Sunday, February 11, 2024

Fly-Fishing in a Nutshell

 


I caught this King in the Manitowoc River in Wisconsin in 2004.  I wouldn't consider this type of fishing, "fly-fishing" even though I was using a fly-rod and a streamer. I spotted this salmon staging downstream of some reds, picked a fly that wouldn't spook him, walked upstream and swung it into its mouth. Yeah, I flossed him and after catching a few more, I decided this type of fishing wasn't for me. 

I'll be totally honest about it why I'm writing this blog article; I want to keep making a living off of the sport of fly-fishing and I want to do that in a way where I can feel good about it. The guiding world is becoming more and more competitive, so part of that is developing a niche and separating myself from others. Many times, with kids and even adults that just wanted to catch fish, I've grabbed a spinning rod with a Mepps and did very well on trout and there is nothing wrong with that. However, I got into an argument with a golfing buddy last spring about what is and isn't fly-fishing and why I teach the things to clients that I'm very passionate about. I am a fly-fishing guide and although I have employed techniques outside of the definition of fly-fishing when asked, I teach fly-fishing and I'm proud to be one of those guides grounded in the traditions of fly-fishing. My goal is to teach people to be successful at fly-fishing in a manner that is consistent with these traditions, and I feel this is crucial to the integrity of the industry. 

Before getting too far into it, and before pissing a bunch of people off, let me be very clear about a couple things. First of all, there's no shame in any type of fishing as long as there is a consideration for the resources and for other people's rights to their own pursuits. If you want to chuck Rapalas or dunk worms or bounce egg patterns along the bottom with three triple B split shot on the end of a leader all day, have at it. If that's what gets the blood cranking to the nether regions for you, by all means, be my guest and if you are willing to spend your hard-earned money for the grip and grins and that's all that matters to you, it's your money. Give me a call and I will help you find the guide that will facilitate that for you. But just because a person puts a fly-rod in your hand or there's a fly on the end of your line, it doesn't mean you are "fly-fishing." This, by no means, suggests I'm a purist in the sense that there is only one way to fly-fish. But I strongly believe that if you are going to call it "fly-fishing," there are elements that need to be considered.

Why is this important? It's a good question and I'll tell you why; when people who don't have much experience in the sport of fly-fishing watch, "A River Runs Through It," and it piques their interest and they do a Google search for fly-fishing guides, I think we have a responsibility to fulfill their expectations. If it's just catching fish, that's easy. Grab a rod and a box of lures or Styrofoam bucket of worms and start chucking. Eventually, you will catch fish and in a river like the Missouri at certain times of the year, you'll catch dozens. I've witnessed this over and over again with other guides and even out of my boat, but if a person wants to learn how to fly-fish, they need to learn about the techniques and the traditions that are essential to fly-fishing and realize that although catching fish is important, the goal of engaging in the act of "fly-fishing" is commensurate to the goal of catching fish. In other words, it's not just act of catching a fish, it's doing it in a manner that is different than just chucking bait or a spinner, consistent with what defines fly-fishing as a whole.

I have seen all too often, what happens when folks catch fish without actually engaging in fly-fishing but calling it fly-fishing. We create unrealistic expectations for everyone participating in the sport and then use those expectations as a barometer for success even though the folks who are actually learning the discipline, may not catch as many fish because admittedly, fly-fishing isn't always the most effective means for putting a bunch of fish in the net. I can't tell you how many times I've witnessed clients reconvening at the bar, priming each other for the bragging about to commence, and inevitably, watching the air get taken from one or several clients as the others boast about the dozens of fish they caught not even considering what techniques they were learning or whether they were fishing hatchery fish versus wild trout or whether or not they were even fly-fishing at all. All that does is puts pressure on clients and guides and takes away from the fun. But it also, more importantly, robs the client of the potential to learn new skills and challenge themselves because the goal now changes to a competition over numbers. 

Fly-fishing isn't supposed to be easy. There are skills and knowledge that need to be developed and that should be why people want to take the journey. Success isn't just the grip and grin. It's the realization that you actually learned at least some of the process paramount to the tradition of fly-fishing and in the end, you were able to use a more technical discipline and you were successful. Otherwise, just go fishing with a spinning rod.

This doesn't mean that there is only one way to fly-fish any more than there is only one way to play jazz guitar. However, like playing jazz guitar, there are specific rules and techniques consistent with jazz traditions that have to be considered or you're not really playing jazz at all just like you may be fishing but it doesn't mean you are actually fly-fishing. It also means that just because you're playing a Gibson ES-75, doesn't necessarily mean you are playing jazz music any more than if you have an Orvis Helios in your hand, necessarily means you are fly-fishing. And again, there's nothing wrong with that unless you are claiming to occupy the same space as someone who is learning to fly-fish and comparing yourself to someone engaging in a discipline that is much more technical and advanced. 

It seems silly, right? But if I claim to teach fly-fishing and don't really adhere to the traditions that make up fly-fishing, then is it fair to charge the same money and compete for clients with the same expectations as those folks who do and call it something it is not?  It would be like strapping a Guitar Hero guitar around a dude's shoulder, plugging them into the game console set at the easiest setting, telling them to strum along with the music and then proclaiming, "look, you're a rock star!" Meanwhile, there's another musician who has practiced diligently for the past 5 years who can now actually string a few chords together and somehow, they are seen as equals. In fact, what's coming out of the first musician's speakers is way cooler, and now the second musician is wondering why they spent so much time and money on taking lessons when they could have just gone down to Jimmie Lipper's mom's basement and played the Wii. Or, like paying for jazz guitar instructions, and then showing up to the sessions and all they do is play the Wii without teaching anything about chords, scales, or jazz theory. Then, a year later the student shows up to a jam session with some real musicians and says, "oh, yeah, I play jazz, I've been taking lessons for a year." Someone hands them the Gibson and they don't even know how to tune it. And the crazy thing is, the student in this case, would inevitably blame the guitar for not producing the right sound because that's what they've been told by someone who's trusted as being a professional. (Phew...take a breath.)

And again, I feel like I have to say this several times or I'm going to get crucified; if you just want to catch fish and you're ok with doing whatever it takes, or you just want to play the Wii and you're willing to spend the money, (which many people do,) then have at it. Just don't pretend that you are fly-fishing and occupy the same space as those folks that do want to learn to actually fly-fish or want to actually learn to play jazz guitar.

What Brings Us Together

When I first moved out to Montana 23 years ago, I tied on a prince nymph under a cork on an ultralight spinning rod and crushed the brookies and cutthroats and had a blast. Seriously. If you want to have a lot of fun on the creeks, try it. And if you want to get a kid into fishing, it's a great first step. I think, in order to continue this discussion, we need to recognize the things all fishers share. Being in the outdoor and catching fish is fun. Regardless of the method, fishing is fun and rewarding and it gets us to places we might not discover if we didn't have a rod in our hands. 

A love for the outdoors and the desire to pursue something wild is intoxicating to anyone that spends the time and money to fish or hunt. If it was just about harvesting food, there are way cheaper and way faster ways to put food on the table. In fact, most of us don't even keep the fish we catch because if I'm going to be honest, trout aren't that good. Obviously, some fish are, and I do a fair amount of ice-fishing for perch out here but trout? Not so much. We fish because we enjoy the outdoors, and we enjoy the pursuit and the feeling of success that comes from catching fish. 

Trout are mysterious, though. Maybe it's the colors or the patterns that camouflage them in gin-clear streams or because of how allusive and wild they are, or maybe it's because of all the articles that have been written about them but for some reason, trout just have something about them that when caught, makes the heart beat a little faster and the adrenaline flow a little harder. Maybe it's because they appear so smart or because they are typically, so damn fickle. Whatever it is, every trout I catch seems to mean something--like an accomplishment that separates me as one of the "haves" for a brief moment. And when I release a trout, I feel good about it; like I've completed a circle and maybe at some point, someone else catches that same fish and we get to share something pretty special. 

So, What's the Big Deal?

At some point in my first year or so in Montana, I was talking to a buddy who was obsessed with fly-fishing, and he explained to me the difference between fly-fishing and other forms of fishing and why he was so passionate about it. His passion infected me, and I found myself buying books and a rod and the journey, traversing one of the steepest learning curves I've navigated, began. 

Fishing, by itself, is an activity that gets us out in nature and provides some recreation--sometimes providing table fare, and often a way to connect with others. Fly-fishing is a discipline. I've used that term earlier in this essay and it's important to distinguish the difference. I'm not trying to put myself, or anyone else who chooses to learn the sport, on a pedestal, but I think when one makes that choice to fly-fish, there is a commitment to learning the many different elements that make up fly-fishing and to stay true to the traditions, hence the word, "discipline." When I studied the discipline of sociology, there was a commitment to learning about the theories of sociology and adhere to those theories to develop a paradigm, or a lens, for which I view the world. In fly-fishing, it's no different and a major part of the fun is the process of learning and developing skills that are consistent with those traditions. And as we develop more skills and a better understanding of the discipline, we are better at understanding the process, being able to predict and control the outcomes, which is essentially the scientific method in a nutshell. However, we do that within the framework that makes up the art of fly-fishing. 

I know that sounds a little deep and a little dry but think of all the things we do in our normal lives that fit in with this idea of the scientific method, which some would suggest, separates us from other animals. Even just in our interactions with our best friend, the dog, we often get obsessed with throwing the ball for them almost as much as they want to retrieve it. Why? Because it gives us a sense of control. Anytime we train the dog or teach it a new trick, we feel good about it because of what that symbolizes to us. We are in control and when the dog defies us, we feel the frustration and even anger because we've lost that control. 

I was talking to a gentleman the other day at the brewery who compared fly-fishing to gambling. With gambling, there's a reason why people get addicted to it and that has a lot to do with an unscheduled/intermittent reinforcement system that pulls us in. We crave the reward, and we feel like we know it's going to happen, but we don't know when. We even feel like we might have some control in that, but we really don't. And every once in a while, we get a little bit of an affirmation for our efforts or our investment, and we are hooked. I would suggest that we can make those parallels to fishing in general but with fly-fishing, we are actually learning to control the outcomes, which, when it happens, is what's really intoxicating. When we learn to put all the pieces of the puzzle together and we get that 20-inch brown to come up to sip a dead PMD lying flat on the water, that we picked out from the 50 other patterns that might mimic a PMD at different stages of the bug's life, or even better, we actually tied that fly from scratch and it actually tricked that fish, that's what's truly intoxicating. 

However, that 20-inch brown that might symbolize success didn't happen without taking a journey that started at a particular point that also symbolizes a significant amount of investment. In other words, catching that 20-inch brown would be cool for anyone, but the taste of victory is so much sweeter because of all the things that went into catching that fish that has taken a lot of time and effort. And the really cool thing is the journey is a personal journey that is defined by how much time and energy one wants to invest. However, the investment is still defined within the context of what fly-fishing is because that's the point. You're fly-fishing, not bait fishing and you were successful in fly-fishing and that, paradoxically, is recognized by a community that also understands the investment.  It is a personal journey, but it's a journey that is validated by a lot of others who have also taken a similar, however very personal journey, themselves.

What You Need to Know

First and foremost, with all this talk about the scientific method what you really need to understand is that fly-fishing is much more an art than a science. What I mean is that there are so many ways to interpret all the different things going on in nature, that it gives us the freedom to explore and develop our own path. That sounds a bit paradoxical as well, because I've also suggested, or not even suggested but tried to pound the point home, the importance of adhering to the traditions. Both are true. It is important, when fly-fishing, to recognize and learn the rules, and then figure out how to put your own stamp on it. In doing so, you may even go beyond student and into creator and then teaching and that's what is really fun and why I still enjoy guiding.

The first fly I ever tied was a grasshopper pattern that I created myself. I took it down to the Little Prickly Pear and almost on the first cast, caught an 18-inch brown. It was exhilarating. A week later I took that same fly to the Missouri with my buddy and he kind of laughed at it. I begged him to let me try it and after a half hour of nothing even looking at it, he grabbed my line, snipped off my hopper and put on this foam thing that he had bought from the shop, and I began crushing fish. That was humbling. It was also a challenge and I found myself going back to the bench, making adjustments, and figuring out patterns that would not only work on a creek, but would also work on a river as technical as the Missouri. 

This idea of fly-fishing being an artform goes beyond tying flies. It's also the way one casts that might be artistic in the sense of the person observing, but more-so, in the realization that we all develop our own style. That's why there are hundreds of different rods with different flexes and different actions so we can get the most out of our equipment and our style of casting. The art is also expressed in the way we read the water or how we present a fly and how we fight a fish once we hook it. All these things come down to our own interpretation of those traditions and is how we put our own signature on fly-fishing and what makes it special. 

Don't think there isn't science involved, however. The dynamic between the rod, the line, and finding that perfect combination has evolved over time because of the science. We also have to be really good at entomology and life cycles of bugs and fish as well. Weather patterns can turn fish on and turn them off. Science is also important, and our understanding of the science and then what we do with that will lead to success.

The Elementary Discussion

What makes up fly-fishing? What are the traditions and elements of fly-fishing that separates it from "normal" fishing? 

Whenever I take a person fishing for the first time, they ask these questions. Maybe not exactly like that but you get the point. As mentioned earlier, I firmly believe that if you are going to call it fly-fishing, it has to be consistent with a definition of fly-fishing that is grounded in tradition and basic concepts that separate it from other forms of fishing. Otherwise, and again, you may be fishing but you ain't fly-fishing. 

Let's talk gear and casting for a moment, remembering, you could be holding a fly-rod in your hand and/or using flies, but there's more to it than just having the gear. In spinning gear, the weight of the thing that is being casted, is at the end of the line. It's the lure or the worm or the bobber that generates the momentum to fling the thing. In fly-fishing, the idea is that you are using flies that are too light to generate the momentum, so the weight is in the line itself. Because of that, the line and rod create a dynamic that allows you to cast a very light object, quite a long way. This concept is crucial to what fly-fishing is and what it means is that you do have to learn how to cast. Yeah. Go figure. This dynamic was created centuries ago and unfortunately, if you are huckin a bunch of weight over the side of the boat just to find the water ten feet out, that isn't consistent with the tradition of fly-fishing and I would suggest, you're kind of missing a major component. I understand that sounds a bit snobbish but...

Bugs, bugs and more bugs...a basic understanding of entomology is also crucial to being successful in fly-fishing and most of the time, it's just left up to the guide. I try to bring people into the process of choosing patterns but in a couple of days a year on the water, which is what most people get that come out to Montana and hire a guide, that's one of the things that can bog an angler down. There just isn't the time to explain the different bugs and their life cycles and why at certain times of the day I might use this stage of fly versus a different stage in the afternoon, but it does matter. A person could get a master's degree in entomology and still not fully understand how to incorporate that into fishing. However, the bare minimum ought to include at least a discussion for why a fish might see the fly being used as food. 

Imitating the bugs, picking the right flies, and doing so consistent with the tradition is something that gets debated, and is a huge bone of contingency for a lot of people. If you are a true snob, you only use natural materials tied in a manner that has been developed thousands of years ago, somewhere in Egypt. Since then, the snobs have taken that to another level where those flies being tied have to be dry flies that sit on top the water so that a trout has to rise to the surface to eat and you actually get to watch the take. However, I feel like this is a pretty narrow definition of what fly-fishing is. Flies can absolutely be tied to represent stages of food that are sub-surface, and it doesn't necessarily have to represent bugs. In my opinion, as long as it's a visual representation of natural food, it's fair game. 

Throughout the years, more durable and more enticing materials have been developed that help the angler get a leg up, so to speak. We draw lines, and we debate over what is appropriate and what we think tramples over those lines. What has become clear, is that for as much heat this topic gets, I think these debates keep us floundering about in the weeds, uncovering a mess of hypocrisies that are nearly impossible to reconcile. What's important to me is that there is something being tied to a hook, that's not mass produced by a machine or molded into a shape like a rubber worm or an egg. However, if you open my fly box, I'm sure you'll see plenty of examples of things like mylar or other synthetics that would suggest I'm a liar. I won't use rubber material or a plastic bead because that's where I draw the line, but I know people who do and I'm ok with that because there are other things they do incorporate into the process like drift and presentation that brings them back into the fold. I feel like a fly needs to be something tied out of somewhat natural materials or materials mimicking natural materials but I'm not above tying on a grappling hook, AKA the wire worm. Yes, I'm a hypocrite too, and I'm ok with the judgement. 

I will say this, however and it's something I won't bend on. The imitation is supposed to represent food in a visual manner. If you are soaking a rubber legs, or a crayfish pattern in some kind of Gulp minnow juice or a Powerbait packet, you have crossed the line. That is bait fishing. Again, you might be holding a rod in your hand, and you do have a fly on, and it can be a lot of fun and might put more fish in the boat but it's not really fly-fishing.

I also will draw a firm line with the use of mechanical stimulation. A fly called the Pistol Pete has been created with a spinner on the nose. The spinner will move water creating vibrations that, intern, trigger the fish to strike. Some flies are tied with sliding beads that, in theory, act like Rattle Trap lures where the sound triggers the strike. Using vibrations, sounds, or scents are not consistent with the tradition of fly-tying and in my opinion, don't belong in the sport.

Presentation is also hugely important. The idea is that the angler offers up an imitation in a way that represents what a fish is actually looking to eat. Drift matters. Getting the fly to sit on the water or in the water to appear natural, is a huge part of the puzzle. We can cheat that or handicap it for folks by adding weight or swinging big flies with big hooks in a manner that the fish can't get out of the way or even floss fish like I mentioned in the first paragraph but again, that's going away from the tradition of what fly-fishing is. Now, we could spend hours and hours on presentation and how to get that perfect drift but that's for future blog posts and potentially, future hours in on the river. Some of that may even include swinging flies that mimic bait fish or emerging flies or slapping stoneflies on the water or twitching hoppers, but all techniques are still meant to represent natural food. That truly is an essential component to the art of fly-fishing and something most of us spend years perfecting.

Being able to read water is also an essential aspect to the sport that can't be overlooked. It is true that one could drift down the middle of the Missouri River at many times of the year and throw a line out and catch fish. However, understanding where the fish live and why they are stacked up in some spots versus others will exponentially improve one's odds for both, catching more fish and bigger fish depending on the goal. Looking at a small stream and picking out a boulder, and assuming there is a fish hiding behind it is a good bet. That seems pretty obvious but then being able to identify the nuances on a big river like the Missouri is entirely another level. Why is it that when we drift through this one spot, we almost always catch fish? Why are there so many fish stacked up in one big eddy and not another? Why do big browns often sit in shallow riffles in the summer while the seams and eddies are full of 18inch rainbows?  Recognizing structure is only one part of the equation. Reading water also means having and understanding of why fish are where they are and where to put the fly in order to get that fish to eat. Reading currents that will bring the fly to a rising fish or how to anticipate drag on a nymph as it passes a seem and whether or not it will sink to the depth of where a fish is holding is all crucial. 

The technique for landing fish is also something that I feel separates fly-fishing from spin-fishing, in large part because of the gear. Bait casting and spinning gear has become so efficient that you could be reeling at the same time the fish is running out line and you can get away with it. The reel is doing the work. A fly-reel doesn't have the same kind of drag system. That, along with the fact we are usually fishing light leaders due to the size of the flies we are using, means there has to be a lot more finesse and you actually have to do the work. The angler, essentially, controls the drag, not a mechanism in the reel. Again, there is a lot of debate over how that should be done, and we all develop a style or technique, but there is an element of finesse that can't be overlooked. And again, we as guides have a habit of handicapping this part of the puzzle for clients because we like to see them land fish. 

There are also certain types of fishing, especially in salt water, where traditional techniques go right out the window because of the size, strength and speed of the species targeted. Having said that, there should be an art to it that considers finesse because regardless of the species or the environment, in fly-fishing you are almost always using tackle that is more rudimentary and lighter weight than what you would be with a spinning rod. 

Many of these concepts are subjective. I get that and the last couple things I'm going to talk about aren't necessarily exclusive to fly-fishing but more of a personal perception of what fishing and participation in the outdoors should include. One such concept has to deal with the preservation of our fisheries. Anyone can stand up in the boat and look down to see reds, or spawning beds, along the bottom with a bunch of fish on them at the right time of the year. (Or maybe you don't recognize you are fishing reds and just think you're a hero because you're ass-pounding a bunch of fatty rainbows.) Obviously, by targeting those fish, you're going to put numbers in the net, but should you? This is something that, again, gets debated and most of us are on the same page. However, there are fisheries where the majority of the fish aren't really spawning because they are hatchery fish and they're just kind of going through the motions and there's a justification for targeting those fish. I, for one, don't really concern myself with those fish because I know they are going to be replenished every year by FWP through their stocking program. 

But what's happening is that guides are fishing these reds in the spring, over and over and over again to make their clients feel like heroes, and I guess, give them a sense that they are getting what they are paying for. Some even have clickers or counters and at the end of the day, show their clients the numbers and high-five each other for the amazing anglers they are. What does this do? As for the immediate, not much. Again, those fish are going to be replenished using dollars collected through our taxes and licensing fees. Subsequently, the guides and outfitters fishing these fisheries make money off of the stocking program and there could be some discussion there for how ethical that is. I'll leave that up to you. But in the long-term, what I see as particularly problematic, is the lack of education that is happening for preserving wild trout in wild fisheries. Most of the clients don't even know they are fishing hatchery fish and might not realize they are fishing reds. I wonder how they would feel if they did know that. So, when they get to a wild fishery and start pounding the reds because they don't know any better, who's going to tell them to give those fish a break or explain to them the damage they are causing to these wild fisheries when the standard has already been set with the hatchery fish? And, when these folks do have the opportunity to fish on a wild fishery for wild trout and maybe only catch 10 fish versus the 50 they might get in the kiddie pool, who's going to talk them off the ledge for either wasting their money on "inferior" guides on an "inferior" river or for having the realization that fishing for wild trout actually takes some skill? This is the problem I see with not adhering to those fly-fishing traditions. Part of that, a big part, is understanding wild trout versus hatchery fish and how important it is to preserve our wild fisheries and appreciate the difference between the two. And AGAIN, it's their money and with all the boats that fish these hatchery fish would indicate, there isn't a shortage of people willing to spend their money on catching them. All I ask then, is to be honest and tell it for what it is and not pretend it's something it's not. 

I got into fly-fishing, in part, for the cerebral exercise it has become but also the fact that it gets me away from the hustle of daily life. Most of the time, when I fish for myself, I don't see another person. I'm usually somewhere in the mountains on some small stream and I'm able to focus on the task. It becomes a form a meditation and is therapeutic. Not competing with other people, only striving to put all the pieces of the puzzle together in order to trick that one fish is what brings me to the river. It's just me and the fish and I couldn't care less about whether or not the guy I meet at the bar later that night has caught more fish than me or bigger fish. This is my journey. Not his. I am at a different stage in this journey that may be further along than him or maybe just in a different place laterally. It's a personal journey that I don't feel needs to be corrupted by ego or validated by Instagram posts and honestly, I get a little disenfranchised with the fly-fishing community as a whole when I hear people brag about two things in particular. The first is counting how many fish they caught and the second, that they caught them all on dry flies. In both cases, it's about propping oneself above another, instead of being grateful for the opportunity Mother Nature has provided for exercising one's soul. Having said that, I think it's awesome that people want to share in the joy of their accomplishments, and I love hearing about two-footers on hoppers as long as that's met with an equal appreciation for their contemporaries' accomplishments no matter how grate or small. 

In wrapping all this up, I would like to extend an invitation to anyone who would like to share their own opinions about what fly-fishing is to them. I'm sure, at times, some of you reading this have had your feathers ruffled. You can respond in the comments, or hell, let's go fishing and you can tell me in person. I can't promise you'll catch 50 fish or that you'll catch the two-footer. What I can promise is that you will learn something about fly-fishing, the environment, or yourself, and hopefully all the above, and to me, that's more important than a grip and grin or hanging 50 on the clicker.

Keep 'em where they live...

Thursday, February 1, 2024

Cutter's Curtain Call

 


Ok, so I posted the last article, "Cutter's Last Retrieve," and I felt like if this is his last season, we need to go out on a better note, right? So, I figured we would roll the dice a little bit and take a drive out to Eastern Montana where goose season remained open for another ten days, closing on January 24th. As Federal regulations dictate, each region only gets a certain number of days to hunt waterfowl. Because of late migrations of geese, Montana has decided to split the state up into two zones and start later in Eastern Montana and stay open later. I wish they would do that for the entire state, but we have some hunting groups who like the early season for teal, so we open up earlier in Central and Western Montana and subsequently, close earlier. Up until a couple years ago, we split the season, which meant there would be a weak off in early January and then open up again in order to catch that late migration. Of course, every year is different and sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, like last year, it was a moot point because we got really cold, really early and most of the birds were gone by January. This year, we didn't get the northern flights until it was too late for most of the state except Zone 2. So, Cutter and I loaded up three dozen field decoys, and headed east. 

I wasn't sure of the plan. (There really wasn't much of plan, which is how I roll.) I grabbed a few boxes of shells, the decoys, a couple pair of underwear and off we went. It was a Monday, just three days before the end of the season. The skies were clear, the temps were on the rise after the deep freeze we all lived through in the previous week, and I really had no idea if the birds had headed out or if they were still hanging up along the Yellowstone and Big Horn Rivers. While driving along the Stone on my way back from Minnesota in December, the birds were thick. But the cold snap could have pushed them south--only one way to find out.

I took a mental note of where I saw the most birds on my Christmas trip. Waco, MT was where the birds had been thick with a few Block Managment Areas that required a reservation to hunt but instead of calling them prior to this trip, I decided to wait until I got down there to see where the birds were before committing to anything. It was about a four-hour drive to Waco that consisted of a fair amount of doubt, then some optimism, and then doubt again as I drove past acres and acres of agricultural fields that held geese a few weeks ago but were now empty. Every once in a while, I would see a few dozen geese on a field and my heart rate would bump up to a high idle, but then the next field would be empty, and doubt would creep into the inner-dialog, and I would chastise myself for not taking the trip sooner. At some point, I began the process of self-reconciliation, pointing out that not every trip is a homerun and that's just part of the journey. Those failed trips are what makes the successful trips so good...fuck that. We need to find birds. 

I took the Waco exit and pulled onto a county road that followed the along the Yellowstone River. I had my onX app pulled up on my phone and was checking on some state land. Next to the state piece and right off the river were some prime ag fields. The only thing missing were birds. Nothing. 

I thought about getting back on the highway and heading west. It was about 2 o'clock. I could be home early enough to make dinner and relax. Instead, I turned east and headed towards Hysham. It was only a half-hour further and since I'm already here, I may as well check out the scenery. 

I was about 15 miles from Hysham when I started seeing birds. There was a field that was still covered with snow with the exception of the half-acre spot where cattle had been feeding on hay that was dumped off from the rancher. In the mud and trampled snow and hay, there were a couple dozen geese picking away at the cow pies, looking for undigested seeds. In the sky, another dozen or so geese were cupped up, coming in for a landing. As I drove by, they dropped just above my truck and gracefully sat down with the flock that was already on the deck picking seeds--a sign of hope. 

As I made my way further east, another field had a few dozen geese. We ascended uphill, to round a section of bluffs that looked out over the Yellowstone River. On the top of the plateau, another couple dozen geese resided on a grain field and as we crested and started heading back into the valley, what were a few groups of geese here and there, literally turned the skies over the horizon a darker shade of blue grey, much like the stippling affect for the shading of a tattoo. Thousands of geese, some in the tell-tailed v-pattern of travelers, and some in the more chaotic randomness of geese wanting to find a place to sit down covered the sky.  My heart accelerated like the rev'd up 350 V8 in my dad's '73 Monte Carlo while doing break stands with it as a teen. 

"Check that shit out," I said to Cutter as I looked back to see him sit up in the back seat, ears perked up and head leaning forward to peer through the windshield. 

A whimper leaked out from him as more and more geese came into view. 

"I know, buddy. Pretty crazy, huh?"

I pulled up my onX on my phone again and started looking for anything blue or gold, which would indicate state lands or BLM, or anything shaded red with dots that would indicate a Block Management Area. As we drove, I took note of fields that birds wanted to be in, which was obvious as some fields had hundreds of geese and others had none. I then referenced the map on my phone and tried to line up the occupied fields with those that were open to hunting or fields that would require me to knock on doors. Ideally, I would find a field that was both habituated by geese that was also open to hunting. Life doesn't work that way though, so I started planning my approach to knocking on doors and asking landowners for access. 

I did notice one fairly large piece of property that was a Type II Block Management Area, which meant I would have to get written permission to hunt, but it also meant they were already in the mindset of allowing hunting. That was a good sign. I also came up on another part of that BMA that was a Type I Area, which just meant there was a sign-in box with pretty much no limits on who or how many people could hunt. That parcel was adjacent to the Isaac Homestead Wildlife Management Area that was also open to hunting. However, as I scouted these areas, no birds wanted to be anywhere near them--probably because geese have an aversion to being shot at, so they figure these spots out pretty quick and avoid them.  There was one field in the middle of all of this that had a ton of geese on it, but no advertised public access so I went to the house and knocked on the door. 

After a minute or two of a very large dog barking and jumping up on the door, a young woman, still in her night-gown at 2:30 in the afternoon, answered. I hate making judgements but that's what we do as human beings, which allows us to navigate this crazy world in an expedited manner. I was pretty sure she wasn't the owner of the property so my approach to asking for permission altered. 

"Do you know who owns that property," I asked while pointing across the road.

She told me the owners, which I remembered as being the owners of the Block Management Area as well. 

"Oh, so they have the Block Management, too?" I asked but got the blank stare of, huh?

I pivoted, "So, are they just down the road here?"

She pointed to the south and gave me directions to the house of the owners of the ranch. I thanked her, jumped in the truck and headed that way. The house was only a mile or so away and again, I made the walk to the front door and knocked. 

The woman who answered this time was much older and fully dressed. She was also wearing a scoff on her face that told me she was pretty much done with hunters knocking on her door. 

"I don't mean to bother you mam, but do you guys own the block management area here?"

"Yes," she admitted in a short tone that complimented her scoff. 

"Ok, well, it's the last two days of the season and I was just wondering if I could get out on your property. I drove down from Helena today and this is the most birds I've seen all year. The weather just didn't bring them down around the Missouri..." I realized my small talk was probably just annoying her. 

"Let me grab my calendar," she cut in. 

As she came back to the door, she confirmed that she did have an opening for the next day.

"There's nobody hunting tomorrow," she said. 

"Ok, what about Wednesday, too?" 

"There's nobody hunting tomorrow," she reiterated.

"Oh, ok. Um, can I hunt then?" I asked like a twelve-year-old wanting to hang out with his older brother and his friends. 

"The sign-in box is right over there," she motioned towards a mailbox mounted onto a ranch sign with their name. 

"So, do you know of any hotel rooms in the area?" I asked, realizing I was pushing my luck. 

"No." She said, then adding, with the tiniest bit of sympathy, "You'll probably have to drive back to Billings or onto Forsythe. There might be a place in Custer but I'm not sure." 

"Ok, thanks!" I said with the enthusiasm of that twelve-year-old that just heard his brother say, 'fine'.

I jumped in my truck, stopped by the sign-in box to fill out a sheet, and then headed back to the east towards Custer. I was going to check out a couple fields that were part of the BMA along the way and make a plan for the morning. I also Googled hotels in the area and did see one in Custer. Unfortunately, it was closed. The next closest hotel was a half-hour away in Hardin, which is Indian country, bordering the Crow Reservation. I've stayed in Hardin before. As much you hear the locals cautioning you about staying on or near the res, it doesn't bother me. I've never had any more problems staying in reservation towns as any other small towns in Montana. I just didn't want to drive that far but my options were limited.  

On my way out, I scouted a field behind the rancher's house. There were pivots parked along irrigation ditches where hundreds of geese were feeding, with more dropping in as I drove by. Using my onX, I verified that this was part of the BMA and there was easy access through a maintenance road that dissected the field. 

"This is too perfect," I thought to myself and headed down the road to Hardin.

The sun was setting as I drove county road 47 up the Big Horn River. Every field along the way was thick with black heads and white cheeks as Canada geese picked away at whatever was left behind after the fall harvest. It was hard to believe there was enough grain and seeds to support the numbers of birds I was seeing but obviously, they were doing just fine. These birds were huge and the more I saw, the more my brain went to this assumption that this was going to be too easy. I would surely have my limit well before noon, so I was going to have plenty of time to fine another spot to hunt the final day. This was going to be sick. 

As I got to Hardin, I pulled into the driveway of the Super 8, left my truck running, and approached the counter where the attendant was standing behind the desk. She was a mid-twenties, Crow member, and greeted me with a smile. I asked if I could get a room and she went to work on pulling up the agreement. An older gentleman, also a tribal member, passed by several times, checking in on our conversation. The gentleman had a distinguishing trait that brought attention to him--a patch over his right eye.

"Welcome," he said, as he nodded to me. 

If you aren't familiar with this area, the Big Horn River is one of the most heavily fished and heavily guided rivers in the Lower Forty-Eight. Hardin is downstream of the Blue-Ribbon water flowing out of the Yellowtail Afterbay Damn at Fort Smith, which is about 45 minutes south. Fort Smith does have some lodges and accommodations, but not nearly enough for the thousands and thousands of anglers that come to the river every season, so there is plenty of overflow, that inevitably make their way to Hardin. Like every small town and just about every river that has developed into a fly-fishing mecca, there are growing pains, and the Big Horn is not without these contentions. In fact, I would argue there's even more resentment over the waves of rich white folk ascending upon this area because the river was closed to non-tribal members until 1981, which is partly why it developed into such a prolific trout river. One might imagine that resentment, manifesting through the way locals greet people like me, but that's not what my initial experience would reveal. In fact, these two folks were quite welcoming. Maybe that has to do with a more developed sense from local residents of not only acceptance of the situation but now a realization of the potential profiting from the situation. It's not that different from what I experienced through the years of guiding on the Missouri. Craig locals hated us fly-fishing folk for ruining their community and their river. Now, they accept us, and they profit from the anglers that visit the river every year.

I remember my first introduction to the Craig Bar in the spring of 2007. I had already decided to work for one of the shops and to guide part-time. I was fishing with the shop owner and another buddy when we got off the river and decided to go have a beer. As we sat down at one side of the bar, a cowboy with the big black hat, shit kickers, and a buckle the size of my steering wheel leaned over the bar and directed a question my way.

"Hey," he said, "you one of those catch-and-release fagots?"

"Um," I stuttered, "I mean, we do put the fish back?" 

"The only catching and releasing I do," he replied, "is catching and releasing them into a pan of bacon grease!" He punctuated his punchline with a laugh bigger and louder than the belt buckle that was desperately trying to abdicate itself from the rolls of his jiggling beer belly.

A week later, at the same bar, another local leaned over to me and also asked if I was one of them "fly-fishing fagots." He was promptly removed from the bar and his evening of drinking was prematurely suspended. That same gentleman tried picking a fight with me at Izzak's about a week later and was again, kicked out of the bar. 

A lot has changed over the years and people have become much more accepting of us, fly-fishing folk and our money. As a result, I have come to know a lot of locals in these places and have had some really fun times with them. I was actually quite interested in what Hardin was all about since I hadn't been there for years, and the more I talked with these two folks at the Super 8, the happier I was to have made the drive. 

It turns out, the gentleman with the patch is the manager of the hotel. He also did most of the artwork in the lobby, which was done by burning plywood panels with only the use of the sun and a fricken magnifying glass. Incidentally, that's how he lost the vision in his right eye and why he wears a patch. 

His name is Jonathan Beartusk and he does have an online gallery called Dance of the Sun. The artwork is so good that he was commissioned to do a portrait of President Obama and was nationally recognized for it. I saw the photos of him presenting the artwork to the president--pretty damn cool. 

After settling in at the hotel, I took a trip downtown and hung out with some other locals at the Four Aces Bar and Lounge. Much like my trip to Malta, I spent way too much time at the lounge socializing and wound up paying for it the next morning. Somehow, again like the Malta trip, my bill at the bar was only $23! That was with a chicken dinner too... 

Shooting hours started at around 7:30am. I was on the road after a couple cups of coffee and a McGriddles at around six. I drove the half-hour to Custer, pulled off the county road and onto the maintenance road after double checking that I was following the rules for the BMA per their instructions outlined on the website. I was able to park my rig about 300 yards from the pivot where all those birds were feeding the evening before. In the dark, I couldn't see the pivot, I was just guessing where I should head, so after loading up the three dozen decoys--two dozen full body and a dozen shells--in the sled, I started off across the field and fortunately, after a few minutes, saw the silhouette of the pivot come into view. I checked the onX to make sure I wasn't veering off from the BMA. I was right along the edge of the boundary, which was neither marked nor fenced off. 

As I got closer to the pivot and the irrigation ditch, I was happy to see signs of geese in the form of tracks in the snow and a healthy amount of frozen, green droppings that resembled lopped off human fingers curled up in the snow. (I know. Gross.) I also noted that there were no geese on the field when I got there. I figured that was a good thing because that meant they were roosting on the river and would be back as the temperature warmed up and the geese got hungry. The fact that I didn't spook them off the field meant they wouldn't have a reason to be alarmed. 

It took me about 45 minutes to get set up. Pounding in the stakes for the full body decoys was a bit of a chore in the frozen ground. I positioned my spread just out from the pivot so I could hide behind one of its giant wheels. If that wasn't enough cover, I could slide back to the ditch, which was only about 15 yards away. The ditch was overgrown with grasses and some Russian olives and other shrubs, which would be easy for Cutter and me, to conceal ourselves. As the sun came up, I could hear the geese squawking on the river. I could tell they were getting antsy and figured it was only a matter of time. 

 An hour passed. No birds took flight. I could still hear them. An hour-and-a-half and still no birds coming to feed. I was getting cold, so I started doing jumping jacks. I was still pretty confident but again, some doubt crept in. 

Almost two hours after shooting light, the first goose honked much closer than the hundreds I could hear on the river. A lone goose flew over the decoys, gave one look and continued on. A few minutes later, a group of 10 or so followed the same flight plan. The doubt now grew in me like the disappointing anxiety a kid feels while standing on the sidelines waving, pick me! Pick me! 

A few minutes later, another group of a dozen or more geese flew past the decoys, turned and cupped up. My heart jumped. I grabbed my goose call and tried to mimic what they were telling my spread. They weren't having it and before coming into range, they flared, and I watched as they glided to west behind me and sat down in the neighbor's field about a quarter mile away. Another group followed them and for about 30 minutes I watched as flock after flock passed up my decoys for the naturals on the wrong side of the fence.

I moved back into the ditch, thinking that was the problem. From the angle they were flying in, I thought maybe they were picking me out and I was the reason for them flaring. A few more groups came over without as much as a look at the decoys. 

Every once in a while, a group would fly just close enough that I thought I could shoot but after dumping my gun a few times, I realized it was futile to attempt these passing shots, and knowing every shell was costing me a buck, I decided to stop making these frivolous donations to Federal Arms. 

I changed up my cadence on the call and eventually a group made the turn, cupped up and wanted in. Unfortunately, I was now well behind the pivot and as the geese made their final approach, they were still 40 yards out and I would have had to shoot through the pivot, risking hitting the sprinkler heads so that wasn't going to work. As the flock busted out, I rethought my predicament. I was going to have to move back to the wheel and hope for the best. 

I did have my lay-out blind with me that I had set up under the pivot for Cutter to lay on. The axel for the pivot was only a few feet above the ground and was helping to conceal Cutter and the blind was just acting as a pad for him, warmer than laying on the bare ground. I was posted up on the edge of a stubble field with a skiff of snow on it. The blind wasn't going to do me much good. Now I was seriously doubting my set-up and as more and more geese flew on a straight line to land a quarter of a mile past me, I was thinking about all the chickens I had counted the night before. It made me think of Buddha and how all these expectations we put on ourselves leads to disappointment and unhappiness--just another example, driving that point home. Well played, Buddha. Well played. 

Then something fantastic happened. The wind shifted slightly, coming from southwest, which meant the geese coming off the river would slide past me, turn and have to come in from the northeast. I was set up on the south side of the wheel so they couldn't see me as they made their final approach. I also started finding my voice with the call and geese were responding to it, much happier to come say hello and then from out of nowhere, the first group actually landed on the deck. 

Unfortunately, that group landed a few yards out of range so I couldn't get a good shot off, but it was a start. I few minutes later, a group didn't quite reach the deck but flew directly over me and well within range, so I took my shot and dropped one. It didn't fold up immediately and wound up gliding off over the ditch, into the neighbor's field behind us. I sent Cutter after it, knowing the protocol would be to ask permission first but with the goose standing there, 50 yards away, I took my chance. I pointed Cutter to the bird and gave the command. 

Cutter reached the goose with the vigor of a line-backer, making a tackle even Troy Polamalu would be proud of and with the bird stunned, picked it up and headed towards me. I crossed back down the steep bank of the ditch, back up the other side and to the pivot wheel and after a few minutes without Cutter showing up, stood up to find him. He had brought the goose to our side of the ditch over a land-bridge a few yards to the south of where we had set up, so he didn't have to go down through the ditch with this enormous bird. That was pretty intuitive of the black dog and definitely made things easier but before he could get to the pivot, he gave up, dropping the goose and looking at me as to say, "alright, your turn." Again, these geese are huge--probably weighing a good fifteen pounds. Cutter is about 75 pounds and 12 years old, so I figured he deserved a pass. 

I helped out with the last 30 yards or so, rung the goose's neck and laid it down under the axel of the pivot. I was relieved at that point, that we weren't going to get skunked but still a little apprehensive about the relatively small spread of decoys and our setup. However, within a couple minutes, another group came in and I dumped my gun and another goose dropped just on the other side of the ditch from us. Cutter had to make another retrieve on a 15 pound, pissed off goose from about 100 yards out. 

With two of these monster geese now piled up under the pivot, I decided not to take even a marginally questionable shot. I waited to only shoot at geese that were committed to landing and if I hit one, I would stop shooting for the double and focus only on the one that was already hit. It was just too much to ask Cutter to make these retrieves and even shooting 3-inch BB's, these geese were almost impossible to kill with one shot. A few minutes later, I pulled the trigger on a group of cupped up geese and watched as one flipped, doing a 360 in mid-air before bouncing off the frozen field. Then a fourth goose dropped out of the next flock and then a 5th and before I knew it; it was 11am and I had my limit--three and a half hours, one box of shells, and five dead geese. Screw you Buddha. 

We picked up decoys and hauled gear back to the truck. With the added weight of the geese, it took two trips. I left the BMA feeling pretty good, and as we drove past the field where the majority of geese were landing that morning, they all took flight with the exception of one, so I drove into the ranch and knocked on the door. The gentleman that answered seemed to be a good guy and told me I could drive out across his hay fields to finish that goose off. Thinking I needed another place to hunt for the final day, I asked him if he would give permission. Unfortunately, he told me he leased his place out to other hunters so he couldn't. He also told me he was glad the season was ending because he was a little tired of hunters knocking on his door every day. He didn't say it like he was lumping me into that group, and he also conveyed to me that he's a hunter as well and he gets it, but it was getting a little old. I get that.

I did go out to get that cripple. My first attempt was to send Cutter after it. In the time it took us to pick up decoys and drive around to the other ranch, Cutter had stiffened up and wasn't quick enough to wrangle it down before it took flight. It was so apparent that he wasn't going to be able to bounce back for day two, I didn't take the ranchers advise to ask the neighbor to hunt the next day. I had shot enough for the brine bucket, so we headed home. 

I'm glad I decided to roll the dice on hunting that last week in Eastern Montana. It was kind of a redemption for how the season ended in Central Montana. It gave me one last good memory of hunting with Cutter, if in fact, this was his last season and I got to meet some really good folks again. And, it gives me opportunities for future hunts--hopefully with a friend or two at a time we can plan it. Good times, a good dog, and good people. 

Keep 'em where they live...

Friday, January 19, 2024

Cutter's Final Retrieve


First of all, I think you should know that Cutter is still alive and kicking and doing quite well. At twelve years old, however, it's likely that he has taken his last hunt. That hunt was the final day of the 2023-24 waterfowl season. I would like to share that hunt with you, realizing this may seem like a premature obituary, but it's really just a way of reflecting on an amazingly quirky buddy that has been by my side through some pretty awesome hunts, some frustrating episodes of squirrel chasing, a lot of whining in the truck and other things I have no explanation for. I hope you all enjoy and would bet, most of you will relate. 

My last post was filled with optimism, as a long-awaited storm was on its way across the Rockies and into the Montana Plains. Cutter and I had only gotten out hunting for waterfowl two times this year. We certainly could have gone more but with the warm weather and absolutely no snow on the fields, dragging a bunch of decoys to the river, setting them up and sitting in a blind for hours would be like panning for gold in the irrigation ditches coming out of Helena's holding reservoir. But with the temps forecasted to dip well below the level of pissing icicles, including at least 2 to 4 inches of the white puffy stuff, the ducks and geese would come. The only question was if the weather would change in time to push the birds to the upper river before the end of the season. 

The season ended on Friday the 12th of January. The forecast was for the temperatures to start dropping Wednesday afternoon and continue to drop through the weekend. Thursday's high was supposed to be negative 7. Friday was only going to get up to negative 13. In actuality, it never got above negative 24 on Friday. You know the expression, "too little too late?" One might say, "too much, too late." 

Our "epic" last push of the season began on Wednesday. We set up decoys at around 2pm. Geese were starting to move, and few mallards were also showing up. I opted not to pull the trigger on a few geese as I am a little more protective of the Cutter dog and would hate to cripple one and have him try to chase it down. He's pretty good at being called off of cripples but every once in a while, his stubborn gene kicks in and off he goes. 

It reminds me of a day a few years ago, when I was hunting with a buddy in the same blind. A little back water at the end of an island is a great place to drop birds as the current peters out and gets shallow. However, it's not that far to the main channel and if a cripple gets out in the heavy water, a dog might not catch up to it until somewhere in North Dakota. On this day, we dropped a mallard that made it to the main stem. Cutter went after it and in a few minutes, managed to kick his way out of sight. With only about 45 minutes left before sunset and Cutter not responding to the whistle, I apologized to my buddy and told him I would have to go after my f'(%$ dog. 

I had to cross a channel that was much deeper than I anticipated in order to chase Cutter down. I found out at the exact halfway point, that I had a hole in the crotch of my waders. I gritted my teeth to a point I thought they would turn to powder as I continued across the channel. I blew the whistle as loud and hard as I could, which normally would call Cutter back, but it didn't. I blew and blew until the little cork ball inside the whistle disintegrated into tiny pieces.  

"Cutter!!" I yelled in between the f'bombs I was throwing under my breath. Let me rephrase; between the f'bombs that were increasingly become more and more audible to anyone within a hundred yards. 

Right before I completely lost my shit, I turned back to look upstream towards the blind and there he was, already heading back, head bobbing above the grass as he ran. I'm not sure how he got passed me without seeing him, but he did so, I crossed the channel again, took on another shock to the groin as a liter of water seeped in, and sloshed my way back to the blind. 

A couple days later, a similar scenario presented itself as another cripple headed out to the main current. A different buddy was in the blind that day as Cutter headed out of sight. I took my replacement whistle in my hand, pursed my lips on it, and blew two long sharp blasts. Then I sat down and looked for more ducks.

"Are you going to go get him?" my co-hunter asked with obvious concern. 

"No, he'll be back," I assured him. 

I watched as my buddy strained to try to get a glimpse of the black dog, hoping somehow, he would be ok. He looked at me, then back down the river and back at me. 

"Get down," I demanded as a group of ducks were making the turn. 

As they made their final approach, we pulled up, unloaded our guns on them, and watched as a couple greenheads splashed down in the slack water. As I reloaded, I nodded to my buddy in the direction of where Cutter disappeared. 

"Fetch 'em up!" I yelled and as Cutter reached the blind, he didn't even stop to say so much as a, "Hey guys, I'm back." He just launched himself into the river and went on to do what he was obviously born to do. 

At twelve years old now, I'm definitely not going to push him. I won't let him get out of sight. I won't even let him chase cripples if they get out in the main current, which is why I'm even more selective in my shots. That probably means fewer birds but that's ok. It's not worth the risk. 

Five years ago, I was totally confident that Cutter would get nearly every duck and goose that would make the main current. With his hearty frame and huge paws, the river has never been a problem. I've seen that dog complete some of the craziest retrieves. I've pointed out ducks floating by on the opposite side of the river that must have gotten away from another hunter, brought him to the bank, pointed his nose in the right direction and commanded, "fetch 'em up!" And then watched him swim the 80 to 100 yards across the Mighty Mo with the confidence of knowing I wouldn't send him over there if there wasn't a bird. Somehow, like a Vegas magic show, even without the bird bringing attention to itself he would locate it, grab it and bring it back. 

I've also watched him chase a duck downstream and have the instinct to swim out past the still live duck and push it back towards the shoreline where he would trap it in the rocks and as the duck dove to try to allude him, he would shove his face down in the water and after a few seconds, pick his head up with duck in mouth, still kicking and flapping, and again, trot it back to the blind like it was just another day in the life...

I'm not too proud to admit either, that I've had days on the river where we didn't even pull the trigger and still walked away with birds that Cutter would find that other hunters lost. Sometimes the birds were still alive and sometimes they had expired. He would just get bored of the lack of action and sneak out of the blind before anyone would notice. A few minutes later, here comes Cutter with a mallard in his mouth, drop it in the blind and take his place; butt down, head up, waiting for the next group of birds to drop in, if any birds were flying at all that day. 

On that last Wednesday, we were set up in our spot and after a few geese rolled through, a drake mallard dropped out of the sky taking me by surprise. Not able to get the gun up in time for a good shot, I let him land. Unfortunately, he didn't fully sit down until he was about 50 yards downstream of the decoys. That's pretty typical for late season birds as they've probably been duped a few times and although they want to sit down due to the wind and cold, they are very skeptical of just about any spread of decoys. 

After a few minutes, feeling pretty confident he wasn't going to swim back upstream to the decoys, Cutter and I snuck out of the blind through the red twig dogwood that covers the bank, to put a sneak on him. 

"No, Cutter. Heal!" I whisper/shouted to him. "Get over here," as I pointed to the ground to the right of my foot. 

Cutter would spin and bound back to my side, smack my leg with his nose and snort in defiance. Then he would test me again by ranging out just a little too far so with a gruff and a little more edge to my voice I would call him back again--always cognizant of how loud I was as to not spook the greenhead that was right along the bank only a few yards away. 

Crouching hunched over trying stay out of the duck's site; at some point neither myself nor Cutter had the patience to get any closer. I stood up to see the nervousness of the drake on the water--spinning and bobbing and snapping his head around to locate the danger he was sensing. Knowing he was about to jump, I pulled my Weatherby to my shoulder, clicked off the safety, and let him get airborne before dumping him. Cutter was already in the game as he now, a little more gingerly, slid into the river and chased down the drake. 

One of Cutter's quirks is he likes to be the one to bring the bird all the way to the blind. It probably has something to do with me scolding him if he dropped the bird before getting all the way to the blind while we were hunting it. But now, no matter where we are whether in a blind or jumping ducks a hundred yards away in a back channel, he is going to bring it all the way back to the blind we are set up in. That retrieve was no different. Before I could get halfway back, he had already placed the duck in the blind and was on his way back to my side, just in case his services would be needed again. 

On the particular stalk, which was totally unexpected, another mallard had landed just downstream from the decoys while we were retrieving the first. As I approached the blind with Cutter, the commotion of wings flapping and a mallard quacking startled me, causing my head to snap back to catch a hen busting out away from the bank. It's late season and the birds just aren't on the river yet, so I decided to take the hen and with one shot, dropped her in the slack water at the end of the island. Cutter was happy to do his thing again, and again, brought the hen directly to the blind. 

The rest of that afternoon was pretty slow. I passed on a couple more shots, missed a couple geese but as the sun set, I was still hopeful the next couple days would get better. More ducks and geese did come to the river but with the temps in the negative 20's, the wind howling 30 mph, and the condensation billowing off the river, sitting over decoys wasn't an option. On Thursday, Cutter and I only lasted for about an hour and a half before calling bullshit. We got one goose. All the birds that were on the river were hunkered down and without anyone else dumb enough to brave the weather to kick birds around, they weren't moving. Even if they were, the decoys were freezing up in a matter of seconds and the slush that was forming on the surface would drag them down stream, so I found myself chasing plastic and breaking off ice more than actually hunting. The fog was so heavy, visibility was less than forty yards and once Cutter's teeth started chattering, I knew it was time to go.  

I'll be honest, it was more than a little disappointing. It's not so much the desire to kill birds or even put birds in the freezer. It's that I know Cutter and I only have a little more time together and duck hunting is really one of the few things we can actually get out and do together that is fun for both of us. He's a horrible fishing companion. He can't sit still and just enjoy the ride if he's in the boat because all he wants to do is chase birds. He will literally sit in the back of the boat for hours and whine until I can't take anymore resulting in me throwing him in the river. At that point, he'll swim for a while, realize it's an impossible proposition to go about it alone, and then whines to get back in the boat. 

And wade fishing is out of the question as well because he'll sneak off and the next thing you know, he's chasing either deer or a goose across the run you're fishing, which almost always results in me developing a nasty bout of turrets. In the spring, one of his favorites is to pull eggs out of a goose nest and bring it back to me to which I have to go find the nest and replace the egg, hoping we didn't spook mom from coming back. The problem is, Cutter has caught birds before, and he thinks he can catch every bird and every squirrel that crosses his path regardless of whether or not we are fishing or hunting.

There was a day, early spring, where I thought I would try the wade fishing thing again with Cutter. We headed to the Mo and parked at the Spite Hill Fishing Access Site. The parking area and river are far enough from the road so he could do a little exploring without much danger. The entire 45-minute drive, he whined. He knew where we were going. He knew I would be distracted. He knew he was going to be able to run and play and chase things and he couldn't contain himself. Again, turrets. 

By the time we got to the FAS, I couldn't take it anymore and as I opened the door, I wanted him to get as far away from me as possible. He bounded from the back seat, just about knocking me over, and disappeared into the grass as if somehow, he had been Googling "ducks" and the Google Assistant was yelling at him to "Turn left!! They are right there!!!" 

"Screw that dog," I thought as I pulled on my waders, rigged my rod and headed towards the river. 

Out of nowhere, here comes the black dog, bounding back through the grass towards me. As he came into full view, I noticed he wasn't alone. Fully in his mouth with wings folded and head bobbing out the side, a full-sized greenhead was holding on for dear life as if he was a six-year-old riding the zipper at the State Fair for the first time. 

"Bring it here," I yelled, almost losing my shit. 

Cutter ran straight to me and dropped the duck at my feet. The drake flipped over onto his feet, shook his head and I swear, looked up at me as to say, "Dude, control your damn dog," and then promptly went airborne, flying directly across the river and landing as far away from this tyrant of a dog as he could without losing his position in the swamp. 

This wasn't the first time he had done that. One other time, while I was getting gear out of the boat to set up during an actual duck hunting trip, he went off into the brush and brought back a fully live and capable pintail. He also dropped that duck at my feet and again, the duck flipped up on its feet and took off. Cutter just looked at me with absolute contempt and I imagined him cussing me out in his head for letting the thing get away. 

He's also caught grey squirrels and ground squirrels and even a muskrat; all of which were just a little too complacent, thinking this dumb lab had no chance to grab them before they escaped either up a tree or into a burrow or submerge under water. In every instance, the rodents didn't fare well and wound-up being fox food, but the ducks were never hurt. In fact, there was never even a displaced feather on them. As frustrating as it was that he would just go rouge and chase things, it was also fascinating that he knew not to hurt the birds but absolutely despised the squirrels and muskrats. (It's probably because the rodents fight back and have teeth. Regardless, it's pretty amazing how soft of a mouth Cutter has when it matters.)

Cutter didn't start out loving to hunt. In fact, as a puppy, he was gun shy. Yeah. A duck dog who can't stand the sound of loud noises. It wasn't just guns either. Whenever a thunderstorm came in, the booming of the lightning strikes would send him to the basement and into the bathroom shower. It was almost like in a past life, he died in a tornado or something. He knew exactly where to go, which as kids, was drilled into our heads every spring in the Midwest.

"Find the lowest point and get into a closet or bathroom that has additional framing to prevent the house collapsing on you," was what every weather forecaster, teacher and parent would tell us. 

Everyone knows that, right? I'm not sure how a dog who was only a year old and never spent time in Tornado Alley would, however. 

I didn't know about the guns until one day when he was just about a year old, I took him to the river to jump ducks. We snuck up on a few woodies and when I shot two of them, I turned to Cutter to get him to retrieve the birds and he was nowhere in sight. I looked around for a couple minutes before finding him, curled up in a ball in the grass, shaking like B.B. King's vibrato on Lucille. I wound up stripping down to me skivvies, wading out across the channel and picking up the ducks myself. As I got back to Cutter and showed him the birds, he had about as much interest in them as a sipping rainbow trout has for a hopper in March. 

I started doing some research on the probability of breaking him from being gun shy. Some folks say it's impossible and some folks are a little more optimistic. I actually thought I might have to give him up. I couldn't see myself owning a dog that can't hunt. I mean, Cutter was a sweet puppy and was easy to house train, didn't chew up shoes, stayed away from the garbage and was quite loyal but a lab that won't hunt? That's a lot of food over the duration of a lifetime and a boys got to earn his keep...

I talked to a couple dog trainers who thought that I could absolutely break him. One, however, told me it might take several years, and I would have to pull back and slowly re-introduce him to guns. The other told me to just force it on him and eventually, he would get over it. I took the hybrid approach. 

The idea was to associate the shotgun blast with fun and birds and finding his purpose. I took him out near Wilsall, MT to hunt Hungarian partridge. Huns often get up quite a ways out and it only takes a couple pellets to drop one. If Cutter was a little further from the gun blast when he saw the birds, maybe it wouldn't startle him so much and he would be fixated on the birds, not the gun. I also dropped down to a 20 gauge versus the 12, which doesn't carry as much boom. 

The first covey of Huns busted out of the prairie grass about thirty yards out. Shots rang out and a couple birds dropped. One of them had enough left in him to flop around as it tried to regain flight. Cutter curled up in a ball and laid down. 

"Let's go, Cutter!" I yelled. "Good boy, good boy! Fetch 'em up, Cutter!"

I ran over to Cutter and picked him up off the ground and dragged him to the flopping bird. Immediately, his head perked up, and his interest shifted squarely on the bird. 

"Get 'em, Cutter!"

He stood up and cautiously nosed over to the bird. As it tried to escape, Cutter tried to drop a paw on him. When he missed and the bird scooted off, he picked up the pace a bit and tried stabbing it again. Again, he missed and then the chase was on. He eventually got the bird in his mouth and then paraded around with it until I called him back and had him drop, praising him like the he was a toddler, and he made his first poopy in the training toilet. 

A week later we were on the Missouri, set up over decoys in a channel just downstream from Craig. The weather was good, and birds were on the move. As the first group cupped in and committed to the decoys, I called the shot early and we all dumped our guns, throwing epic air balls. With all the shooting, Cutter found a little nest in the grass and curled up. He obviously wasn't into the noise and his confidence hovered slightly lower than a peewee hockey goalie facing Gretzky on a break-a-way. 

A few minutes later, a single greenhead made his final approach and didn't leave the channel. As the shot rang out, the duck dropped right in front of the blind with a big splash. 

"Fetch 'em up, Cutter!" I enthusiastically yelled. 

I grabbed Cutter and threw him into the river and then walked with him out to the floating duck. 

"Good boy!" I praised. "Good boy, Cutter! Fetch 'em up!"

Cutter grabbed the duck in his mouth and headed back to shore. Again, he paraded around with the bird and eventually, I made him drop it with a disproportionate number of "atta boys." As the next shots rang out, instead of cowering in the nest of grass in the back of the blind, he would initially duck down for a second, but then his ears would perk up and he would wait for the splash and then, game on. From that point forward, shotgun blasts meant birds and birds were fun. 

Friday morning, the last day of the 2023-24 season, was even more brutal than Thursday. The wind wasn't as much the issue as the cold. I did throw a couple bags of decoys in the truck and Cutter and I did take a drive to the river, but there was no way in hell I was going to set up and sit for any period of time in negative 26 degrees. However, the ducks and geese did start to show up and as we drove along the frontage road, I took note of all the little nooks of open water in back channels where ducks and geese were huddled up. In some of those spots, public access to the river afforded some opportunities to get out and jump shoot. It's something we did a fair amount of in Minnesota with all the puddles and potholes in the Pilsbury National Forrest. It's not my favorite type of duck hunting but you gotta do what you gotta do. 

The first spot I located was while looking across the river from a well-known fishing access site. A bunch of birds were huddled up on an iceshelf just below a fairly steep bank. The bank would offer cover and the iceshelf only extended out from the bank a couple yards. I felt pretty confident we could get on them and we did. As the birds took flight, I pulled and dropped two greenheads. Cutter jumped in and brought the first one back. Turning to go after number two, he jumped into the water and started heading downstream for it. It was stone dead, drifting along with the current--normally a pretty easy retrieve for Cutter. As he began to close on the bird, I could tell something wasn't quite right. 

Cutter pulled off the bird, which is very unusual. 

I yelled, "Back! Back!"

He never even looked back towards the mallard. He just came right to shore. The cold was too much, and his energy level was being sapped too quickly to make the double retrieve. It's a bummer to lose a bird. It would have been worse to lose the dog. We chased it down stream in the hopes it would eddy out but eventually lost sight of it in the fog and had to give up. 

We quickly made it back to the truck and cranked the heat. Cutter's fur was now a glistening silver-grey with ice crystals hanging, much more brilliantly than the dust particles that tint his jet-black coat grey after he rolls in my flower beds--another enduring trait I've had to get used to over the years. Another group of birds were hunkered down in a shallow channel just upstream that I had staked out earlier. I knew we could put the sneak on them, and the retrieval would be much easier, so we took a few minutes to warm up and then parked the truck.

Cutter still has the enthusiasm of a rag-horn coming into a good cow call in September so when the door opens, he jumps. However, as he hit the ground at this spot, it was hard to tell if his whining was coming from the excitement of hunting down more greenheads, or if it was the reluctant anticipation of jumping into the nearly frozen river again.

"Let's give it one more try buddy," I tell him with an empathetic head ruffling. 

I load the 12 gauge with 3-inch BB's, and we head towards the river. The contour of the channel and the fact that it is lined with the thick red twig dogwood shrubs, willows, and an occasional Russian olive is ideal for the stalk. The only concern is that one of the ducks or geese would hear something and alert all the others before we get in range. Cutter has now run off most of his nervous energy, so getting him to heal isn't a problem. He sticks close to my side and sneaks along with me. 

The channel is less than 20 yards wide. A riffle has been keeping the water from freezing. It's hard to say how many birds are holding up there but I know if I do my job, I could easily knock a few of them down. We sneak closer and through the brush, I see iridescent green heads start the nervous bobbing and jerking back and forth as if to ask each other if now's the time to get the heck out of there--almost as if they're all just waiting for the sentinel to sound the alarm and then all hell will break loose. 

I straighten up and rush the birds and yes, all hell does break loose. What I thought were a dozen or so mallards with a handful of geese turned out to be several dozen mallards and more than 20 geese. I pull the shotgun to my shoulder, drop the barrel on green and pull. Out of the corner of my eye I see a drake splash in the shallow water as I'm already on the next one. I pull and another greenhead drops. One more rushed shot thunders out across the river without hitting home but I know I have two down and I know they have dropped in the channel and before even telling Cutter to fetch 'em up, he's already located the first and charging towards it.

Cutter saw both ducks drop, which sometime confuses him. As he picked the first one up, he brings it to the opposite side of the channel and drops it on the iceshelf. The bird is stoned dead and isn't going anywhere so Cutter goes after number two as it drifts along with the current. That duck is also dead, so he picks it up and slowly walks it across the riffle to the near bank. I pick the bird up and he just looks at me, waiting to see if I'm actually going to make him go after the first duck he left on the shelf.

I wave my hand, gesturing in the direction of the duck and say, "fetch 'em up, Cutter." 

He looks at me as if to ask, "Are you crazy? I left it there for you. You go get it."

"Come on Cutter. Fetch it up!" I command with a little more sense of urgency. 

Cutter sits on his haunches, looks back across the channel and then back at me. He pulls his head back and sticks his chest out like a petulant child, folding their arms across their chest, pouting and shaking their head as if to say, "no f'n chance." 

I feel the blood pressure in my ears as the thump, thump of my pulse against my eardrums gets a little louder and a little faster. I take a deep breath. I hate when Cutter acts with absolute defiance and quite honestly, a complete disregard of the dynamic between us. I'm the master. I'm the one pulling the trigger. I feed you. I give you a house to live in. You sleep on the end of my bed! Now you're going to defy me?!! 

There are times I wish our relationship was more objective or maybe pragmatic or robotic. I shoot, you retrieve. I say heal; you get your butt right next to me. I blow the whistle, you circle back. I say come, you come. It's really that easy. 

I take a breath and look down at my defiant dog. It is brutally cold. I'm bundled up in pack boots, 13 layers of smart wool, fleece, wind jackets and wool. Cutter has his fur, a modest amount of fat and the natural oils that prevent the water from reaching his skin and that's it. 

I kneel down next to him with a little bit of re-found empathy. He doesn't have the words to say how utterly ridiculous it is that we would be hunting on a day like this, but the message is now loud and clear. I rough up his fur a little and I say, "Let's go, Cutter. One more time and we're ought of here. Fetch 'em up." 

Cutter slowly dips his feet into the river and works his way across the channel at a pace only a tortious could admire. It's his way of saying, "Fine, I'll do it but I'm not happy about it."

As he drops the duck at my feet, I tell him, "Good boy, Cutter. Let's get the fuck out of here." 

He understands fully what I just told him, and he beats me back to the truck by about a hundred yards. I open the back door and tell him to load up knowing I'm going to have to spot him with a little lift. As we drive away, I think more about the dynamic between us and if that's really what I want in a dog. 

When we look at all the different breeds of dogs that are out there, bred for specific traits like pointing birds or retrieving them it's astonishing to think about how we humans, have manipulated this genus over thousands of years. Some dogs herd sheep. Some dogs protect them. Some dogs kill rats or tree racoons. Some chase lions. Some wrestle cattle. Most of these traits have been forgotten with the exception of the working-class dogs like hunting dogs and cattle dogs, but the other important trait that sometimes is forgotten--often when I'm in the field with Cutter--is that in every case, or just about every case, all these different breeds were also bred to be companions. What that means, is they inevitably will come with personality--personality that sometimes reflects their master or their master's over that evolutionary span. 

Cutter has a personality much like a kid. He gets distracted easily. He sees a squirrel on the other side of the fence and loses his shit and sometimes, I have to get in my car and chase him down. He dreams and often kicks me hard enough to leave bruises. He barks and whines during those dreams, waking me up at 3am. He whines in the car non-stop, anticipating the fun stuff he thinks we are headed out to do. He always thinks we are going hunting and acts like a spas, pushing through the door to beat me to the truck even though every time, I tell him to wait. He is a puppy at heart although his body is telling him different and he lives for those days on the river, or in the cattails chasing birds much like I do. So no, if I'm going to be totally honest, I don't think a robot would serve me well. 

 A few days later, Cutter and I headed back up to the river to collect some gear I had forgotten as we hastily left the river on the Thursday before season closed. It was so cold and windy, I just wanted to get out of there and I left a bag with a bunch of shells and a few pair of gloves and a folding chair. The river was sick with mallards, goldeneyes, and geese. They all finally showed up, just a few days too late. 

As we crossed the island to the blind where I had forgotten my gear, we jumped a few dozen birds right in front of where we would be set up--chip shots as the ducks and geese reluctantly left their protected roosts and I counted the shots and birds in my head that would have dropped had the season not closed a few days prior. Cutter looked back at me with confusion. He doesn't understand calendars and seasons. He only knows birds and wonders why there weren't any gun blasts coming from me. (We never did find the bag or the chair as someone must have been dumber than me, hunting that island in negative 26 on the final day, and found it before I got back there. If you're reading and this sounds familiar, please give me a shout.)

I'll be honest, I don't know if in fact, it was Cutter's last season. He's twelve but looks like he's five or six. His hips are in good shape, but he gets really sore after a day on the river and the cold hits him a little harder than it used to. If you asked him, he would answer with an emphatic "No!" But much like an aging football player, he doesn't know when to say when and it might not be up to him. I'm sure we'll probably get out for some token hunts, and he will be happy to play the role, but I'm sad to say his best days are clearly behind us. It was a pretty amazing run though. Best hunting dog I've ever been blessed to hunt over. 

Keep 'em where they live...

P.S. If you want to check out Cutter in action, visit my YouTube Channel: https://youtu.be/ZlbH89OM9pc


Wednesday, January 10, 2024

Waterfowl 2023 Season-- The Final Push


Boy, I tell yah, this hunting season has been a challenge. We keep waiting for the weather to change to bring some birds down, but it just hasn't happened with the exception of the first wave of birds coming early in October. I was guiding on a Friday at the tail end of that storm, with the high temps being in the low twenties. The storm had just moved through and there were thousands of the good ducks on the river. By good ducks, I'm talk big 'ole greenheads--mallards. Throw in some teal and geese and I figured to put the test to my new Weatherby, 12-gauge, semi-auto loader. I'm sure my sport got a little annoyed with me with every bend in the river, a group of 10 or more birds would get up and I would proclaim, "Man, we should trade the rods on for shotguns..." 

I had the next day off, so I was super stoked to get out early in the afternoon with Cutter and a few decs and a few boxes of shells and put the hurt on 'em. Turns out, 90% of the birds decided to head out of Dodge before we got to them. It was crazy. One day, you couldn't look across the river without seeing a dozen birds either on the water or in the air and the next, crickets. We wound up shooting three teal and a greenhead. Not what I was anticipating. Cutter wasn't happy either. 

This is the last week of waterfowl season for this part of Montana. My focus has gone from my weather app on my phone to the local TV stations in the hopes that weather forecasters would bring good news. Last weekend, they predicted a little bit of snow and colder temps. The end of this week, snow and a high of negative thirteen. Season closes Friday. It feels like the end of the 4th quarter with only 54 seconds on the clock, Jordan Love is marching down the field, down by 2 with no time-outs. Reed has just caught a deep corner post and got tackled in-bounds and the clock keeps ticking. 

The deal is this storm will undoubtedly bring birds to the river. The water coming out of the damn is easily 10 degrees warmer than downstream and on the smaller water. The snow will cover the fields and birds will want to seek refuge on the warmer water. It is setting up to be epic, if the weather gets here on time. That's a big "if." Today, Wednesday, flurries and a high of 27. Tomorrow, plus 7. Friday, negative 13. Tick, tick, tick...

Cutter and I got out on Monday, thinking the weather we did get would have brought a few birds to the river. Ten minutes after setting up, two geese flew past, right on the edge of range. I decided not to pull the trigger because I didn't want a cripple that Cutter would have to chase down. He's 12 now and even after light duty, it takes a toll on him. Just getting off the couch that evening and the next morning is a bit of a production, so I try not to put him into positions that are going to add physical strain. (By the way, I think he'd serve himself well to not run around like a mating squirl the second he jumps out of the truck. It's all about pacing.)

The next bird we saw was a gadwall that swam into the decoys. 

Then a couple goldeneyes, aka, shit-ducks. 

Cutter and sat for three hours without a single mallard or goose or any kind of "good" duck that would present a shot. We didn't even see a greenhead until four minutes before sunset. (Shooting hours for waterfowl closes at sunset.)

I was seriously contemplating getting a head start on picking up the decoys when I caught movement from downstream, which happened to also be down-wind. Birds will always land into the wind and these two mallards were committed. Before I knew it, I had my mat black Weatherby on my shoulder, swung the barrel on the two ducks with their wings cupped, and squeezed. Then squeezed again....and again.

The first shot knocked down the hen. The next two went somewhere benignly across the river and the drake escaped. Cutter did his job and I felt relieved we didn't get skunked. I re-loaded and looked at my watch. Two minutes to go...

With sunset passing and no other birds willing to offer the sacrifice, I unloaded and picked up decoys. I threw the decoy bags up on the bank and grabbed my sled and started loading up gear for the three quarter of a mile haul back to the truck. One hen mallard to show for what has become a lot of work, the older I get. But I feel obligated to make the most of the season and I also feel a need to get Cutter out as much as possible as this might be his last hoorah. He is a duck hunting machine and lives for this shit. And then insult to injury. 

With my head down tying up bags, I hear the undeniable sound of a Canada goose's honk. And then a honk, honk. As I look up, I notice about 20 geese, wings cupped, heading directly towards me. I'm standing, not even trying to cover up and they just keep coming. Honk, honk, honk!

The 20 geese literally try to land 50 feet in front of me, right where I had just picked up on my decoys. They would have landed if it hadn't been for Cutter busting out of the brush and into sight. But they didn't go far. They just popped up a bit in elevation, and then dropped back down and landed on the other side of the island, across from the channel I was set up in. A few seconds later, a group of a dozen or more mallards mimicked their flight path. A few seconds later, about 15 or 20 mallards landed fifty feet in front of us. Son's 'o bitches. 

Cutter and I will head out again today and the next few days and hopefully, get some birds for the brine bucket. It would be a shame to not have some corned goose for St. Patti's Day. Seriously. If you've never had corned goose in an Irish stew, you need to try it. And if you're a friend in Helena with the chance to experience this amazing Irish tradition at the Montana Dream, pray for the weather to push down some late birds!

Keep 'em where they live...