Turkey in moonshine country

The morning of opening day of the Kentucky turkey season I was but a tiny speck on the dark side of the planet earth.  Our hunting spot was nestled deep within hills known as much for their moonshine as for their bird hunting, but two things were certain; the rotation of the earth meant that the sun would soon be visible, and therefore if we didn’t hurry up every bird in Christian County would see us sneaking to our spot on the edge of this 70 acre field.

This morning my partner and I would sneak deep into a part of this huge agricultural field that he calls “turkey cove”.  Sunrise was approaching faster than we had expected, so we stepped off the bean field and took a pair of seats against the first trees we came to.  There was nothing but a thin veil of brush between us and the field.  Now we would wait. 

We hadn’t been in our seats a minute before we heard the first gobble from a roosted bird on the other side of the field.  I’m new to turkey hunting and my first thought was that it was pretty neat to hear a gobble since I hadn’t heard one on my last three hunts.  I had no way of knowing that the first gobble we heard would be the opening lesson in what would become a masters level course in turkey behavior.

The sky was turning an early morning gray and within seconds of hearing that first gobble we heard hens yelping on the same ridge.  They were yelping to the left, down low, up high, over on the right then another outrageous gobble.  There were so many hens calling that I couldn’t keep up with them.  Some sounded raspy and textbook, and others sounded very plain like a rookie hunter with a turkey call.  We were on 927 acres of private land that sat along the Pond River and I knew there were no other hunters here...but I couldn’t believe a real turkey could sound so much like a bad box call.

Now the sky was getting brighter and we saw the first bird gliding down from the ridge.  It followed the slope of the tree tops until it cleared the field edge, and then touched down in an open spot about 200 yards from us.  Before we could really say much about it, another three birds pitched out and glided to the same spot.  “Sweet” one of us whispered to the other in a tone of hushed awe.  Now two more birds came in, then four flew down, on and on it went until there were almost thirty birds in the field. 

I was shocked.  I had never seen this many turkeys in front of me...and they weren’t done piling in.  Three hens busted out of the tree line across from us and ran down the field to join the others.  A few minutes later a pair of toms ran out the same way...when they turned to run toward the others I could see beards nearly dragging the ground.  From every hill and valley around us we could hear thunderous gobbles and hens yelping and purring and making every other type of sound a turkey could make.  At this point I felt pretty good about my calling abilities...I sounded way better than a lot of these birds!

So far we hadn’t made a sound.  We wanted to see how this would shape up.  Before long our spirits sank.  The hens led the group out to our right…way out into the middle of this field.  Toms were blowed up and strutting and hens acted like they were more interested in feeding than in paying attention to the boys.  Birds fought and kicked each other.  At times toms strutted three wide shoulder-to-shoulder all blowed up as if marching in formation.  At this early point in the morning we had no less than 35 birds on the field all stretched out as if in a parade that led to the middle of the field.  There were groups of hens being courted by smaller groups of toms...all along the parade route the gobblers were in various stages of being puffed up.  There were deer a few hundred yards beyond the turkeys and more blowed up toms a few hundred yards beyond them.  It was truly a postcard type picture.  The only noise that ever punctuated the non-stop talk of the turkeys was the sound of a hunter on some far away hill sending a gobbler to his grave.  BOOM went the sound of opening day success for some lucky hunter. 

With every boom our spirits got a little lower...other hunters were having success as our turkeys were slipping further and further away from danger.  The entire parade moved out into the middle of the field and then began to split up, moving in smaller groups to our right.  Some went into coves further down the field while a few eased into a cove of the field about 100 yards to our right.  At this point I asked my partner if we should pull back and try to get ahead of the parade.  He said "nah...let's just sit tight and see what happens". 

Meanwhile, a smaller group of hens that had been moving steadily toward our position directly to our front were getting very close,..uncomfortably close.  A group of three hens had fed all the way to our doorstep.  They were a scant 10 yards away and apparently had no intentions of leaving.  It was time to make like a statue.  We could not move a muscle with birds this close.

The main problem was that I was already in an uncomfortable position.  I had my knees propped up so I could rest my wrists on them and I was holding my gun.  My right leg was beyond merely being asleep...it had gone from pins and needles, to burning, to almost numb.  My right leg was going to be a real problem...I thought I might really do some physical damage to it if I didn’t get circulation to it quickly.  I had visions of losing my leg to gangrene because of these birds...a tradeoff I might make for a huge gobbler but not for some hens. 

About the time I thought I was just going to have to risk moving it with no regard for blowing the birds out...the hens began moving to my left...and they kept on walking.  Oh thank goodness!  I’ll get to stretch my...wait...more birds...coming even closer.  I watched in horror as a fresh set of hens moved right up to the brush line in front of me.  I had hens at eye-level 6 yards from me...my leg was killing me to the point where it was now a mental battle...like a claustrophobic being trapped in a coffin I had to struggle to remain in control.  It took every ounce of self control I had to not move.  Just one move would ease the pain, one small move would save me so much suffering...it might even save my leg.  I knew my partner must have been dealing with the same issue.  There’s just no way to prepare for having this many birds this close for this long. 

These hens weren’t going anywhere though...they were intent on torturing us.  They were so close I could’ve strangled one.  Oh how they stayed...just looking around and eating.  There was never a time when they all had their heads down.  One of them was always up and peering into the woods.  They were almost in my lap and I had no idea how they couldn’t see me.  About the time I was convinced I would die if I didn’t move, my brain suggested that scaring these hens off might actually be a good thing.  There were no toms around and they were just cramping our style so why not move and scare them off?  About this time my partner whispered to me “hey...don’t move...gobblers behind us.  If I give you the signal wheel around and shoot them.”

He said it so matter of fact.  He said it like he was talking to a man who had full use of his arms and legs.  At this point that was not me...I had no ability to move my right leg and was rapidly losing the ability to move my left arm.  Asking me to “wheel around” would be akin to asking a guy with no legs to do a 40 yard dash. 

I eased my head to the right, looked over my shoulder and saw two big toms moving behind us.  They were all blowed up, wing tips dragging the ground, red and blue heads gliding silently over the forest floor with beards nearly touching the ground.  It was as impressive a display as one could encounter in the woods.  Now I had three hens 6 yards in front of me, and two big blowed up toms 10 yards behind me.  Still we sat.  I lost them when my eyeballs ran out of room to pivot right...but I could still hear them drumming.  Oh my legs. 

A few minutes later the toms disappeared deeper into the woods behind us.  Miraculously the hens to my front retreated on their own.  At this point I got the blessed relief I was looking for.  I put my gun down and used both hands to straighten my right leg so I could reposition to the other side of the tree.  The toms were behind us so that’s the way we’d hunt. 

In less than a minute we were both facing away from the field we had watched all morning and were looking back into the woods, my partner to my left and in front of me by about 2 or 3 yards.  He was looking to his left and announced that he saw something where the cove (now on our left) meets the woods.  He stroked the slate call and a thunderous gobble returned to us.  80 yards out he could see two gobblers.  I was looking straight ahead while he looked left.  Deep into the woods I saw a dark shape move between the “V” of a large split trunk oak.  “That’s not normal” I thought.  I got my binoculars up and saw another shape move past the same spot.  I scanned right and found a bird paralleling our position about 80 yards out...then another.  Two birds were moving left to right.  “Ugh” I thought “they’re not coming in…they’re just paralleling us and will disappear.”

I told my partner that I had “birds right”.  He kept looking left and said “I see them.”  I reiterated “no dude...look right...birds are on the right”.  Still he looked left.  I told him “look past that dead cedar tree...they are moving past it to the right.”  That was enough to get him on the birds. 

He hit the slate and another volley of gobbles came back to us.  I could see the birds turn toward us.  I whispered at him “Here they come.  You want to take the left one and I’ll take the right?”

“Cool” came the reply.  The downed cedar formed an obstacle that the birds had to go around.  Once they got to the end of it, the trail was the equivalent of a sidewalk that led more or less right to us.  We both had our guns up, and as the birds rounded the corner looking directly at us they were puffed up as big as they could be.  The moment they rounded that corner they were in my kill zone.  There was now nothing but 40 yards of empty space between me and my first turkey.   

I was waiting on my partner to confirm that he had a visual on the left bird.  The birds were at 40 yards. 

“I’ve got no shot” he said.  The birds slowly marched.

I waited, hoping that in a few more steps something might open up for him.

“If you have a shot at the left bird, take it” he whispered. 

38yards.

“OK”

36 yards.

“Do you have a shot?”

“No”

BOOM!  My sights had been on the tom since he rounded the corner and all it took was enough pressure to move the trigger a fraction of an inch, the sear tripped, the hammer fell, the firing pin lurched forward and sent 2 ounces of number 6 shot right into that birds face.  It folded like a lawn chair and began wildly and reflexively flapping it’s wings.

The trailing bird recoiled at the noise for just a fraction of a second, then loaded his legs and sprang on top of the first bird that was dying and started whooping his butt.  I mean he was laying it to him, doing the River Dance on the dying corpse of his buddy.  I was shocked.  I was in no way prepared for that reaction. 

The bird was so distracted by dishing out this beating that it enabled my partner to move far enough right to get a shot at him.  BOOM!  The shot knocked the bird off his pal and into the leaves behind him.  In a moment he was back on his feet and running.  BOOM!  A second shot was sent at the wounded but running bird.  When the second shot went off the bird took a turn that had him coming right at us.  At the last second he veered to our left and made for the field.  I still had a round in the chamber and quickly asked “do you want me to finish him?”  The bird was stopped with his head right in my sights as I waited for the answer. 

My partner looked to be fishing for another shell and I didn’t want to take a shot without confirmation.  The last thing I wanted was for him to not hear me and step into my line of fire so I waited for his answer.  “Yeah, finish him” came the response.  As soon as the words were uttered the bird took a step and put a tree between us.  It seemed like a year passed before he took another step that had him back in the kill zone...his head popped out...BOOM!  Game over. 

I had just taken my first ever turkey, and we had taken two in the span of perhaps 10 seconds.  What a fantastic day that was.  It had gone from promising, to hopeless, to a very tense and painful standoff, to opportunity and finally success.  This is the type of experience that gets people hooked on hunting.

Public land giant

Years ago I hunted nothing but public land around Oxford MS and the University of Mississippi.  To say that the area was “pressured” would be an understatement.  Over the years I’ve had 4-wheelers, dogs, walkers, hikers, hunters, and even bullets come by me while hunting.  As pressured as it was though...it was free.  

Back when I was hunting this land the rule was that you couldn’t shoot a doe.  There was one day per year scheduled as a “doe day” and as you might imagine...the doe somehow got wind of the schedule every year and they took that day off.  So it was bucks only and there was tons of pressure.  

I didn’t have much in the way of equipment back then either.  I frequently hunted to the verge of hypothermia because I simply didn’t have the money to buy warmer gear.  I hunted from the ground in makeshift blinds, I stalked, and used the occasional low tree branch to my advantage.  I had a good rifle though, and my determination was top notch and with that combination a lot of good things can happen.

One morning I decided to hunt a field we called Praying Mantis due to the fact that we once saw a big mantis stuck in an ant hill getting devoured by thousands of fire ants.  This was a long narrow field on top of a hill that had a power line trail cutting across it right where you entered the field.  So you climb up a slight slope, and when you step onto the long narrow field you can look straight down the length of it to the other end, or you can look right and left to look down the power line trail.  

That morning I had decided to set up on the power line trail and hope that a buck might come creeping across where I had found some sign.  I was about 150 yards down the power line and if I looked back up the hill I could just see the edge of it...but couldn’t see onto it.  

The power line trail was maybe 40 yards wide and while it was fairly clear in the middle, the edges where it transitions back to the woods were all choked up with thick vegetation.  There was no way I could sit on the ground as the visibility would be very restricted.

Looking around for my next best option all I saw were tall limbless trees.  Well...they were limbless until you got to about 15 feet up the trunk...then there were limbs...but they offered nothing in the way of limbs you might be able to climb with.  I loved the spot and didn’t want to abandon it, but I had seemingly no options.  As I stood there with a burning desire to hunt this spot it occurred to me that I might be able to bear-hug the tree and inch my way up the trunk until I could grab a limb at the 12 to 15 foot level.  Once I did that I could wrestle my way up into a better spot.

I stood at the base of a likely tree with my hands on my hips and my head cocked like a dog working an algebra problem.  I thought my plan could work, but the closer I got to executing it the more ridiculous it seemed.  If you doubt me, just walk out back and bear hug a tree...feet off the ground...see if you can climb a few feet up the trunk.  My best plan is to throw my arms and legs around this tree trunk, and then try to shimmy up it like a caterpillar.  I had nothing else to do, and no better options so I tied a rope to my gun and the other end to my belt...and up I went.   The first few feet of the climb were pretty awkward, the next few feet really hurt, the next few feet gave way to a glimmer of hope that this might actually work.  Slowly and painfully I was closing in on the lowest branch of the tree.  It was about 12 feet off the ground.  Now that I was getting close I realized I had to figure out a way to get on the branch.  Was I going to ease out onto it in a pull-up position?  Would I try to get an elbow over it?  I really wasn’t sure and the closer I got the more important the decision seemed.  Through the fog of time I really can’t recall how I made the transition but I know that I did because for the next three hours I stood on that branch holding my rifle.  

I stood atop a three inch wide branch with one foot in front of the other and my back pressed up against the tree trunk.  I had another limb to my left at around elbow height that I used to steady myself so I wouldn’t fall out of the tree.  All in all it was a stable, if uncomfortable, perch with a dynamite view of the area I wanted to hunt.  From this vantage point I could see a long way down the power line trail in both directions.  To my right the trail rose gradually, and then more steeply as it approached the bean field.  To my left it just continued to fade away downhill.

This was perfect.  I had a good chance of busting any buck that came creeping around this trail.  Once I got settled in I realized just how nice a day it was.  There were high blue skies, sunshine, and crisp cold air...just what the doctor ordered for a Saturday morning.  If I didn’t fall to my death then this could become one hunt to remember.  

Sadly a few hours went by with no activity at all.  Around 11:00 AM I heard a car door slam, then another, then another.  Ugh...public land.  Not 5 minutes later I see three hunters up the hill on the field.  I can hear that they are talking but I can’t make out the words.  Two continue down the bean field and out of sight, but one starts walking straight down the power line trail toward me.  Ugh...public land.  

In short order he was right in front of me and I called out “Good morning.”  He came to an abrupt and startled halt.  He looked around for a moment trying to figure out where the voice had come from and I again called out “hey...”  He looked up and stood there speechless for a few seconds with his head cocked like a dog trying to work an algebra problem.  When he finally spoke he asked “How did you get up there?!?”  

“I climbed.”  Came my reply as if I do this sort of thing every day.  

“Well, we’re about to do a drive...you ought to stay right there ‘cause you might get a shot in a few minutes.”

“OK...thanks.”  I said.  Then he moved on down the trail.   

I didn’t see or hear anything for the next forty minutes, at which time I saw the hunter come by again. 

“We’re going to head out, too bad we didn’t see nothing”.  

“Yep” I replied.  His friends had pulled a truck up onto the field and I watched him climb the hill to meet them.  The truck doors slammed a few more times and they all drove away.

I stood in my tree pondering my next move.  It had already been a slow morning, then these guys showed up and burned the area all around my stand by stomping through it, then they had actually driven onto the field and slammed their doors a bunch of times.  This place was dead...I would be better off by going to down for lunch and trying someplace else this afternoon.  

I unloaded my gun, put the scope cover on, and lowered it to the ground. I then bear hugged the tree, and reversed the shimmying process while trying to protect the more delicate parts of my body that were in danger of serving as a friction brake as I slowly slid down to the ground.  If I did this wrong I might never have kids.  It crossed my mind that bears make this look a LOT easier when they do it.

Finally back on the ground I dusted all of the loose bark off my clothes, quickly admired all of the scrapes on my arms, slung my rifle and started the climb to the field on top of the hill.  

I was so hungry that my stomach was gnawing on my backbone.  My lunch options were flowing through my mind as I stared at the ground in front of me and put one foot in front of the other.  Pizza hut?  Nice salad bar.  All you can eat too.  crunch.  McDonalds?  Agh...too fat.  Wait...what was that “crunch”?  I stopped in my tracks trying to determine if I had actually heard something.  After about 10 seconds of listening I wrote it off and started marching again.  Slowly the lip of the field was approaching.  Once I got the edge of this narrow field all I had to do was turn left and it was all downhill to the truck...and to food.  

Finally my head was coming onto the same level as the field and I could see further across it.  Slowly I was marching and slowly it was all coming into view.  Just about the time I was able to see the whole field I saw it.  Right there...right...in front...of me.  At high noon, in broad daylight, on public ground, on a field that had received all kinds of noise and pressure...was the biggest buck I had ever seen.  He had his back to me and he was absolutely thrashing a sapling.  I’ll never forget it...it was a “Y” shaped sapling and the widest part of the “Y” was getting wrecked every time he threw his head up.  Those antlers were stripping bark from this poor sapling.  This tree hadn’t even had much of a start on life...and the only thing that could save it was me.  

Time began to move in slow motion.  Right about the time I realized what was happening the buck had started to turn to look over his shoulder.  It all happened fast but in my mind it was now a slow motion race.  I could see his right eye more as he turned his head to the right.  His nose was arcing through the air as those powerful neck muscles flexed.  His ears, nose, and eyes were all racing to check over his shoulder.

I on the other hand was racing to unsling my rifle.  I had it slung over my right shoulder for the march back to the truck.  My left foot slid forward into a firing stance as my left hand raced across my body to find the sling.  My right shoulder dipped, his right shoulder dipped.  I needed the gun to come off my shoulder but gravity could not pull it fast enough.  He started to shift his weight, my hand found the strap.  Broadside...he sees me.  My right hand finds the pistol grip and as I start to raise the gun to my shoulder his hind quarters explode and launch this beast into the safety of the woods just a few feet in front of him.  My rifle only made it to the ready position...the butt never reached my shoulder...he was gone.  

At this point my brain was still in action/confusion mode.  I hadn’t yet had time to process that the deer might be gone...or my brain might have shifted into the fall-down-and-vomit mode.  As I stood there on the edge of the field watching the hole in the woods next to the Y-shaped sapling where the deer had disappeared, the thought hit me...he has to go left.   That deer wouldn’t go straight because there was a road at the bottom of the hill.  He would probably go left and race across the power line trail...he’d have to cross 40 or 50 yards of bare ground!  I ran a few more yards up the hill.  I could now see the power line trail on the other side of the field.  My gun was up but below my line of sight.  This way I could watch with the naked eye until I saw him then lift the gun the last few inches, get him in the scope, and drop the hammer on the best public land trophy ever.

My pulse was hammering in my jugular veins...I mean it was throbbing so hard I thought my throat would explode...it was pounding so hard that it actually hurt.  WHOA!  THERE HE IS!!!  Right on time that magnificent creature ran out into the clearing.  Who knows what thoughts had formulated in his mind during this whole ordeal.  I imagine he bounded a few yards into the woods, then stopped and looked back like whitetail usually do.  During that pause he might have decided that he didn’t want to cross the road at the bottom of the hill.  He might have even decided that crossing the power line was his ticket to freedom.  Ultimately though it didn’t matter what he thought.  This was my plan, this was my day...and he just ran into the most exposed place he could’ve possibly chosen. 

When I saw him burst from cover I instinctively snapped the rifle up the last few inches, moving my barrel to track his movements and get the guns momentum heading the right way.  This deer wasn’t bounding like they normally do when fleeing.  This deer was burning a straight line like a jet powered Kentucky Derby winner.  His hooves were pounding the ground and he was a streaking-blur of tan and white.  Smoothly tracking him, my thumb flipped the safety forward and my brain was anticipating the sight of the crosshairs just ahead of the deer, I lowered my head until my cheek contacted the stock like I’ve done a million times before..and...WHAT!?!  Where did it go?  Everything went black.  In the panicked confusion I thought my scope was broken or that I had momentarily gone blind.  I remember thinking in that spit second that my pulse was beating so hard that I went blind...in reality it was far, far worse.  As that monster southern whitetail was making the biggest mistake of his life I realized that I too was making mine...I had forgotten to remove my scope cover after climbing down from the tree.  

Pound, pound, crash, POOF...he was gone.  He crossed the opening and left me in his dust.  He left me in confusion.  He left me stunned, and heart-wrenched, and nauseous.  I ran to the edge of the woods and desperately peered in...hoping and praying for a miracle I didn’t deserve.  I had committed several unforgivable rookie mistakes, and this animal had made me pay dearly for them.  If a deer can laugh...I bet he’s laughing to this day.  

Why these lessons can’t be learned on a doe I’ll never know.  I like to think that I’d learn the lesson if this happened when I was drawing down on a doe but maybe not.  Maybe the bigger the opportunity that’s lost the deeper the lesson is ingrained.  Maybe it’s the pain that forges the lesson.  At this point I was in some serious pain.  For the first time in the last few minutes since this started, the full weight of what happened hit me.  I had been presented with the public-land-opportunity of a lifetime...and I had blown it.  I alone was responsible for every bad thing that had happened.  I had worked really hard to make this hunt work, but in the end I wasn’t disciplined enough to seal the deal.  I had failed.

I wanted to lay down and puke my guts out.  I felt physically ill.  I had blown an opportunity of colossal proportions all because I wasn’t prepared.   I had my rifle slung over my shoulder.  I ignored the sounds I had heard.  I was in the woods with a scope that was covered.

That buck taught me some lessons I’ll carry with me to my grave:

If you think you heard something...you did. 

If you think you saw something...you did.

You are hunting from the moment you leave the truck until the moment you return.  

My gun is ready until I unload it at the tailgate.  I am always hunting.  

That buck ran out of my life and into my dreams.  The lessons learned would be driven home over the next few years by recurring nightmares of him getting away.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought of that deer over the years, but I can tell you that a lot of venison has gone to my freezer because of the lessons he taught me.  In the end I guess that’s what counts...that buck that got away made me a much better hunter. 

Lunkers, rednecks and eels

Fall is here and with it comes some of the best fishing of the year.  If you can deal with the discomfort of being outdoors in volatile weather you will be rewarded with some of natures best scenery and action.  

This past fall I spent three days at the lake with the family one weekend.  The fishing could be described as fun,  painful, and weird in that exact order.  The following is a recap of that trip.

Arrival

Friday afternoon was full of hope as I hit the lake in the cool air of a late Fall afternoon. It was still fairly warm outside but recent cold fronts have been pulling the water temps down, inducing bass to feed, and shocking the trees into changing colors.  When I arrived I saw an acquaintance at the ramp who is a professional bass guide.  He said to fish SLOW if I wanted to catch any.  That’s not great news because it means the fishing wasn’t great...and I hate to fish slow.  

Armed with his report I picked up my trusty Senko worm...the one that was designed to look like a bic pen...it’s a pretty boring lure...but when the fish want to slow dance there are few things better in my tackle box.  

I had the entire lake to myself and I eased down the bank slowly tossing my Senko, letting it sink, and gently twitching it...hoping to get a bite.  The water underneath me was 25 feet deep, but rose quickly to the bank just 20 yards away where it emerged in a jumbled mess of broken rock and gravel that in turn rose steeply again along cliffs and draws into the forested hills above me.  

The sun had dropped behind the big hills but there was still perhaps an hour of light left to work with.  As I quietly made my way down the bank casting at “fishy” looking spots I heard a crack high in a tree to my right.  I looked up to see a large Bald Eagle leap from his perch and take to flight with powerful sweeps of it’s huge brown-wings.  

I stopped fishing and watched as he locked his wings out and just glided down the river, soared back over the trees to my south, and disappeared over into the setting sun.  Watching that gigantic bird of prey made my night...and it told me I was probably in a good fishing spot as he likely wasn’t hanging out right here for the conversation.  

A few seconds later I approached a spot where I had seen bass chasing baitfish earlier.  I threw my green bic pen into the fray and BAM!  I had the first fish of the night...a smallmouth bass.  As I tossed him back I thought I heard something behind me and turned to notice a boat a few hundred yards distant.  I wasn’t alone anymore but I still had nobody crowding me.  

Next cast...another fish...this one larger.  After a short struggle I landed a largemouth bass.  As I tossed him back I couldn’t help but kick back and take in just how awesome the surroundings were.  I’m plucking fish out of the lake one after another with bald eagles soaring, the leaves turning bright on their trees, the crickets chirping...and about this time I had another song in the air.  My bucolic setting was now being periodically interupted by shouts of “MOTHERF#@$!#” as the redneck in the boat behind me struggled with motor problems.  Every few casts I’d hear a motor turning and turning and desperately trying to start followed by loud staccato bursts of cursing.  Ahhh yes...the serenade of the redneck...how I do love the outdoors.  

Under the power of his trolling motor he slowly made his way over toward me...I could see this coming a mile away.  I’d help anyone...anytime...but I sure would hate to have to pull off a bite like this.  Don’t get me wrong, if it was a pontoon boat full orphaned kids that needed help I’d drop whatever I was doing...I’d cut the line on a 10 lb bass if someones life was in trouble.  But this was a redneck in a johnboat with a 50 year old 25 HP motor.  That guy KNOWS his motor is going to fail him frequently so he really should plan his day around it.  I kind of empathized with him...I’d probably be cussing like that too if my motor quit.  I figured that if he asked for help I’d tow him to the shore and tell him I’d be back to get him after sundown or he could come fish with me until it got dark.  The fish were biting and I wasn’t pulling off this bite just because he couldn’t take care of his motor...that’s his problem...not mine.  Thankfully he never asked for help.  He got it going enough that he could reach the edge of the lake and that’s the last I saw of him.  After catching two more fish I blasted off for another spot.  

I had put five fish in the boat so the night was a total success.  I caught nothing more that evening.  About half past sunset I turned the boat north and headed back to the cabin.  The water was smooth, the air cool, and the scent of distant fires filled each breath as I blasted into the deepening blackness that enveloped the lake.

Winters warning shot

Saturday was one of those days that makes you appreciate the little things in life...like not dying of hypothermia.  It was cold and grey and as soon as I stepped onto the boat it began raining.  My slip at the marina is covered and I took a moment to ponder the situation.  My hands were arleady getting so cold that it was difficult tying knots.  Deciding didn’t take long...I’d come to fish and despite not having the right gear I’d give it a shot.  The cabin was nearby so the odds were good I could get warm before hypothermia ruined the day.  

As the wind whipped me there at the dock I realized that I had to get warm.  All I had on was a gortex shell, jeans, and a short sleeve t-shirt.  It was raining, windy, and the forecast was for 41 degree wind chill.  I quickly dug into a compartment and pulled out my best improvised solution...a foam filled life jacket.  If you spend a lot of time fishing you are likely among a fairly small group of people in the world who have donnned a life jacket not because the boat was going down...but to keep from freezing to death.  The thick panels of foam trap body heat very efficiently and after I put my rain-jacket over it I was tolerably warm.  While I couldn’t laugh right in Hypothermias face I could now at least chuckle behind it’s back.  

With my ad-hoc solution in place I left the cover of the dock.  A quick run down the river had me at a spot that should contain a great number of bass.  I had spoken with a game warden earlier in the day that told me the place was loaded with fish.  If a game warden tells me a spot is loaded...it’s the best sign ever...it’s the equivalent of insider trading in the financial world.  Except it’s not illegal in fishing...so I went to the spot he told me about.  

With great patience I worked through every lure I could think of that might work on this  matted grass flat my warden buddy told me about.  Despite what I thought...nothing worked.  The wind was constant and it pushed a soft rain the entire time.  Shortly before sunset I watched a coyote work the edge of some distant woods and silently I hoped that his luck would be better than mine tonight...I also envied the thick fur coat he was wearing.   

With the fading light came a heavier rain that demanded attention.  It was a cold sideways rain; the type that could hurt you if you weren’t prepared for it...and I was only half-prepared for this.  After a few more “last casts” I sat down, zipped my jacket up to my face, put on a set of ski goggles , pulled on my hood, and pushed the throttle.  The  boat quickly got on plane and as I pushed into the wind at 30 MPH the rain beat my jacket loudly and the wind chill made me thankful I had a cabin nearby. 

The length of any ride in a boat is determined not by distance...but by conditions.  The colder, windier, and wetter the weather the longer the ride...and by those standards tonights ride was not going to be short.  The life jacket was doing an admirable job of warming the parts it was covering...but there were many parts it didn’t cover.  Hands and arms and legs were all exposed and suffering at this point.  I kept the throttle down because I subscribe to the philosophy of suffering a lot for a short time, rather than less pain for a longer time.  As I pulled into the shelter of my slip at the marina the high metal roof shielded me from the rain.  My hands were throbbing with cold from the rain and the wind-chill and I was glad to be under some cover.  I pulled off my goggles and stood there shivering and listening to the rain clattering on the roof...I’ve always liked that sound.  

Gratuitous action pic

Later that night, from the warmth of the cabin I reflected on the day.  I had gone out in the rain, caught no fish, and come back wet, cold to the core, and shivering.  Just about that time a blowing rain picked up again and I could hear it lashing the roof.  Right then I realized why I like the sound of rain on a roof...it’s because that is the sound of “warm-and-dry”.  If I’m hearing that sound it’s because there is a roof between me and the elements.

The last day

The last day I had high hopes.  I’d spent the afternoon lounging next to a wonderful campfire with the kids.  Around 4 PM it was time to go fishing and I needed to put out the fire before I left.  The kids excitedly sprang to life chattering about how they wanted to put the fire out.  They’ve apparently seen a lot of fires put out in the cartoons and they had a backlog of techniques they wanted to try.  Who am I to tell them no?  I watched with great amusement as they pulled out techniques I’d seen in Looney Tunes for years being properly executed here in real life.  With the fire safely doused I hit the lake.

My first stop of the day was only a few hundred yards from the cabin and as I looked back that way I could see the smoke from our recently doused campfire rising from the forest.  It was a nice reminder that I’d be back with the family in a few hours. 

My first stop of the day was also filled with hopes for retribution.  Two weeks earlier we were hastened off the lake by a late rain and on my last cast I hooked a nice 4 lb largemouth and got it all the way back to the boat when it shook the hook.  That fish was so close it could have licked my hull number if it had wanted to...and it had the indecency to get off before I could reach down and pluck it from the water.  I wasn’t terribly upset by it but it would be nice to score here today to make up for it.

With uncharacteristic patience I decided to work a KVD crankbait very slowly along a 100 yard stretch of this rocky point.  After covering perhaps 50 yards of gravelly bank punctuated by chunks of larger rock I found a small curve in the bank sheltered by a fallen log.  With laser guided precision I sent my tiny KVD 1.5 flying to the sheltered spot.  As I retrieved it I could feel every slow little wobble it made and about three feet after it started to move it got clobbered.  The rod loaded up heavily and I saw my line slicing through the water to the right...directly toward the downed limb.  Ugh...this will not do...I cant’ let that fish tie me up in that limb or this will be the second round I lose on this spot.  

The fish re-thought it’s options and abruptly turned left, choosing the sanctuary of deep water as more fitting than the fallen log.  This was a mistake of colossal proportions.  This would go down in his record book as the day his win streak ended...today he would see the inside of my boat.  I smiled broadly as he steamed for deeper water...I could fight him here.  And fight we did.  He launched from the water like a great white shark hammering a sea otter...well...like a really small great white shark anyway.  As it drew nearer to the boat I got a look at him...and he at me.  I’m guessing he recognized my hull number because when he got near it he dove hard and dang near straight down taking a fair amount of my line with him as the drag tried to slow his escape.  

Now I decided that I needed the net.  At this point I looked about as squared away as a one-man-band.  I’m fighting a fish with my right hand, grabbing the net with my left, and trying to use my left foot to extend the handle.  If the fish could have seen this he’d have spit the hook out with laughter.  I fought him back close to the surface and with a move that must be straight out of a Yoga book I squatted down, extended my left arm out one way, my right arm the other way to bring him close to the net, and I just barely got him in.  Bam...I now had a 4 lb largemouth on the deck of my boat.  I have no idea if it’s the same one that beat me last week, and I hate to stereotype things...but all of these 4 lb bass look alike...if it’s not him I imagine he knows the one I caught last week and when they compare hull numbers the truth will be known.  For now though I’ve got the picture so that makes me the winner of this round. 

The rest of the evening I was hitting main lake points, fishing them slowly and enjoying the sunset.  On the next gravelly point down from where I bagged the 4 pounder I got another hit right where the gravel bar drops off deep.  It felt solid.  I got the fish close to the boat and I could see it had something on it.  It looked like a huge worm was stuck to this fish.  The “worm” was almost as long as the two pound bass on my line.  I didn’t have time to look at it I just hoisted the both of them into the boat and figured I’d release them together...just like they were.

When I got the fish in the boat the worm/leach/alien predator thing detached, ran around my boat shrieking like a banshee (the noise might actually have been me), and tried to eat my face off before I shot it dead with a .44 mag.  

I’m exaggerating a little bit when I relay that story.  While it didn’t really go down just like that...it was really a crazy and weird deal.  

I’m not a squeemish guy by any means...but the look of that “worm” and the wound it had caused gave me a severe case of the heebee jeebees and I couldn’t wait to get that thing off my vessel.  

It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen on the water.  It flopped and writhed on the deck of the boat and for a moment I was at a loss as to  how to get rid of this thing.  Before I got rid of it though I had to document it...I had to find out what this thing was and a picture was the best way so I broke out the iPhone.  After getting photographic evidence of this aquatic monster my mind returned to the task at hand...how to get rid of it.  Having just seen the wound it left on the bass I really didn’t want this thing getting its mouth on me.  Ultimately I grabbed it by the tail with my multi-tool and tossed it overboard, the whole time making faces and sounds one would normally associate with a fifth grade girl who just had a booger flicked on her.  

After I got the sea monster off the boat I called it quits and went in search of answers.  In time I would discover that the alien worm I had encountered is called a Lamprey.  More disturbing than the initial encounter is the knowledge that in some cultures...they are considered...a delicacy.  One more reason to thank God I live in America...where nobody cooks up parasitic eels as a meal.  

So that wrapped up another fall fishing trip full of fun and adventure.  With a little more preparation and some luck the next trip will be long on fun and short on cold weather and parasitic eels.  Below are pics of the victim as well as the perpetrator…be thankful you are viewing this from the comfort of your computer chair.  Note that the wound on the bass is the same shape and size as the mouth of the Lamprey.  This is the reason you should always carry a sidearm when fishing…you might need to shoot a Lamprey.  

Victim - Green, 2.5 lbs, last seen 6 feet deep

Perp - armless and dangerous.  Approach with caution.

A kids first buck (January 2011)

With the season winding down we went for a late-season chance to get Tyler a deer this weekend. Two years ago he took his first doe. Last year he hunted hard, and he passed on some smaller deer, but he never got a shot off.

This year he again hunted very hard. He’s on the swim team, so many weekends he can’t hunt due to swim meets. This weekend he got up at 0515 Saturday morning for a swim meet, then his momma drove him down to meet us for the afternoon hunt. What seems to be typical for the weekends he hunts is sub-freezing temps, wind, and precipitation…it’s a wonder the kid keeps coming back. This weekend the weather ranged from snow and temps in the 20’s to rain and temps in the upper 40’s.

 Saturday afternoon he almost got a shot off on a doe but right when the deer was about to walk into his shooting lane it started to trot and denied him a good shot. We finished out the evening hunt with no luck. We then did a long hike back to the truck over some difficult snow/mud covered terrain. No complaints from the kid…he did ask to stop once because his fingers were “burning” from the cold. We took a minute to warm them up then we marched on.

 Sunday morning we hunted a big corn field on a two-man ladder stand. This would enable us to sit side-by-side so I could provide guidance. I thought we’d see a small doe and let him bloody his new rifle. We got to the stand about 0630…this was a little later than I wanted but it would work as we still had 5 minutes before legal shooting time. The first few minutes on stand were spent alternately scanning the dark expanse before us for activity and getting his gear set up. After roughly 4 minutes I saw a large bodied deer emerge from the standing corn on the left side of the field. It was clearly a much larger bodied deer than I normally see so I was excited that this would be a good shot opportunity. I leaned over to him and whispered “deer”. At that moment the adrenaline began to flow into his blood stream like jet fuel into an afterburner and the shaking began.

 I pulled my rifle up to get a look at the deer through the scope and while I couldn’t tell how big or small the rack was I was confident that it was a buck. Trying to pick out antler mass against a wet cornfield in low light conditions is a difficult proposition…especially as the range increases. This deer was 142 yards away and standing there in the dim early light of an overcast winter morning. It was late in the season and the kid needed a deer and I was sure this was a big bodied specimen and it has some headgear so I leaned over to him again and whispered with a sense of urgency “kill that deer.”

 Now the shaking really kicked in. He was shaking so violently that it was like sitting in the stand with a running jackhammer. I swear you could have cracked walnuts between his knees they were knocking so hard. From my perspective it seemed like an eternity. Once I gave the order to shoot I felt very exposed…like that deer was about to figure out exactly where were and would bolt. I knew this deer wouldn’t stay long on the field. He was still just barely out on the field…he was so close to cover that it looked like his tail was still in the standing corn…two steps and he would be gone. Two steps and the kid gets nothing for the year. Two steps and three years of hunting goes by with no shot on a decent buck.

After about 5 seconds (felt like days) Tyler told me that he was shaking too hard to get a shot off. Despite the urge to scream “HURRY UP AND SHOOT!!!!” I did the proper thing and calmly told him that it’s OK…just take your time…calm down…focus on the fundamentals…and when you feel like you’ve got a good sight picture just do your thing.

Another few seconds goes by with me alternately watching this deer and watching my son’s body violently shaking under the load of moment. I glanced over and noticed that his finger still wasn’t on the trigger…I’m stressed at this point. All I can do is watch.

 When I see him take the safety off and engage the trigger I look downrange and wait. His rifle cracked the silence of the first legal minute of shooting light and set in motion a chain of events that he will never forget.

 I was shocked with the quickness of the deer’s reaction. It turned around and bolted into the corn so quickly that it looked like it was under rocket power. It didn’t exhibit any of the signs of an animal that was hit. It made a terrible racket as it busted through the standing corn and took off to parts unknown. Tylers first question to me was “do you think I hit it?” All I could tell him was that it didn’t look like he did but we won’t know for sure until we get down there and check. It was everything I could do to keep him in the stand…he really didn’t like the fact that I was going to wait 20 or 30 minutes before we started tracking. Interestingly enough Tylers perspective on this chain of events was perceived much differently than my own. As is often the case in high stress situations the brain reduces the tempo of your perception to slow motion. When I asked him what he thought of the deer’s reaction he said “it just turned around slowly and walked off.” I had to laugh at that…he was definitely in the pressure zone.

 Ultimately we got down and didn’t find any sign that the animal was hit…no hair…no blood. I set off in the direction I thought it went and over the next 30 minutes we found no sign that the deer was hit. We then went back to the scene of the crime and I asked him how he felt about his shot. He said he felt very good about it. He said he had a good sight picture, his breathing was good, and he had a good trigger pull. The kid can shoot and I trust his judgment…so I went back to tracking. I pushed further up the field and ultimately found a corn cob with blood all over it. At that point I told Tyler we’ll get this deer…if you leave blood I’m going to find you. His spirits lifted immediately. I can only imagine the sense of hopelessness he must have felt as he was relying on someone else for everything and it was all turning up negative until we found that blood. Once I showed him the first sign of blood he exclaimed “ I KNEW I hit him!”

This turned out to be one of the most difficult tracking jobs I’ve ever had. The deer left very little blood which concerned me. Tyler got a great lesson in tracking and was a very good helper in this process. The blood trail died after about 50 yards and we were left to doing some very basic search patterns until we found the next sign. Ultimately I found a single drop of blood that filled in a 100 yard gap that had no sign at all. We got our big break when I found a track in a creek bottom that led my eye to a single drop of blood in the snow. This was good…the deer was running straight toward a snow covered corn field. Even the slightest of blood would show up easier than in the mud and leaves we had been tracking him across earlier.

I called Tyler up to my position, put him on the blood trail, told him to keep his rifle ready, and to track that deer down. We had gone about another 50 yards toward some woods when the trail dried up again. I searched for a moment then announced “there’s another drop of blood” and he answered back “and there’s a dead deer.”

 After more than 2 hours of tracking I couldn’t believe the words he had uttered. I bent down and looked into the woods and sure enough there he was. Laying in the snow with a bloody corn stalk that he had dragged the whole way.

It took three years of hard hunting in some difficult conditions but the boy got his first buck…and a dandy at that. I couldn’t be prouder of the kid for his hard work and his great attitude…and I couldn’t be happier for him that he put this deer on the ground. That night he got to tell stories and feed the guys at camp with fresh venison tenderloin.

That was a great weekend…neither of us will ever forget it.

Crappie fishing in Feb

Crappie

Fishing season is almost upon us and this year I have big plans for going after the South’s number one game fish…the Crappie.  This fish is known around the country under such aliases as the “paper mouth” or “sac-au-lait” or “calico bass” or even “speckled bass”.  Whatever you prefer to call them crappie are tremendously popular because they are fairly easy to catch and they are delicious.

Crappie fishing in the south isn’t just popular…it’s a way of life.  Many people save up their vacation all year and use it to go crappie fishing.  They monitor forecasts and local reports and they use historical data to try to time the best two-week period for fishing success.  They want to be on the lake during the crappie spawn when the fish all come up shallow to mate.  If you don’t know anything about the crappie spawn picture a high school dance where there has been some drinking going on.   Picture Barry White songs, some slow dancing, some romance, and if anyone gets in the way of it there will be a fight.

We are still a month away from the high point of the spawn though, so the fishing is a little different.  It’s late February and the fish are still hanging out in deeper haunts.  A buddy of mine from our firms IT department and I decided that we’d hire a guide to take us crappie fishing so we could get up to speed on current gear and tactics.  This would enable us to optimize our entry into the sport.  With a good education up front we wouldn’t have to waste a lot of time trying to reinvent the wheel.

As our day drew near our hopes soared higher but the temperature forecasts all dropped lower.  In a week’s time the forecasts went from low temps in the 40’s to a low of 32 degrees on the morning of our departure.  By the time we actually got to the ramp it was 29 degrees and there was a thin coating of ice on the boat.  One mis-step could send us slipping overboard.  Now might be a good time to say that I am a fair weather fisherman.  I DO NOT fish in the cold.  I define “cold” as any temperature where I need to wear gloves.  This was cold.  With ice on the boat this was looking more like one of those Alaskan crab-fishing reality shows more than a crappie fishing trip in central Mississippi.  As far as I see it the word “Ice” should never enter my fishing lexicon.

As we boarded the boat I noticed that my partner looked slightly under-dressed for the conditions.  He assured me he’d be fine.

The Dam

Without any fanfare we launched the boat, left the marina harbor, and blasted toward the middle of the lake.  A word about Sardis reservoir is in order here.  This is an Army Corps of Engineers flood control lake.  It has a huge earthen dam at one end that is covered in rip-rap and the lake itself stretches 13 miles from the dam to the other end where the Little Tallahatchie River feeds into it.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, “rip rap” is the term for a collection of big rocks that you line the shore with to prevent erosion.  By “big” I mean they are stones that weigh perhaps 20 lbs and each the size of a small watermelon.  Now picture millions of these rocks piled up along the dam.  These rocks form a wall 100 feet high by two miles wide in front of us.  By now you should be picturing the Great Wall of Mississippi.   It is a massive amount of stone and there is no way you can look at it and not wonder how long it took to get all those rocks in place.  As you move up the lake it transitions from the deep open water near the dam to a middle section that starts to have some standing timber (picture tall telephone poles sticking up from the middle of the lake), to the upper end that is almost entirely full of old dead standing timber with logs and debris under the surface.

Since the crappie were still hanging out in the deeper water we’d start near the dam.  As we motored to our spot the first thing I noticed was the crowd.  There was an armada of boats perhaps 40 strong all huddled up on one spot just up the lake from us.  Our captain had us away from the crowd where he had caught a bunch recently.  With any luck we’d catch fish here and not have to deal with the armada.

The technique we would use today would be “spider rigging”.  This involves arranging 8 rods in holders that fan the rod tips out around the front of the boat in an arc of about 180 degrees.  The rods start off with the first rod pointing straight off the left side and they go all the way around the front of the boat and to the other side until the 8th pole is sticking straight off the right side.   With the poles arranged like this you simply ease along at ½ a mile per hour and when a fish hits one you simply lift it out of the water.  It’s so easy a caveman could do it.

Start fishing

As we were getting seated behind the rod holders I noticed that the sun was coming up but the temperature wasn’t.  Adding to the problem was that the wind was now picking up.  Before we had caught our first fish the wind had built to perhaps 15 MPH out of the east.  15 MPH was bad…but “from the east” was far worse.  From that direction the wind is able to push down the length of the lake with no interference.  With nothing to break its momentum it whips the lake into a heaving fury of white caps and rollers that rock the boat, play havoc with bait presentation, and cut through your clothes to chill you to the bone.  It seemed as though the wind would first turn us to ice cubes and then smash us into the rip-rap covered dam, breaking us into smaller ice cubes...crushed ice if you will.

I was dressed in most of the heavy hunting clothes I had so I could tolerate the weather.  The guide was dressed warmly too as he is out there all the time and keeps a range of clothes on hand.  My buddy from our IT department however hadn’t dressed as robustly.  If there had been no wind he might have been OK.  But with the wind we had today it was clear that he could be in for a very rough morning.

After perhaps 15 minutes we had our first line get hit.  I quickly jerked the rod out of the holder and there was a nice eatin-sized crappie onboard.  This weather might be turning rough but I was optimistic about the fishing.   Another 20 minutes went by with no activity but the wind.  The wind was relentless.  It had the whole lake frothing.  After a while another rod bent over and I snatched another fish from the cold rolling waves upon which we bobbed.  My buddy froze in silence next to me keeping a vigilant watch on the rod tips.

It seemed as though we were being tortured.   We were sitting side-by-side in chairs on the bow of the boat so we bore the full brunt of the rocking motion.  It was as if were on one end of an aquatic see-saw.    The waves were coming from behind us so when they hit the back end of the boat it would lift, because we were on the bow it would send us down into the trough left by the previous wave.  Then as the wave passed under the boat it lifted us high into the air.  Over and over and over we rode up and down those waves.  All the while the wind whipped and we watched the rod tips like hawks watching a field mouse.  We ignored everything around us and watched the rods with laser-like focus.

No luck vs. Bad luck

After an hour or so of riding this freezing, windy, see-saw with little action our focus began to slip.  I had been silently watching a boat ramp about a mile and a half away.  There was a mid-size four door car sitting in the middle lane of the launch ramp and it had been there for a long time…much longer than it would take to launch a boat…and there didn’t appear to be a boat over there anyway so I had no clue why he’d be parked there.   After a while I saw a small figure to the left of the ramp…right down where the water meets the rip-rap…and there were flashes of white crossing him diagonally perhaps every two to three seconds.  Amid the howling wind my brain was slow to process things but my logic circuit eventually completed and I realized what I was seeing.  The guy I was seeing in the distance was bailing water out of his boat with a white bucket.  He’d dip the bucket down into his boat and then swing it up to the right as he tossed the water out.

When I announced this to my fishing partners the captain immediately laughed and pointed out that the reason we didn’t launch from that spot this morning was that the three foot rollers that were making our life so difficult were smashing directly into that boat ramp.  Through ignorance, lack of thought, or perhaps inexperience this guy had backed his boat into the maelstrom.  I’m guessing that he took water over the back of the boat in the process of backing it in, and when he managed to get the boat off the trailer it promptly sank.  The wind and the rolling waves then pushed his boat up against the rip-rap and concrete like a piece of flotsam…where it was currently trapped.

I could imagine the sound it made each time the waves smashed and ground his hull into the concrete and rocks.  He was bailing as fast as he could but it wasn’t looking good.  Mother nature had 50,000 surface acres of water to use against him and he had only a ½ gallon bucket with which to defend himself.  Ironically he was bailing water back into the lake so mother nature really had an infinite supply of water to throw back at him.  From our vantage point it looked like he would lose this battle.

Since the fish still weren’t biting and we were tired of watching rod tips riding up and down three feet on the waves…the guy on the boat ramp became our only entertainment.  Nobody’s life was in danger and there was nothing we could do for him so we just watched.  He’d bail water until he got tired and then take a break, during which I imagine mother nature filled the boat back up.  At one point I saw him start unloading gear from the boat in an attempt to lighten it or perhaps save what he could from a lost cause.  I quickly checked on David to make sure he wasn’t frozen yet.  Then we all looked back toward the boat ramp guy.  Even from this distance you could see his frustration as at one point he threw his bucket violently to the ground.  It was too far and too windy to hear any of the activity but I had a real good idea of the words he used when he threw that bucket onto the rocks and none of them are fit to print here.   We weren’t having any luck…but I realized that this is what they mean when they say that having “no luck” is better than having “bad luck”.  We had “no luck” fishing…the guy on the ramp had “bad luck”.

It’s easy to laugh at your own misery if you know there is someone else suffering worse.  So we bobbed up and down in our arctic climate and laughed at the only thing we could find humor in…that dudes sunken boat.  As we laughed amid our suffering another line got hit.  We pulled it in with no fanfare, re-baited the hook, and redeployed it.  Our hopes of a fun day of fishing were as sunk as that guys boat…now we just hoped to catch a few fish and live to tell about it.

Boat after boat had been leaving the lake all morning.  The wind and cold were too much.  Of the 40 boats that were in the armada earlier there were perhaps 8 remaining.

Still cold

Few outdoor adventure stories are complete without some form of hardship being involved so I guess it’s appropriate that Dave was under-dressed for the freezing cold.  I’ve heard grown men complain over conditions much less harsh than what we had now…but my computer guy was mum.  Maybe his mouth was frozen shut but he didn’t complain once.  I could tell he was cold because every time I looked over he was in the “I’m trying not to freeze to death” position.  Most outdoorsmen are familiar with this position.  This is basically the one where you have your fists clenched and your arms pulled in tight up against your body and your legs clamped together and you are arched over almost into a fetal position as you try to preserve what little body heat that you have left.  As the gale continued to blow we talked him into taking some gear from us.

We swapped some clothing around until we were satisfied that Dave wouldn’t succumb to frostbite. To his credit he never asked for any gear…here sat a guy who would stoically take whatever mother nature threw at him.  He knew he didn’t dress warmly enough and he never once asked anyone to give up some gear so he could get warm.  In fact the first three times I brought it up he refused any help.  Most people in the firm think that “IT” stands for Information Technology but today Dave proved that it actually stands for “Incredibly Tough.”

Having persuaded him to take some gloves and a windproof shell we were satisfied that he wouldn’t die.  If that happened then the tables would turn and the guy on the boat ramp would be laughing at us…and we couldn’t have that.

Safe Harbor

After another hour or so of suffering we decided to find a spot out of the wind, so we went back to the shelter of the harbor.  When we entered the harbor it was as if we had left the Bering Sea and entered the Gulf of Mexico.  The protective landscape surrounding the harbor totally blocked the wind which left us to bask in the sunshine like a lizard on a rock.  I couldn’t believe how comfortable it was inside the harbor.  We actually began shedding clothes because we were too warm.

The fishing in the harbor was a crowded affair.  It was obvious where all the boats from the main lake had run to when they left this morning.  Boats were close enough that you could talk to everyone as they passed you.  It looked like a boat parade that had lost its traffic coordinator.  It was so crowded that I knew we’d end up hitting someone even at speeds well under 1 MPH.  Half the people on the water knew our guide and everyone had something to say.  This crappie fishing is more of a social sport as there is lots of sitting around and talking involved.  I now realized that this is going to be the perfect type of fishing for my wife.  Once it warms up she can sit in the sun and talk for hours as I just sit there and listen and re-bait hooks.

We were out of the wind but there was still a sense that we might see more danger.  There were two guys in a small boat that was perhaps 14 feet long.  They were both sitting in fishing chairs on the bow which is a typical arrangement while crappie fishing.  Their boat was so small however that with the weight of two men on the front it almost pushed the nose of the boat underwater.  The back end was way higher than the front and they had maybe three inches of clearance before they started taking on water.  If one of them stood-up too fast I imagine they would have sunk.   It looked like a comic-book type drawing that you might see in a boating-safety pamphlet.   I figured we’d be fishing them out of the water before long but somehow they managed to not sink it.

Everyone caught some fish in the harbor but nobody was wearing them out.  The crappie, it appeared, would win today.  By noon we had only 7 fish in the boat and rather than grind it out another 3 hours we decided that the best course of action would be to quit early and head to the best burger joint in MS.  There is no way we could lose there.

An hour later we stood in front of the Velvet Cream burger joint in Hernando MS.  I had a big cheeseburger, cajun fries, and a peanut butter milkshake in me and I was starting to forget about the cold morning we had endured.  I could have laid down on the asphalt in the sun and gone to sleep if it weren’t for the traffic.

Ultimately I learned a lot.  I learned the appropriate gear and tactics for crappie fishing.  I learned to be careful of the wind when choosing which boat ramp to launch from.  I learned that our firm has one tough IT guy.  And lastly I learned that I am really going to enjoy crappie fishing for a long time to come.