic loan. I am using a 1876 English double 12 bore hammer gun probably the finest example of British gun making. This W&C. Scott and Sons is # 2 of a pair I found in New Zealand and acquired from a Holland and Holland gunmaker .

Deep in to the forest a shot cracked and usually within minutes the dogs were being followed by curious wolves hoping to find a wounded grouse. I often let the young wolves have a meal or two by not letting Belle or Fe retrieve the wounded bird. I could hear the foot prints on the fallen leaves sometimes several pairs. This fall I had to use e-collars as my favorite Belle was in season and sometimes that condition brought the precocious males in to close. A quick nick with the tritronic and my pardner were at heel within minutes.

After a morning walk with a quick brace in hand for supper it was time to let the dogs loose for a hot walk. I was very close to town thinking we were safe. Fe stayed close but Belle loved to explore and within minutes she yelped run across the road with two wolves in pursuit. A quick blast from the hammer gun broke the chase and a sharp blast of the Gonia whistle brougth Belle back withe tail between her legs.

THE SASKATCHEAN HUNtTING TRAILS

2009-02-01T11:13:00.000-08:00

The southwest land is sparely inhabited. This is cattle country with fields pumping out gas hidden below in then old shell fields almost pre Cambrian. There are not hotels but small town are out of a CM Russel portrait or a Louie Lam ore novel.. Here white fronted and the small Arctic Ross geese stage before heading g down to Kalamuth Lakes. There are many pot holes here but for several YEARS IT IS dry and so the birds concentrate. The Prairie grouse population are way up this season so the dogs will get a great workout.

Our first hunt is a pass shoot at cranes. There are four of us and we have our limit by mid morning. These are primitive birds and have little fear of human untill the reach New Mexico and Arizona. Sharptail are plentiful and by evening we have reach our season limit. Birds are cleaned , frozen and fillets prepared for the next several day. These crane are excellent table fare eith broiled of in a gravy stew. THE DOGS ALSO FEAST ON boiled goose breast and thighs. Nothing is left to waste except our minds watching the sun set over the grain fields

INTO THE FALL HUNTING SEASON 2009

2009-01-31T15:14:00.001-08:00

The daylight was softer and the doves had depart for the southern wintering area. I drove by our nearby marsh and teal were already on their way south. This year was destined to be a great trip up north and I would cross over the border in mid September and experience a nasty Canadian crossing.

In my 24 years of entering Canada each fall, I never had and an issue. This year was to be different. I was crossing at Sweetgrass Montana and stopped to buy a bottle of Cognac for the northern nights. I left the US side and when I approached the Canadian window a blonde border guard, no more than 21 with a Fraulein bun carrying a glock quizzed me about the purpose and length of my stay. I mentioned I had 7 antique double barrel hammer gun and shotguns she quipped why did I need so many and told me to pull over to fill out the weapon importation form,

The Custom building was large and before I would pay the $25 Canadian answering a few question and be on my way to Drumheller. This was not going to happen today. I entered the b building and saw hordes of people waiting to be examined by custom officers reading magazines behind a series of desks. Immediately, I noticed 25 uniformed custom agents and there wasn't an adult in the group. It was a day care. After an hour and half wait ( I was sure they were watching body language via there remotes), I was summoned to answer a few question by a red face boy who also had a glock strapped to his navy blue pants. He couldn't have been more that 19. He was curt and tried to portray someone with immense authority but sensed he was ill at ease and readily stumbled over his questions.

I was informed my Camper and trailer would be searched and so I was escorted to a waiting room to hold onto my two hunting dogs while they spent 2.5 hours going through the camper. Again there were 10 camera on me and when I lab had to relieve herself and within 10 seconds an officer rushed In the room telling me I had to clean it up. I had nothing to do the deed with. She refused to let me out of the waiting room until I had cleared customs. She was very mad and returned to her room to watch me even closer. An hour later my German Wirehair took a dump next to a seat and again another agent rushed into the room trying to stop the dog from relieveing herslf. She just made matters worse and by now it had been over 2 hours and the four agent none over 20 converged and told me to move on. They found nothing they said and I remarked what did they expect. "Pistols,we were told you Americans were bringing lots of handguns."

It was time to move on to the hujnting grounds

IT TIME REGAIN MY BALANCE AFTER DAD"s DEATH

2008-11-26T23:15:00.001-08:00

My father, Norman Mead, lived to fullest. He seven sons and a deep spiritual catholic faith with intellect. He was converted from the Church of Christ. Norm was preserved by my younger brothers who adored him and my mother a devout Irish Catholic. They who could never bear to be without his presence and yet his extreme life style and sins being the youngest made him so adored no matter what his mental or physical condition.

Father was the consummate architect/builder, a devout family man, a gifted father and a husband whom women dream of. He married a college beauty who exorcised his demons from the horrors of the Japanese Islands fights during WWII.

Norman maintained his innocence and delighted in having everything. From his early years in Barrington Illinois to Trout Valley to Arizona where he kept his horses, hunting dogs and honey bees His children for the most part caught his love for the outdoors. He never gave up until he mastered nit, deeply embedded me with the passion to learn and be a student and neverf ever think you are better than the next person. Norm refused to become an elitist and still managing to be a bass plugger even though he made the finest Fly Rods and could tie the most elaborate flies.

Norman was a tennis player, singer, skier, marksman, hunter, fly fisherman, photographer, gem stone cutter dog trainer, horse trainer, falconer, audiophile, architect, community developer and founder of Streamwood, Trout Valley, Brigdoon and Barrington Woods Illinois and Green Valley Arizona.

He leaves this world for his next adventure. God help them

REMEBERING THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH

2008-08-11T09:14:00.000-07:00

Ellen and I choose to marry in August 30 years ago. We choose the 12th in Lake Tahoe which also was the opening of the Grouse season in Scotland the "GLORIOUS TWELFTH." I love what comes forth from the Isle including the music, single malts, double barrels shotgun, British bikes, fly fishing and best of all Labradors.

Alas afew pics of my Glorious 12th grouse hunting in Scotland

THE FISH WHISPERers

2008-06-18T17:37:00.000-07:00

There is one place on East coast I can enjoy...fishing the Outer Banks with "mi amigo" Bill Hogan, the pinnacle of a fisherman. William is a full tilt Outer Banker fisherman who morphed into a sophistic with knowledge that runs the gambit of politics and business to Ocean currents and fish schedules without the baggage of an urbanite or ill tempered red neck. Hogan has fished the Gulf currents off Hatteras and Oregon Inlet for white marlin and and other game fish almost his whole life. He has persuaded many to invest in the real estate of the Banks while waiting for the correct sea temps and photo period to launch his boat and chase Drum, Stripper and Cobia.

Hogan and I have crossed paths in Yellowstone and North Carolina. We fished the same fish bucket rivers that empty into the Bering Sea of Alaska. And when I leave him, there is always a residual of vivid memories. Few, except women have this affect upon me. And so when I called Bill to tell him I was driving down from D.C. to the family's beach house near Duck, North Carolina, the call forwarded to a tuna tower where Hogan and several compards were searching for the great fish Cobia, Rachycentron canadum. He said he might cutoff the chat if he spotted a cruiser but I was to come on down as the Cobia were migrating northwards.

The night before our trip, Bill came over to the house and cooked up some Cobia that surpassed Wahoo. We rendezvoused at TW's bait shop next morning and meant two of his long term Banks fish whispers. They were very intently curious of me as a six gun westerner from Reno 911. All showed southern hospitality the Outer Banks is renown for.

His boat was a inshore fisherman's dream. Hand built with an open configuration, plenty of free free board but a shallow enough draft to navigate the movable shoal of the inlet. His Yamaha got the boat up quickly and was very economical on fuel consumption as opposed to my older 350 Volvo Penta. His companions for the day were Louis and Dave and at once, it was clear that Louis's was the son of an osprey. He had a keen steady way about him and had me, this jaded travel fixated by his tales of catching stripper over an orange sized boobber drifting bait over huge fish. If there was to be fish today nothing could escape Bill and Louis's stereo vision and God help the prey. Dave, the laid back entertainer spoke of his travels with his high school buddies and relish fishing the Gulf currents and bill fish. He would meet me near our Montana fish camp this fall . His long range cruiser remained silent in Dry Dock until the glitzy northern urbanites felt more compelled, again, to flee and spend their inheritance gilt on the outer banks and connect to nature.

We sailed through the Oregon Inlet and headed south. All except I, went atop to the tuna tower to hunt for the cruising Cobia . The sun's angle was tough to get a fix but Louis had spotted several Cobias before they sounded. They were going to be spooky today. Dave came down probably to check to see if I had sea legs or was blowing breakfast. Bill's launch was so steady to the 3-4 foot chop, I never felt quezzy all day. Dave was giving me the the blow by blow accounts of what was happening above and we chatted how bad science had probably shut down the beach for access. I was lost in thoughts of how my fellow scientists sold out to the highest bidder, when the the boat kicked into high gear for several minutes before coming to an idle. !2 lbs lines with bright color feather resembling crabs were flipped to several large Cobia cruising a foot below the surface. These were gentle giants seemly prehistoric like a hybrid between a bottle nose dolphin and a ling cod. They seemed to smile and were curious with not a care in the worlds and certainly obliviously to what Hogan had in mind. As soon as Bill cast to the larger fish, it drove to his lure and Bill gently set the hook. He fought the fish from the tower as Dave prepared the net below. The second fish stayed with the hooked Cobia as Louis tried to entice it to strike. The smaller Cobia went after it as Bill kept the other Cobia from running the keel. Dave even threw a live eel rig but the other Cobia kept a safe distance away

These fish behave much like our Baja Dorado when we hook a bull. We keep it aft as the commotion attracts other Dorado for easy picking for a well presented fly. There is not doubt that one could cast a fly to these cruiser Cobia with a roll cast by I would not attempt it unless I deployed a 12 wt. Bill recalled the women demanding fish so we all agreed to keep the Cobia for a fish feed.

Several more runs down towards Oregon Inlet when Bill pulled the plug and we were in dock by 5:15 and sipping beer on the Sound by 6:00. This was another special day with Bill Hogan. I need to drag these guys down to the Baja. With their skill sets they'd never go into port and the Sea of Cortez would welcome them with her bounty

BACK TO THE CAPITAL

2008-06-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

Back East... They call it Potomac Fever. Why else would anybody live there except to feel part of the power structure or isolation that is rampant within and near the beltway. Everyone is or was government employed. Once you pass through that system the isolation from the rest of the nation is so complete you must reside near your brethren. Sad but very real state of mind. But the history of years past and the founding of the nation makes up for the climate of helplessness. I can enjoy but for a few days, at best, New York in September and Washington in the spring but quickly we pine for the West's wide open spaces, dry climate and snow capped peaks.

We arrived in Dulles to a humid evening. After being picked up by my sister-in-law and depositied at the Hilton Ballston, early next morning while EJ went to see her MUM, I took the metro to the National Gallery to see the Degas and Rodin sculpture. The National Gallery of Art is my favorite Washington place and the French impressionist at the top of the list. After a decompressing day down town, it was time to visit the Gleeson clan for a family gathering. I drove done to Woodbridge in what came to be a noisy auto, a Mercedes E class. The nose level was unbelievable and the ergonomics worthy of a tractor. No wonder Chrysler and Mercedes split the sheets. I've been a fan of Mercedes all my life until now and owned Sb, SEL 4.5 , SEL 6.3 and several motorbikes but this car was the most uncomfortable machine I've ever drove. If you can not trust Mercedes who can you trust.We decided to visit Fort Meyer and the grave site of grandfather at Arlington. How ironic he is buried next to the Pentagon which he did not enjoy working within.

The Hilton was my sanctuary any got an great night sleep before the journey down to the Beach house. I parked the Benz outside the Hotel hoping someone would steal it so we could get grandmother a comfortable ride. But next morning no such luck and we were off by 9:00

We arrived at the beach house 5 hours later and the house was at 94 and the air conditioner not working. We had to try and sleep with wet towels over our face. I wanted to leave and get back home but thinking about the fishing and the friends I knew and seeing Ellen smiling made the crowds and heat worthwhile

The 1870's weapons

2008-05-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

1870's

The war had ended, General Grant,the war hero, was President and America had turned its attention to the West where gold and unlimited opportunities were to be had. England was enjoying great prosperity under Queen Victoria and the orderly Victorian age was in full bloom. Although there were several American gun makers to meet the needs of the American wild markets, the British had managed to turn gun making into an art form as weapons gain social acceptance. American weapons were still a utilitarian instrument meant to put food on the table, protect the farm against intruders and push the native off the hunting lands. Sharps and Winchesters were long distance shooter while the Colts were the go to side arm of the Texas rangers.

America in the 1870 was akin to a bar brawl, while in Britain, the social classes demanded refinement in their weapons for use on burgeoning estate shooting and overseas stalking in Africa and India. W. & C. Scott and Sons were the premier gun makers in England during the 1870's and made guns to meet all demands. Without peer the W. & C. Scott Premier hammer gun was the finest weapon produced in Britain during the 1870's .

This masterpiece was finished the same month as Custer, the bottom cadet of his West Point Class, took on and lost to the combined forces of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. Custer was out gunned, out manned and outflanked by Crazy Horse. Custer was so disdained by U.L Grant that many thought Grant clear the path to help Custer command the 7th to their tragic ending. Grant, the humble veteran war monger knew how destructive arrogance was on the newly formed battle fields. It took Lincoln almost 3 years to rid the Union Army of pompous arrogant commanders and place Grant in command. Similar the Indians wars were just beginning and arrogance would initially rule the day until cooler heads prevailed. Very much like Iraq with Bremmer, Rumsfeld and Chenney. Seems today after 5 years may have our Grant in David Pratreaus

This W.& C Scott Premiere hammer gun is # 2 of a pair and it was acquired from a former employee of Holland and Holland. I was in New Zealand visiting Otago University with my wife. We were walking the streets of Dunedin when I spotted this wall hanger. The gun was removed from the wall, after close inspection my juices were streaming. It was a Premier in crisp condition but the tubes needed to be sleeved. I struck the deal with the gentleman and when I return to the States I had Kirk Merrington examine the tubes. We agreed to restored it.

Presently, I use the gun on North Dakota an Saskatchewan upland game during the fall campaign and on pass shooting doves in Arizona. It shall be buried with me

WEAPONS FOR THE FIELD- BRITISH 1860-1870's

2008-05-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

Here is a picture of Queen Victoria and her husband Albert taken in 1860. Albert soon died and Victoria went into forever mourning

Seems plausible that I only caretake these fine weapon for a brief time. They will certainly survive me as they did their previous owners. Like fine art, they are timeless and when view carefully under a magnifying glass they amaze one that human hands can construct from wood and metal to give one a grand time hunting the fields. It is amazing that these weapons meant for social events were handcrafted by candlelight

Somehow, I suppose, they will slip from my grasp hopefully find another nimrod to cherish them. I made a pack with my progeny not to let these out of my estate but maybe a fast car, a women or a trip of a lifetime could change all that. I love my Scottish and English guns. A Holland and Holland Royal Ejector is a dandy to the McNaughton 16 bore blitz action. I try to own British guns manufactured during the reign of Queen Victoria who rule at the pinnacle of British power. These weapons are an artistic representation that the stability of Queen Victoria long reign brought to Britain. Mrs Brown's rule was highlighted by her love of Ireland, shooting, dogs and her family. All values I understand albeit a colonialist.

From the 1860's.

I have had several from this era but none finer than an exquisite Scottish masterpiece made by James McCririck of Ayr, a port city of south of Glasgow, Scotland. The maker was probably the most sought after by Southern sharpshooters during the civil war and he trained many who later made guns for McNaughton and then Dickson. The McCririck 12 bore with 30 inch Damascus tubes is the only Scottish rotary under lever (Jones patents) back action hammer gun probably in existence. The McCririck is as tight as the day it was launched. Doug Turnbull restored the action and the 12 bore was re browned by Keith Keitcher. The McCririck is probably the rarest hammer guns as it is the only Scottish under lever hammer gun functioning. The fences are perfect and accented with with high profile hammers, double triggers and open chokes. This weapon was primarily used for rough hunting as driven grouse was not in fashion until the 80's. The gun has put many North Dakota and English Pheasants on the table

THE HUNTING AND FISHING TRAILS TO MEXICO

2008-04-09T23:57:00.002-07:00

The Arizona hunting season ended well for us. The kids made it back to Reno and back to college enriched with campfires warm days and great food. The hunting dogs are gradually morphing into reptiles and love the warm days to lounge sleep and then hunt. Although they would enjoy a great chukar chase they enjoy the Mexican dove hunts and swimming in the saltwater. Our lab loves hitting the surf and body surfing back with a bumper in her mouth. The German Wirehair is a bit more passive but once she sees her big sister the lab she is all dog.

Cross the border is always a chore esp with guns but we have it down to a science and they officials in Nogales knows us and besides they think hammer gun and side by side are harmless .

We will hunt the mountain west of Cuilican and well as fishing the lakes like El Salto and Comadero. There is a campground on the ocean where I can surf fish and bass fish within the same day and then hunt ducks and doves with quail higher up. No snakes just wave after wave of whitewings. Our bird boys were cute as had every birds field dressed by happy hour.

The sunset over camp were spectacular, the oyster fresh and the Pacific Shrimp huge. The surf was just right for the hunting dogs and Belle and Fe could retrieve the bumpers for hours.... Many ask why we don't have a house on the Baja or beach. We feel it would tie us down to a spot. With a camper we can pretty much "carpe diem."

ON THE CRUSIER V TWIN NEAR TUCSON

2008-04-08T01:25:00.000-07:00

There is no sense of freedom as the wind in your hair on a bright warm day sitting on a well running machine. It is one of those Zen times as a trout rising to a dry fly or a n explosive flush of a cock rooster or a Canvasback coming to the decs.

I've been riding since college

Mexico and Arizona

2008-04-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

We are back in the Great Basin after 4 months on the road, writing, camping, hunting, fishing in Arizona and Mexico. We fell in love with Mexico again. This was my 45th straight year of travels there and one of the finest. I just don't know how and why the Mexicans put up with their northern neighbors. There is no place in the world as wonderful, enchanting and exotic as Mexico. The dove, hunting, quail and a new species Mexican, grouse were fabulous. It exceeds South America in almost every way. The Mexican inshore fishing for snook and pargo and freshwater bass was superb. Nothing exceeds a sunrise and sunset over the Pacific

Doves and Quails were exception this year. Better than our Nevada Chukars although we found three sites where the spring freeze missed them and they were very numerous with many young of the year birds Our double guns performed flawlessly again and our fields dogs, our buddies were at their peak after Canada. The female lab I swear speaks to us and the German Wirehair is all hunter but kind and faithful albeit a little on the diminished side. Kinda like a savant child with math or music

For the next posting we will finish off our camping hunting tales and move down into deep Mexico along the Gulf up to the highlands and travel back up the coast and on to AZ for Spring Training and data crunching. We are trying our new data mining techniques on baseball.

THE FAMILY UNITES FOR CHRISTMAS CAMPING AND HUNTING

2008-02-01T10:06:00.000-08:00

All my children in College at the same time... it a wonder we get to see them. Cate is back from studies in England Nick and Tom are hacking away at Engineering and Ellen is busy with her forecasting software. Arizona i fine this year with plenty of birds, great weather and great camp fires. It will be a short camp only a week before the kids head back north and Ellen and I head to Old Mexico for 5 weeks on the beach.

My guns this years are the W& C Scot hammergun premiere grade that is an excellent speciem of fine workmanship. I also deploy a 28 ga which to my thinking is more accurate that then 20 bores and so we all get our daily limits with great shoots fast and furious.

This year we invite a fine young man Luke an avid shooter and student to join us. He is expereinced with camping and dirt biking and so he is an seamless addition and a delight

COMING FULL CIRCLE AFTER A YEAR ON THE ROAD

2007-11-08T16:19:00.000-08:00

It is time to head home. Canada was grand this year but I have both an elk hunt and sheep hunt left in Northern Nevada. I descend through the Canadian Rockies back through Idaho stopping at Ketchum to pay my respect to Ernest Hemingway and the life he lived but killed so young. It was a year ago I remember fishing Silver Creek and praying beside Ernest's grave . It was in September but this year I would visit him in November.

He was bigger than life and set the beat generation on the move much as the Beatles and Woodstock did for the hip generation. Hemingway made it OK to let the demons out loose on the sporting fields without the trapping of correct behavior. He did not care what others thought and killed himself when he couldn't produce to his liking. Gusty but selfish.

I took a pic of the two hunting dogs next to Hemingways grave site and the I place my Holland and Holland Royal Ejector 12 bore that took many phesants and grouse across his grave. I can tell you that Ernest thank me and told me where to fish Silver Creek. I wish I didn't have to be Elk and Sheep hunting so soon

I think he would like very much his great grandson's generation and clearly would despise the hip self centered generation of the 1960-70 who elected two Bush's, Bill Clinton and maybe a second Clinton. talk about being dumb without imagination.

I will enjoy Sun Valley visit friends have some good coffee eat where Hemingway had his last meal and prepared mentally for the Elk and Sheep hunt.

I am already thinking of out Arizona bird hunting trip with my son and Ellen and our trip down to Mexico for fishing, beaching and touring Zacatecas. The Warmth of the Sun....

MY HUNTING DOGS

2007-11-07T10:55:00.000-08:00

My wise father said, "You are not hunting without dogs you trained, " and how true he was. Training you dogs to be what they are wired for is an art form that require an everyday routine with keen insight into animal behavior. Do it right and every day and you shall be rewarded beyond measure. One must have an understanding about the nature of the animal in question and above all the ability to accept the bond that the dog is capable of giving. Many can not handle that commitment and the dog becomes just a tool to amuse Dogs are breed for work, hunt, companionship and are as close to perfection, a gift from the heavens and truly angels on four legs. I train my dogs well esp. the force fetch phase because I base my beginnings on trust and imprinting. My dogs think they are like me human most of the time. Unlike my training dogs, my falcon are encouraged with food and then the trust and bond follows but in the end the hawk is killing and for itself out of hunger

I am partial to black labs although we have had many shorthairs, springers and pointers. The black lab seems to be the most intelligent of the dogs and a olfactory beyond belief. My present lab is the queen of the house and she pretty much dicates our routing. Here younger sister is a very pleasant mild manner German Wirehair that looks like if just came out of the Bavarian Forest. Together they are a team and the wirehair is depressed without the lab unless she is afield. They go everywhere with us and if we can not take by auto we do not go

HEADING WESTWARD BACK TO THE BEGINING

2007-10-25T12:44:00.000-07:00

As the Indian summer had streak well into October and being alone for several weeks in the forest, I yearned for the open space of the Prairie. I would head west to find more Huns and Sharptail and visit with long time friends. And so I left the Northwood filled with wonderful memories, plenty of shooting and great ruffed dinners. I would head toward Alberta hunt the Praise again and pass through the States from the Canadian Rockies.

This drive is always special from sunrise to sunset. as the skies were alive with the constant flocks of geese staging for the south. I was in the area I wanted to hunt when there were no more blue phase geese just pure white Arctic geese. I was back in the the western flyway

FI had to stop by Lake Diefenbaker and catch some LUNKER rainbow trout on fly rods. For many years I have been camping by Diefenbaker hunting was superb and so was the fly fishing. I was ito my friends home for an evening of visiting, watching the world series or Corner Gas, catching up on the family and a home cooked meals. The rye flowed with pepsi as did the Molson or Pilzner. How grand these small town were and all over the province I was constantly being cooked for and entertained by the wonderful hospitality of the farming community. You see up here the hunter is a respected endeavouring

PUSHING INTO THE FORREST

2007-10-25T12:06:00.000-07:00

To the Northwood’s.

I knew the forest grouse numbers were way up this year but the number were ridiclous and I often had to stop grouse shooting within the hour as not to exceed my limit of twenty. I enjoyed the quiet isolation of the deep forest impregnated with the scent of the black spruce and poplar trees. I could think of the French trappers and Jesuits who explore this land in the 16^th century and the vast numbers of fur animals that thrived in this lush place but mostly I dreamed of flushing ruffed grouse as they disappeared into the thick forest stands.

This habitat is where the German Wirehair Fe Rey thrives and excels. She can point or flush and will even point the tree the grouse lands in. She is an incredible dog after many years of hunting she is perfect for flushing and the retrieve of the ruffed.

I was up north of Flin Flon when the rain stopped. There were no hotels for a hundred miles and I was cozy in the Lance overlooking a lake filled with loons and song birds with the wolves howling at night. Within a minute or so I flushed a covey of ruffed. My new Holland and Holland Royal swung through the flush and the birds just continued to fly with it sortie. Not a good beginning but I would later learn to keep my head down on the Holland. Fe was off again into he bush and managed to flush to cock ruffed over me and the open bore Holland and Holland royal cut loose with a string of lead. She was on it quickly and brought it back to drop it at my feet. Fe would get and extra ration this evening.

Camping here is beyond explanation being alone in wild and pristine habitat where it could snow a foot over night. I knew I could handle anything except deep mud in the Ford Diesel with the extra weight of the Lance. The Lance was awesome totally self contained with dual batteries fuel by a new solar panel I installed. The queen size bed was perfect for a good night sleep and I could sleep comfortably even as the temp dipped below 0. I had my cabin the woods and the dogs as companions and I was experiencing the joys of the wild living off the harvest

IT RAINED DUCKS

2007-10-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

This afternoon it rained green heads. The decoy spread stayed in the pea field after the morning shoot. Morning shoot had plenty of blues phase Arctic, giant Canada’s and few lesser. The coffin blinds worked wells but the 4 dozen big foot and light snow pulled them in. We would have duck and goose breast for supper in a Currituck sauce. Even the dogs where chomping their lips. The low clouds, impending snow where fast cutting across the flat prairies building in the south. It would be a good afternoon duck shoot. Who could have imagined what was to happen after lunch. The pea field comprised a half section near the Cree Res. The whites leased the land from the band and they were more than willing to let us hunt the fields for a piece of the action. They also enjoy ducks and geese feed on the grain fields but we stopped at giving away the whisky

Field peas, very high protein souce and soil nitrogen fixer, are a rotational crop as part of wheat cycle. After combining they are shipped to feed lots for cattle fattening and also to the Mid East for pulse, a staple in their diets. Migrating water fowl prefer these fields to barley and wheat.

One of my hunting friends was a southern man with an III as suffix to his name. He was fifth generation and could tell you which battle his ancestors fought in the “war of Northern aggression.” He was willing to take on the northern yankee flight of ducks with valor. By 4:30 a ight drizzle had begun and there were fifteen mallards down. By 5:30, a limit. The Winchester model 21 duck models handled the 3-inch bismuth with ease and birds fell from upwards of 50 yards. Most important was the dogs working to retrieve all the sailors’ birds. Belle found eight birds in the deep cover and her feet were almost bloody from the stubble in the next field where many ducks tried to escape to. She would come back with two ducks in her mouth

THE WHEELER ISLAND BOYZ

2007-10-08T16:03:00.000-07:00

My first day visiting Sykes was hard on the dogs. I had to chain them up in order to keep them from wandering the countryside . Something they were used to doing down on the Prairires. This was the parklands and the bush was loaded with whitetail. IT won't take much for the hunting dogs to stray.

When I arrived after a filling Fall dinner at Herndon, The Wheeler Island hunters belonged to a duck club down near the California Pacific coastal range. The were straight out of Californina , the north thank God and all had been duck hunting together for many years. They were very excited about having a natural gas field under their marsh. Although, they were not uber dog guys they had labs back home and one even managed to sneak a cute little springer in named Jack. Jack thought he had died and gone to dog heaven with all the birds.

The patrons were two fathers and their sonswho were on a return trip with Sykes. Jim and Harold were the senior members of the group and I thought at first were brothers they way they related to each other. Harold’s son, Derik was the most forthright and engaging being very transparent and great winger shooter. Harold enjoyed his duck shooting but it was the spicy “Bloody Marys" made by Derik that set the tone with Jim curing his mallard breast in a tasty jell sauce. After the morning shoot and a bloody Mary this crew spent the remainder of the morning hand cleaning ALL their birds for traansport back home. They reaped the cornucopia of game.

At once, I held these hunters apart from the other American I have been with and hunted with who so often come and go with little respect for the game they harvest. Although I decided not to hunt until the mallards were further mature in 10 days or more . I enjoyed their enthudism for the process. Rarely had I witnessed the American caring for their birds in such a professional manner. Jim and his three sons truly had the times of their lives leaving the pressures of the Bay traffic and pressure to add value to their portfolio for at least this week. k. All of them came together without one cross word and truly a treat to see family and friends enjoy one another.

I enjoyed being akin to the Cal scence again, albeit for just a short time. Great wines, talk of exspensive hunt clubs, winter ski trip and attempts at fly fishing, founder shares, Series A and B rounds and pre money valuations. I recalled quickly what I didn't miss about the Bay culture.

Jim Sr, a meticulous man, brought some great vintages and daily prepared mallard "de jour" marianted in a Currituck sauce worthy of my duck club in North Carolina. Well into the weeks and Sykes tiring of two daily shoots, I decided to show these gentlemen hunter the Quills Lakes, the reason for such abundance of waterfowl in good water years. And so Sykes who aimed to please his clients packed up my Weber gas grill with pressed duck breast, Jim’s excellent choice of a Napa Cab and off we were to watch the sun go down, the witness ducks hop from one slough to another and the White geese leave by the millions to feed on the left over field peas and barley. We would have a California gathering on the Quills

At the end of the week they parted happy campers and vowed to return. I hope the waters returns next year for it was an exceptional season for ducks. I will stop in to see them when I go back to the Parklands next year.

Yikes with Sykes

2007-10-07T14:34:00.000-07:00

Yikes with Sykes

Sunday October 5

I was in an up beat mood after chasing Huns and Sharp tails in southern Saskatchewan for a week. I will return to these grounds later in the trip when the grouse have bunched up and the white fronted geese are fat and excellent for roasting. Daughter, Cate was back safe in San Francisco after her Oxford University Studies. She and the two boys traveled with me many times during there home schooling years they all appreciate the warmth the Prairies exudes. Catherine is an independent strikingly handsome woman being 6’ tall a little less than 130 lbs. She is becoming a scholar with wide breadth of writing and analytical skill. Our two sons are immersed with engineering courses at the University. So it was just I and the two dogs that were traveling this year. I love being alone not having a schedule and spending time where I wish. Ellen was busy with a new analysis project and the hunting dog were ready and so was I for the cool season to change the ducks from drab color to mating plumage. I would visit around the Quill Lakes with friends until the 2 week and if the weather held go up north to the wolf poplar black spruce country to camp deep in the bush hunt ruffed and spruce grouse, and be alone. I could return to the central part of the province to shoot geese and ducks when the northern greenhead and snow geese blanketed the pot hole and the decoy shooting is fit for a King.

I meant Sykes while fly fishing Oregon. He asked me to visit his waterfowl lodge in Saskatchewan close to my traditional duck hunting area. Sykes was short on good help although he had a talent Mennonite cook his guides were locals and didn't until Sykes trained to determined if the geese were feeding or ready lift off and stage to the next larger pot hole. I agreed to introduce him to some of my farmer friends and show him the Quills but I couldn’t hunt or guide for him as I was very busy this fall. Still he wanted me to come up and stay with him and give him some advice on hunting strategy. And so I arrived around the first week near my hunting grounds. Sykesd was in the midst of his frrrirst gruop and to working 12 hours a day. He was nonstop but most important knew how to deal with clients and Sykes.

This year the spring rains and runoff had recharged the soil and there were pothole filled with ducks and geese as I hadn’t seen in 20 years. The farmers had been draining the shallow slough and seeding them for so long that when the rains water did show it ripped a new river down to a basin lake and flooded out vacation homes at Fishing Lake My farmer friends around the Quills all tell me that the ducks were back and like the 1950. They were dead on and the shooting esp. later in October was nothing but spectacular

The duck population around the Quill had exploded and so I would take some time to visit Sykes before the real Duck shooting been in the 3 rd week. Sykes is a one man operation with energy to match. He enjoys the center of attention and is very charming his clients. I enjoyed him and stayed in the background as he showed some very good hunters a very good series of hunts. I arrived at the d3ewveloing lodge after s fall dinner at Henedon. I was filled with home cooked garden reared veggies, ham, and deserts. When I entered Sykes place they were being served desert of apple crumb pie and the aroma hit me as the door swung open. Sykes was at the table, Filson hat lifted well above his brow and the quietkly introduce me to his group of family duck hunters from the Bay area. I would watch with amusement for the next week as Sykes and these close knit group of duck hunters day after day enjoyed to the fullest what the Quill had to offer.

The outside of lodge was in development but the inside was taking shape as a first class destination for the hunter. I thought it might need a woman touch but that impression quickly faded when I enter the lodge to a vaulted ceiling supporting a rock façade fireplace and an impressive clockwise twisted juniper tree that anchored the bar. His dinning room was wonderful; rich color and the mud room w big and warm. Sykes was the chief, court jester and guide wrapped into a single human. He was well on his way to build a first class lodge within an hour of the world’s finest goose duck hunting assuming the water and pot holes stay filled. He had all the equipment from go devil Jon Boat to dozens of Zinks coffin blinds, big foots and field duck decoys to lure the duck hordes. Sykes wanted me to help him scout which I did towards Foam Lake and the Quill but I could not take money and I was way to involve with other commits to begin the process.

It's Time to let the Dawgs Loose

2007-10-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

Let the Hunts Begin

The back roads are always empty in southern part of the Provinces. They had a dry summer and the crop was off early but the prices are high. I find a place near the bottom lands that always produced Huns and grouse. I am using my new old Holland and Holland Royal ejector with Damascus tubes and a new leather pad I had installed. The game gun fits me to a tee and with open bore over pointing dogs, the Holland is deadly. My farmer friends who shoot more practical guns have Mossberg pumps and one even splurged to use a Remington 870. They and their boys always join me hoping to see me shoot my Hammerguns but they are satisfied as I am using Damascus. This will be a morning shoot and the birds are plentiful and mature. By noon we have bagged twelve Huns and four grouse. I have to tag mine as a Alien non residence, typical over use of terms by gov types, while the rest of the natives just fields dress them for tomorrow nights supper.

The dogs are watered as we head back to the farm for a noon dinner. The Mrs. has prepared a feast of Saskatchewan table fare and although next week is the Canadian Thanksgiving, Lorrie she pull out all the stops from her garden we feast on fresh butchered chickens, red mashed potatoes, buttered turnip pirogues and heaps of ripe sweet tomatoes and cucs. I bring Ellen’s pickle and the readily pass the test. Ellen is invited to move up here and garden. Ellen would be happy with a high sped internet connection and a loamy silt soil for her gardens. Saskatchewan is bettered wired than the US and there is wireless even “out yonder.”

Table talk ranges from the early harvest and the fields having no moisture to weather the winter to Bush and Cheney getting us into Iraq and the overwhelming debit and credit crash. I am not an apologist for Bush and it is tough to hear how angry many are up here about America is toppled as the leader of the free world. They believe as I that the armed forces are the finest with a task hard to due but in the end they will prevail as the Canadian Force are doing in Afghanistan. I’ve had enough of CNN and “fair and balanced Fox and Limbaugh and I turned my attention to the living room to watch the teenage boys roughing on the floor it with my dogs. They can not get enough of them and their playfulness. They are used to farm dogs that keep the coyotes and foxes away from the poultry. They love the lab especially for her retrieving abilities on cripple but Fe the wirehair is so wolfish looking they enjoy her antics and hunting powers but fear her a bit.

Late afternoon after a siesta from the food we load the dogs and Jack will get into waders. We throw five greenhead decoys into the back of the dodge and the three pickup head down the grid road to the five acres pot hole that was bursting with mallards. The tactic k is to first scare off the ducks quickly surround the tree lined water and safely shoot the greenheads as they return beckoned by calls and a few decoys. It is almost like shooting ducks in timber. Within ten minutes the mallard’s ducks begin to trickle back. We are mindful that Susie shooting is fines and so we pass several hens before Belle is sent to retrieve two ecliptic mallards. There are seven of us and the limit is 56 and these farmers still enjoy roast and Bar B Qed duck like mother used to cook. I love my Duck

Its was Time to Travel Back those 70 years

2007-09-30T18:41:00.000-07:00

I recall clearly, my Grandparent’s farm on the rattlesnake butte near Bonesteel, South Dakota near the Missouri river. Grandfather, a lawyer practiced law in Bonesteel South Dakota and represented the Lakota tribal members in front of Congress. Patrick Joseph, PJ, was a 9 times delegate to the Democratic National Convention and when he died in 1943, FDR sent grandmother a personal note of condolence and the Sioux nation gave him a tribal burial after the local catholic Priest said the last prayers. He was the only white man ever to be given title as chief by the Dakota Sioux.

PJ and the family lived in town with a hired man and his family to live out on the farm. He'd drive his Ford everyday during the cropping season to watch the cattle grow and the corn and alfalfa mature. He loved the farm and it kept his five daughters and 2 sons, all college educated, in food during the deep depression when cash was scarce.

Visiting the dry prairies of South Dakota as a child was completely foreign than the lush green river hill of my northern Illinois upbringing. For one, people were few far in between in Bonesteel and the continual silence of the grandparents’ big pririre house scared me at night. You always seemed alone and on your own with nothing to do unless you went swimming or watched my grandmother, aunts and mom play bridge. Even walking to Mass on Sunday was an outing I looked forward toward.

This cycle repeat itself every year until I was 14. We took the Hiawathia from Milwakee to Siouz City each summer visiting for 2 month the Aunts and Uncles in Nebraska and South Dakota. My father stayed in Illinois and wouldn’t invade this space unless he was willing to comitt to playing bridge or being the dummy.

I have 34 first cousin and all our aunts behaved like Mom. There was little I could get away with and I used to tell the Dominican Nuns at St. Anne’s in Barrinton that another of my mums was pregnant somewhere out in Nebraska or South Dakota.TheNuns understood these closeknit Irish families of the upper Midwest and approved.

The heat of those Dakota days eased somewhat at night and then the locust would begin their incessant buzz. Sleeping without covers was the only way to fall asleep on hot the upper screened porch that often housed 6 to 10 cousins who where visting the Praire house. I never got accustomed to the Locust noise or the lightning and thunder at night. To this day, those sounds have never abated and so before sleep even in the dead of winter I listen to the TV or radio to fall asleep.

And the day light stayed forever. Falling asleep at 8 with the sun still out was trying at best. We were all well feed with fresh corn, snap beans and tomatoes from the farm. It seemed we had steak or pork ribs most night and so hot dogs and chips with cold orange Kool Aid was special. My mother was home here at theis three story praire home with her four sisters sometimes a brother or two playing bridge 24/7 talking and gossiping and visiting like small town folks can master. I was happy because Mom was very happy.

The short grass vastness and silence and the small town talk infected me like a polio virus. I never knew how bad it was until years later I ventured to the Canadian Prairies with my own family seeking a peace I had lost during my intense graduate work and research projects. I felt comfortable in Saskatchewan with prairie farmers and town folks. These town support the farmers and were the size of my grandparents’ town and farm back in the 1950’s. I found Indiana like my northern Illinois roots but the great vistas of the Dakota could only be satisfied with the compelling landscape of the West. I tried but couldn’t find or feel that sense of place in America as small towns and sense of community had vanished under the weight of modern Agriculture and the corporate tax structure. Crossing to Saskatchewan was revisiting my youth and I have been traveling there 6 weeks each fall for the past 20 years.

Up to the Yellowstone down to Cody on the way to Canada

2007-09-30T13:53:00.000-07:00

Cody Wyoming onto the Saskatchewan

It was years ago, as a Purdue grad student yearning for the clear waters of Yellowstone, that I often drove through Cody on my way to fly fish the Madison River. I remembered Cody as a dusty and windy town at the base of the eastern or leeward side of the Yellowstone Plateau. Nothing had changed in Cody except for the expansion of the Buffalo Bill Museum. As I climb eastward up the ancient crater Yellowstone Lake past our trailhead to Clear Creek, past memories of wonderful trout fishing days swelled and I was back to those earlier days when nothing could go wrong. My son, Nick now 24, was baptized in Clear Creek. My wife Ellen with our fathers hiked into the stream after Ellen gave birth 3 weeks before. She was a new mother but fly fishing was a passion and she would not be denies but she had forgotten diapers for Nicholas. My father in law, a wonderful man a fly fishing nut, Ph.D. educated and out of West Point whom I continual sought his approval for marrying his eldest daughter accepted me after I guided him there to witness thousand of 18” cutthroats willing to grab and dry fly especially huge yellow humpies. It as the golden era of trout fishing before lightweight module rods created a multitude of choice. When Helen Shaw and Dale Clemens and Charlie Brooks were the gurus of fly tying, rod building and western stream fly fishing respectively. But that was then and I was heading up to Canada to participate in another golden time.

The new highway carries me up to the east entrance with towering peaks that transport me back to the Southern Alp Fjorlands of New Zealand for the briefest of moments. I like it when I transport in geography from my global travels.

I needed a provenance letter for my Duck Model Winchester Model 21. The Model 21 Duck is an exceptional handling weapon during the waterfowl season. There is a feel to the gun that exudes confidence to its handler and it is difficult to explain how well it feels in the hand. It swings like there is not weight to the weapon yet can handle heavy load without a care. This Winchester was commissioned by to General Omar Bradley in 1947 who supplied the timber from root stocks taken from French Walnuts near Normandy after the D-day invasion. I wanted the info about date of order and delivery.

I parked on a back alley in Cody. I am an expert on urban camping and by 7:30 I was falling asleep to the “Tom Clancy’s “The Hunt for the Red October” starring Sean Connery. “The Hunt,” a movie I must have watched over a 1,000 times puts me to sleep. And within minutes of playing, I and my dogs are asleep. I am awakening around 3 am with the howling of the winds and the Lance is rocking back and forth like a schooner tacking around the Horn. I turn on the “The Hunt” and within minute I am asleep.

Morning comes quickly again with the winds and I located an espresso shop where I’m informed the Rockies might make it to the playoff. How could this be and the Latte triple shot latte was just right and life is good very good. Cruised over to the Sierra Trading Post and nothing of interest as it has morph into a REI without gear. Across the street is the Buffalo Museum and within minute after asking for the gun records I was escorted down to the basement where a woman with an earphone was busy handling a request scrolling through microfiche on her computer. She repeats the information for a model 1897, and with in minute she has my information. There is no charge and I learn that indeed the “duck” was made as a bespoke gun for Omar Bradley in 1947 who supplied the wood in 1946 that Winchester air dried. It had Fleur de leys pattering with grade B checkering. It was ordered in June of 1946 and delivered in March of 1947

The rest of the Museum was a combination of 4 themes. There were many Winchester models 21 and almost all makes of weapons. I did notice that I was the only person without too many gray hairs. It was comforting to see many couple enjoying the Cody museum many in their 70’s drinking soda pop, high carb foods and even s desert of two. I thought the Museum was way to simplistic esp. about the natives, but enjoyed the tribute to Buffalo Bill but I needed fresh air and was on the road heading to Billing and up to Malta and Saskatchewan. I had to move on and get up to the pure lands of Saskatchewan where I would work with the Canadian Nature Conservancy and witness the fall migration truly an event of epic portions