IT FEELS LIKE FALL...AND DEER

 

Fall is a magical time in the great outdoors.  Leaves change colors and drop to the ground, waterfowl and shorebirds migrate thousands of miles and whitetail bucks take advantage of that one time of year when does actually acknowledge their presence to ensure future generations. If you’re an avid outdoorsman or woman, it’s a wonderful scene to witness the transition and circle of life.

 

I was out a couple weeks ago for only the second time sitting in my treestand.  I had sat one time in the stand I fished out of the creek (see my last Blog entry) but was interrupted by critters I’d rather see on a bun than below my stand.  A herd of calves surrounded me at prime time and I dejectedly climbed down and went home as my experiences have proven deer and these other ungulates don’t mix. 

So I was anxious to head to another stand where I’d killed a nice buck last year.  It’s right in a “Y” where two draws come together with plenty of deer sign.  I crawled up into it and hung my Mathews bow on the Realtree EZ Hanger and nestled in for the afternoon.  The weather was gorgeous and I was texting, trying to help my daughter away at college with a car problem, and watching for deer at the same time.  I texted a buddy who was about a mile away in another stand and said,  “I love this time of year.  It smells and feels like fall!”

Many of the leaves had fallen after several frosts.  The decaying vegetation had a distinct odor that isn’t necessarily bad, but indicative of the season.  It reminds me of why I like to be in the woods in November.  Wind was non-existent (yeah, a real shocker for Kansas, huh?) and the sun was shining bright.  I put the phone away and absorbed as much as several of my senses could tolerate. 

It wasn’t long and I heard something behind me and a small buck crossed the creek and continued on his way.  I enjoy seeing deer, even a dink like this one with a spike on one side and two points on the other.  He acted as if he knew he should be looking for love, but didn’t quite know how he was supposed to go about it. 

About an hour later at 4:45 p.m. I decided to rattle and the small buck came walking back, this time in front of my stand just at the field’s edge.  Another sound behind me caught my attention and a nice buck was crossing the creek and coming past my stand on my right.  I couldn’t grab my bow.  The dinky buck was right in front of me and any movement would betray my presence.  Fortunately, the youngster knew he should vacate the premises and wandered off.  Unfortunately, the bigger buck was already past me and out of bow range.

I pulled my grunt tube from beneath my jacket and got his attention.  He flipped ends and started walking right back by me out in front.  When he walked behind a tree I drew my bow and as he cleared the tree at 22 yards I grunted with my mouth to stop him.  The arrow with a new G5 T3 broadhead zipped through him and although it wasn’t a perfect shot I hoped it would quickly prove fatal.  Erring on the side of caution, I waited a couple hours to take up the track.

With flashlights in tow my buddy and I got on the track and located my buck within 15 minutes.  He likely expired before I stopped shaking from the adrenaline rush and buck fever.  I’m always relieved to get my hands on a deer and this one was no different.  We slapped high 5’s as congratulations were in order.  As we looked around my buddy pointed out a big rub, another sure sign of fall, just a few feet away and wondered aloud if that was my buck’s.   

Had I intended to write a script for a nice fall afternoon sitting in a tree this experience would be tough to top.  I’d take another one just like it next season.  The hefty 8-pointer wasn’t my biggest buck ever, but the older I get the less I worry about what a deer’s rack scores.  It was good to be outside and I was proud to put my tag on him knowing I’d just enjoyed another truly memorable day in Kansas’ great outdoors.

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!

Time in a treestand is a therapeutic place in the fall for many Kansas bowhunters. Watching the woods wake-up or drift off to darkness is good for the soul. It's a time of transition in the outdoor world and the thought of that buck-of-a-lifetime cruising by makes it all the more exciting. 

And so it was last week, behind more than I normally am, that I decided to check a couple treestands for upcoming hunts. I used to hunt many times in October and then be tired or burned out by the time the rut kicked in. With fewer eggs these days, I've generally put most of them in the basket of the first few weeks of November. So getting out mid-October wasn't too bad, but still behind schedule.

A buddy and I crossed a creek that was dry last year, save for a few holes here and there. My treestand was on the top edge of the bank and looking down behind it I was 30 feet above the gravel bar. The scene bothered me as I'm not a big fan of heights. Little did I know Mother Nature would solve THAT particular problem for me.

We came up the bank and my buddy says, "Where's your treestand?"

I said, "To heck with the treestand, where's the TREE?"

Nothing looked out of place and there was no sign of the tree or my stand immediately below in the creek. 

"It's GONE!" I hollered.

"No way!" my buddy said. 

The tree was a huge oak tree that towered at least 70-80 feet in the air and two grown men couldn't reach around it's base. 

"That was a brand new stand and it probably looks like a cheap mess of bent-up scrap metal wherever it ended up," I said.  "There goes $150!"

Intent on unraveling the mystery, my buddy started walking the high bank of the creek.  Moments later he hollered.

"I think I found your stand," he said.  "And I think it's okay."

I made my way downstream at least 75 yards and rounded the corner.  There, right in the middle of the creek was my tree, and treestand that looked virtually unscathed.  The ratchet strap holding the top and ladder brace support were still attached.  My Realtree EZ Hanger bowholder and bow haul rope were still in place exactly as they were the last time I crawled into it last fall.   

"NO WAY!" I said surprised it wasn't a twisted mess and totaled.

Upon closer inspection, the stand was exactly as I'd left it.  The huge oak must have fallen over backwards in the torrential rains we had in late August and then turned, root-wad first, and floated downstream to its final resting place.  All the while my stand stayed on the top side of the huge trunk.

"That's UNBELIEVABLE!" my buddy said numerous times as we both had a good laugh.

Doing my best impression of a squirrel, I jumped from limb to limb to get to my stand.  Just for fun I crawled into it for a photo op which was easier than getting my big butt out of it.  My buddy laughed while trying to get the "miracle" documented on my cell phone camera and I cussed at him to hurry up.

I released the ratchet straps and got the stand loose from the tree.  I tied a rope to it and threw it to my buddy and scampered back to the gravel bar and pulled it ashore.  Checking it over carefully we found no real signs of damage.  Virtually NONE!

The stand was in a good area.  I killed a nice, big doe out of it last fall the first time I sat in it.  We found another tree nearby and put it back up, this time a little further from the creek bank and potential future wrath of Mother Nature's torrents. 

"What are the odds that thing wouldn't be just torn up and bent all to pieces?" my buddy asked. 

"Slim and none!" I said. 

The odds were such I stopped on the way back to town and bought $5 worth of lottery tickets thinking it really might be my lucky day.  I must have used up all my luck as I'm still at work this week!  But I've got a treestand that could tell a heckuva story if it could talk and I don't have to buy another one!

  

SO LONG SUMMER VACATION

Summers are wonderful times for youngsters in school.  Lazy days, sleeping in and all the great joys of the hot summer months are a welcome reprieve from the structure of school and classes.  It's no wonder kids are wound up in May waiting for summer vacation.  It's even easier to understand how they dread going back in August, too. 

My boys, even despite this being their first year in high school, still like school for the most part.  But they both knew the 5:30 a.m. wake-up call would be MUCH earlier than the unscheduled one they'd enjoyed many days all summer that was at least three hours later.  So they thought an early wake-up call the day prior to their first day of school would be a start to get them "conditioned" to get up early.  And what better reason to get up at 5:30 a.m. to head to the lake for a fishing trip to celebrate the last day of summer vacation.

We were out the door at 6 a.m. and joining Brandon, Cody and I would be one of their friends, Riley.  Riley had been fishing with us a couple springs ago during the crappie spawn and he had a good time and we caught a lot of fish.  But he did pick up a temporary nickname that trip, "Squirrel," as he spent more time tangled up in the trees high above the water than he did fishing.  Fortunately for Riley this trip wouldn't involve any casting.  He'd never caught a channel catfish so I was anxious for him to get his first one.   

We were the first boat on the water as the sun was just easing up over the horizon.  Cody, recently outfitted with his Kansas Boater's Education card, chauffeured us across the lake to our destination.  After dropping a couple anchors and outfitting the boys with their rods and a fresh glob of Danny King's Catfish Punch bait I dumped the first few rations of chum over the side.  Riley wasn't impressed and just turned away when I offered him a little taste of the fermented grain.  Cody, as usual, gagged and spit when he caught a whiff.

It didn't take long for the catfish to like it, though.  Within the first 10 minutes Brandon had set the hook and landed a couple nice catfish in the 3-4 pound range.  I caught several, too.  Riley's and Cody's attention span, while initially good, began to wane over the next hour or so.  So I moved Riley up to my seat and handed him my rod.  Nearly on cue, a big fish took Riley's rod downward and I hollered for him to set the hook.

Riley's rod spent most of the first few minutes of the battle bent over and under the side of the boat.  Slowly and methodically, he worked the fish until it neared the surface and I netted his first catfish, a fat 7 pounder.  Brandon caught a similar-sized fish  during the battle for a nice double and both boys were pleased with their accomplishment.

Brandon had the hot hand most of the morning and he gives all the credit to his "lucky" hat.  He got it on a family trip to Bennett Springs State Park.  On our previous catfish outing, his hat's maiden voyage, he left it in the truck and never caught a fish in three hours.  I'm betting he never forgets it again.  Riley caught several more nice-sized channel cats and thought catfishing was cool, too.  While Cody had the hot hand the last trip, he apparently swapped places with his brother and only had one dinky cat for the day. 

We called it a day just before noon with 20 nice channel cats swimming in the livewell..  The boys, although munching on honey buns and drinking Dr. Pepper throughout the morning, were visualizing Wendy's cheeseburgers and fries on the ride home. 

In my book it was an excellent way to spend their last day before going back to school.  I think they thought so, too.  And when one of their teachers asks what they did on their summer vacation they'll have one recent, although aromatic, outdoor adventure that stands out!         

  

YOUTHFUL ENTHUSIASM

I can remember as a kid roaming the woods around Tuttle Creek Reservoir from dawn to dark.  Parents didn't worry then like they do now and the outdoors was a place to get lost as long as you knew your way home.  The discoveries, finds and experiences made lasting memories.  The things we could do, build and create were confined only by our imaginations.

My boys have had similar experiences growing up, although I keep much closer tabs on their whereabouts than my parents did me.  I tend to worry about them getting hurt or getting into a bad predicament and I'm much more protective.  I've tried to turn loose as they've gotten older and let them grow up and do things on their own.  But hard as I try I still want to help them out along the way.

A recent camping trip to Council Grove Reservoir found us getting plenty of rain and the lake rising.  I told Brandon and Cody and my nephew, Dylan, they should set a trotline from shore as the catfish would be hungry with all the run-off.  They readied the line and I helped them net shad and anchor the trotline, although they're plenty old enough now to do it all on their own.  I worried about them getting hooked, etc. 

The next morning after we returned from an enjoyable, although soggy squirrel hunt the boys were anxious to check the trotline.  I gave them instructions, a pair of pliers and a tub and sent them off into the lake with their life jackets securely fastened.  I watched as they checked many empty hooks until they got to deeper water.  Three nice channel catfish flopped and splashed as the boys relayed their success to those of us on shore with hollers and laughter.  It took them a while to get one of the fish off but between the three of them they finally managed to get him unhooked and into the tub.

They brought the tub to shore, proud of their catch and ready to show it off to sisters, parents and cousins.  After a couple photos the fish were released back into the lake.  They asked if they should rebait the hooks as they were all bare and I told them they weren't likely to catch anything during the day with the boat traffic and their swimming. 

But Cody decided that a ball of mud looked like tasty dough bait and he put a couple globs on the hooks at the end of the trotline unbeknownst to me.  That afternoon the kids were swimming and Brandon lifted up the end of the line to find another flopping, 3-pound channel cat that apparently decided Cody was right and ate the offering.

I wouldn't have thought it would work but kids don't know any better.  And sometimes you just have to back up and let them try as sooner or later they grow up and discover things for themselves.  If they fail, they still learn.  If they succeed, they just might discover they can catch a nice catfish on a glob of mud, too.

WHAT'S THAT SMELL?

There aren't too many anglers who would argue that the culinary tastes of channel catfish are a bit on the aromatic side.  Downright gut-wrenching might be a more accurate description.  The stuff they eat could gag a maggot. 

 

I can recall as a youngster exploring the banks of Milford Reservoir on a camping trip and finding a jar of something, but I didn't know what.  Being inquisitive I twisted the lid off and paid the price.  Turns out it was a jar of shad sides someone had left for days in the 100-degree sun and the build-up of gases caused the smelly goo to go everywhere.  Gagging and spitting I chucked the jar and its contents into the weeds.  Lesson learned.

 

But those same shad sides might cause the exact reaction to a channel catfish I get when I catch a whiff of the downwind side of an Outback Steakhouse.  My mouth waters and I bet his would, too, if he wasn't living in it.

 

And while it still baffles me that ANY manufacturer of ANY stinkbait has to put a disclaimer on the bucket that says "Not For Human Consumption," I have to admit I don't generally mind that smell.  In fact, I kind of like it and it elicits a pretty strong response whenever it hits me.

 

 

But my reaction isn't one of wanting to eat the stuff, but more from a sentimental and emotional perspective.  Over the last half-dozen years or so me and extended members of my family have had some wonderful catfishing expeditions on summertime camping trips.  I can crack the lid on a bucket of Danny Kings Catfish Punch Bait and almost see the smiles and hear the laughter from my three kids, niece, nephew, sister, mom and brother-in-law as they crank on a big ol' channel catfish.  The early morning wake-up calls have been worth it as the kids talk non-stop about the day's adventures and big ones that did or didn't get away.    

 

I guess I'm like Pavlov's dog, except my mind waters rather than my mouth.  That's okay and I know over time I'll want to hang on to those experiences.  Kids grow up and things change and I know I'll miss those fishing trips with my kids and family.  But the smell of stinkbait will always have a warm, albeit aromatic, place in my heart as a result and I hope those memories generated as a result of the smelly concoction never fade.

HE'S GOT IT BAD

Summertime squirrel hunting success is often about as sure of a thing as you can find.  There's little pressure, lots of opportunity and squirrels are plentiful and available when the season opens June 1.  More often than not an experienced hunter can shoot a 5-rat limit in about 90 minutes or less if all goes according to plan.  And it does MOST of the time.  But on occasion things don't work out as evidenced by a hunt last weekend.

I was in Topeka visiting family and told my 16-year-old nephew, Dylan, we'd run out to the public hunting surrounding Perry Reservoir and try our luck chasing tree rats.  He's game for anything and has really got hooked on hunting and fishing in the last few years.  He took up trapping, too, and loves all time spent outdoors.

When my alarm went off at 5 a.m. and I opened the bedroom door Dylan was already sitting up waiting for me in the living room.  This bright-eyed approach was impressive, particularly considering he didn't get to bed until almost midnight the night prior after a doubleheader baseball game.  He was chompin' at the bit.

It didn't take us long to gather our gear and load up.  We commented on the stickiness of the air and the fact that it was already 77 degrees an hour before sunrise.  It would indeed be a muggy morning.  And it was going to get worse.

I had several maps of the public hunting areas surrounding Perry Reservoir.  I had penciled in some likely-looking spots after checking them on Google and we made our first stop.  The wind wasn't too bad when we hopped into the first stand of timber but my mood would quickly sour.

The undergrowth was intense, woolly and nearly impenetrable in some instances.  Plentiful spring rains had the vegetation lush making movement difficult at best.  After several failed calling attempts we decided to move on to another spot. 

We called and called using our squirrel distress and bark calls and didn't have much success.  We had a couple respond from way off, but nothing real close.  Finally, one fox squirrel came to investigate and after Dylan got one shot off to clear the way he connected on the second one. 

But that lone rat would be it for the morning.  We actually saw more turkeys than squirrels and we only saw 4 turkeys.  I was disappointed for Dylan.  I had gotten his hopes up and wasn't able to produce.  The timber we hunted looked like it should have squirrels every 15 yards but it just wasn't to be for whatever reason. I was perplexed and bummed as the morning wore on.   

Despite liberal dousing with bug repellent we were both chewed up with mosquito bites and ticks were crawling on us like crazy.  And it was HOT!  By mid-morning we punted and headed for cooler climates.

It was likely one of the most miserable mornings I've had in the great outdoors in recent history.  There were many other places I would have chosen to be after enduring everything else that morning. 

But Dylan was a trooper and never once complained.  He was glad to be out wandering the woods and seemed to enjoy it despite the brutal conditions and our lack of success. 

And when I jokingly asked later that day if he wanted to go again in the morning he said, "Sure!"  The kid's got it bad and that's a good thing. 

   

MY BIGGEST WALLEYE EVER!

MY BIGGEST WALLEYE EVER...NOT!

Fish are funny and fickle.  But fortunately, they're also predictable.  Success is usually determined by figuring out what works and duplicating it over and over.  This repetition also leads to guesses of species and size, oftentimes long before the fish is ever seen, and sometimes delusions of grandeur.  The biggest are always the ones that get away before positive identification can be made.

Over the years I've become adept, like many anglers, at determining what species of fish just inhaled my jig-and-nightcrawler combination I use while walleye fishing.  Drum, white bass, wipers, channel catfish and walleye have distinctive ways they bite, and subsequently fight, giving away their species long before they get to the boat.

But this "sense" isn't an exact science.  Although it works MOST of the time, I'm occasionally wrong.  But rarely does a guess of giant drum or channel catfish turn into a monstrous walleye.  The opposite can happen and often does, particularly with channel catfish and even more so with flathead catfish.  Take for example one evening last week.

A buddy and I were catching plenty of walleye and the occasional fish big enough to make any angler "oohhh" and "aahhh" when it surfaced.  We were also catching lots of "others" so our predictions were never few and far between.  Most times they were spot on.

However, on one good tell-tale walleye "whack," I dropped my rod and gave the fish a moment to inhale the jig-and-nightcrawler.  On the hook-set the fish didn't budge much.

"This is a big 'eye," I told my buddy.  "Get the net!"

The slow, lethargic, side-to-side head shakes told me this was a BIG walleye.  And while I've caught quite a few walleye over 7 pounds, I've never cracked the 8-pound mark.  The fact this fish wasn't coming in quickly told me I might have a legitimate shot at a personal best, maybe even substantially larger.

I fought the fish for a couple minutes just knowing it was at least an 8 or 9 pound walleye.  All indications during the fight gave me no reason to doubt it.  I was already planning photos and figuring out who I would send them to marking this historic occasion. 

But at the first swirl of the big fish at the edge of the boat, with my buddy poised with the net like a Great Blue Heron about to strike and threatened with his life if he missed, reality reared it's ugly, whiskered head.  Another confirming glimpse of a forked tail and my dreams of a giant walleye were squashed.  

"Dang, man, it's a catfish!" I said in a response edited for print. 

And a channel catfish to boot.  I can honestly say I'm not generally fooled by channel catfish.  They often roll or spin at some point giving away their identity, particularly while drifting.  I am a sucker for flathead catfish as they don't do this and I've had run-ins with 5 pound flatheads that are sure-fire 10 pound walleye...until I see them.

 

RIGHT SPECIES!

Despite my disappointment, the 7-pound channel catfish joined some of his toothy, piscine friends in the livewell.  Disappointment was quickly replaced with good-natured ribbing but all was not lost. My buddy took the big cat home and it's likely he's already been served next to some French fries and Cole slaw. 

It was a great evening on the water.  We had a wonderful time and the walleye fishing was fantastic.  But I'm still looking for that 8-pound-plus 'eye.  Here's hoping next time it won't have whiskers!