And It Was Not Meant To Be

Friday, December 6th,  the last day of day of "buck only" during rifle season was a rainy, icy day.  I was off work by noon, and checked into the cabin at Stone Valley.  My uncle hunted with my brother in the morning and then we met Spencer down at the cabin soon thereafter. I planned on setting up a blind for my dad on his typical spot overlooking the lake bed, but the stream was running so high I could not cross it without getting soaked. So, I bagged that idea and figured we should probably not waste any more daylight screwing around despite the bad weather. Something told me to go for it. 

So, there I was putting on drives in the thickest thickets for my uncle and Spencer. Getting soaked, but my gear is good, so I was still warm. Lost a glove. Lost a good hat, but kept on keeping on. Finally, the final hour of light arrived. And, I could tell my hunting partners were both cold and itching to get dry back at the cabin. So we walked back to my uncle's truck, and I said, "I have one more spot I'd like to push off for you."

Near the grassy lot is a good hill with the kind of cover that is impossible to see through and a stand of massive old hemlocks planted long ago by Penn State foresters. The deer are in there at times, and earlier in the fall I spooked two nice doe out of it while scouting. So, I placed my standers together so they wouldn't be shooting toward one another. They had a long grassy logging road to cover. About 100 yards of a clear view to the woods edge. The logging road was the basically the only way out for a bedded deer, unless a wily one stayed still or sneaked out behind me. I hiked around the backside of the hill and started pushing through the thickets. No one else was out there in the nasty weather except us.  And, something else was there too. 

I crawled and twisted through the dark thickets and finally emerged to where I could stand up under the sentinel pines. I took no more than five steps when I heard "Crack!" It was the report of a rifle, and I couldn't believe it, and it was my guys! One of them had shot! Doe didn't open until the next day, so it could only mean one thing. A buck! I trotted a few more steps and yelled, "Hey!  Was that you? Did you shoot?" 

"Yeah!"  

"A Buck?" 

"Yeah! Big buck! Big buck!"

I couldn't believe my plan had actually worked! A buck was in there! He watched me walk by him twice and then he finally moved when I drove him off the hill. 

My uncle said he was leaning down because his back was hurting, and he said, "Spence, if anything comes out....you take the shot."  

A few minutes later he heard Spencer say, "Oh My God....." 

He looked up in time to see Spence take the shot and he watched the deer jump and slip into the thicket on the other side of the logging path. 

I ran to the bottom of the hill right to them....

"Where? Where?"  

"Over there...about a 100 yards in front of us..."  It crossed exactly where I told them it would. 

"OK, let's give it a minute, just in case..."

Oh, how I wish that buck had piled up in a heap. But it wasn't meant to be. We tracked his predicted path, but we found no blood. Nothing. And, then darkness was upon us. And the big buck was gone. Victorious. 

Yet, my uncle would later say, he enjoyed that part of the weekend the most. Going after that buck in the rain. It was fun. And, no one felt worse than Spence, but what's the use of making a guy feel bad. I know he did. But, I tried to encourage him, "Spence, the next shot you take is the more important shot now. Can't do anything about this one. At least we know he is alive and well. Might get a chance at him again." I know all to well the heartache of a miss.

Spence said it would have been the largest buck he would have ever shot in his life. At least 10 points, massive body. Despite the fact that I had pushed him off the hill that wise old buck never ran. He was walking, not running when the shot rang out. He was just sneaking and slipping on by, and this time, luck was on his side. He could have been stone dead, perhaps an inch or two away from death. And, he had slipped away from us. 

There are times when I say to my wife, you know sometimes the best movies, the best books, don't end the way you expect them to or even hope them too. Sometimes it's the bitter ending that is better, the heartbreak. It kind of keeps one going more, makes us more determined to find success even when it slips right by, through our finger tips, out of our grasp just when we think we've got it.

We returned to the cabin with some broken hearts that night, but then the snow started falling through the pines, and everything was awesome again, and we were part of a fantastic winter scene in the mountains, warm and dry in a wooden cabin, and we were all full of hope for the next hunt, the next day. Sometimes the best hunts don't always end with a successful harvest.

Yellowstone in September

Throughout the fall months during my Pennsylvania hunting adventures, I thought often of my quick trip to Yellowstone National Park in September of 2013.  Driving the last 50 miles to the park's north entrance through Paradise Valley while watching snow hit the peaks around me was quite spectacular. A monstrous bull elk bugled within a few yards of my open window in Mammoth Village upon arrival. Yes, it was that awesome. A day later, Pollarine and I were fishing up a slot canyon full of feisty cutthroat on quiet Pebble Creek. Polla was right; the fishing is not quite as hot in September as it is in August, when there seem to be hungry trout everywhere.  Yet, discovering new streams and hikes was all very appealing. We hiked deep into the Pebble Creek backcountry and spent the day hopping pools and riffles, and perhaps some day, I will make it back to the Pebble Creek valley to camp in the solitude of its secluded mountain meadows. Armed with just a few high floating attractor patterns, I am sure a fisherman can do well there.

Our second day dawned cloudless and warmer highlighted by a painted blue sky.  It was doubtless we would tackle Electric Peak, an 11,000 foot mountain that dominates the landscape of the park's northwest corner.  Along the ten mile trek from trailhead to summit, we hiked through a sage filled valley, deep pine forests, and finally, through high alpine meadows before breaking through the tree line and clamoring over broken rocks near the summit. From the top, we could see for hundreds of miles. The snow covered Tetons loomed to the south, the Crazy Mountain range could be seen to the west, and the familiar Beartooth Range, which guards the park's northeastern side, visible to the east. It was a scene I will soon not forget, and from the top one could only sit and wonder at the beauty of it all.  After enjoying the top for an hour or so, we began our descent.  A few hours later, we completed the 20 mile hike, and still managed to limp to the Gibbon River before dark and try for a few trout.

Saturday, my last day in the park, was bittersweet. Friday's long hike had beaten us up a bit, so we decided to amble along the solitary banks of Tower Creek near our camp. We hadn't really experienced dynamite fishing, and the stream has always been an old standby for us. In fact, my whole love affair with Yellowstone National Park began with Tower. And, whenever memories of great fishing are stirred up, the days on this small tributary of the Yellowstone River always bob along the top, for there are many yarns involving this stream from which to choose.

We hiked to the very end of the four mile trail like we had over a year before in the sultry summer of 2012.  On that day a year hence, our party of four had encountered cooler waters and fishing never to be forgotten. This time around, we had good success and caught enough char for the campfire yet again, but I found myself purposefully soaking up the beauty of the land. Just after I had landed my second fish, a striking, hooked jawed brook trout which had put up an excellent fight, I gazed out across the landscape, and took a mental snapshot of the yellow aspens, clear water, and deep evergreens that set the scene of the illustration before me. Late in the afternoon, old Polla would slam a hole full of trout, and we walked back to camp with seven or so filets and some mushrooms that Sveta had carefully collected along the way. After devouring the decadent white meat and enjoying the warmth of the fire, it was time for me to saddle up in the darkness of the very last day of summer, and begin the trek home.

As I departed, I remembered all the wonderful sights of the last three days, like the large boar grizzly we encountered in the Lamar Valley on the first day. He was just lazing about without a care in the world, and his coat, was a rich chocolate brown. On the way back through the valley on the same day, we stopped to watch a large bull and his harem of 20 or so cows cross the Lamar River in the soft glow of evening. There was also the harvest moon standing sentry over the park near Dunraven Pass the night we drove to its summit before gathering firewood. Along the way a magnificent bull bison meandered about in the full moon's white glow.  There were the large racked mule deer bucks dashing across the park roads at dark and the fine bison sporting his clean winter coat on our walk back to site 14. We even managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of a badger, and Yellowstone held a few more surprises for me in the darkness of my drive home in the form of a large black bear and more bison and mule deer bucks.

The next day, autumn began and with it, cold weather complete with wind and storms.  I felt fortunate to have been blessed with three near perfect days of warm sun and clear skies that were to be summer's final act.  Of my trips to YNP, this September trip was the shortest of all, but certainly worth all the miles it took to get there.

Back to the Basics

Several years ago, I struggled mightily to train my wing-shooting eye. Struggle might be an understatement. I had no shooting eye. I remember going something like 1 for 90 at the range on a box of clay targets, launched in singles with a hand thrower. Fortunately, I had a great teacher that day, and he calmed me down and inspired me to right the ship.  After that first session with my brother, who patiently guided me through the process of securing the fundamentals first and not worrying about hitting and missing, I've committed my time to practice sessions before each hunting season. Now, I probably shoot hundreds of clay targets, launched from my slick foot-pedal thrower all during the late summer months proceeding October's pheasant opener.  My rate of success on the range and in the field has increased dramatically, and while I am not at 100% yet, on some days, I get really close.  My brother, George, was a hundred percent accurate in his lesson however—success in shooting is cemented in fundamentals.

Image from www.tunafishy.com

Today, as I drove to the range on a deliciously cold September morning, my thoughts drifted back to those teachable moments with my brother so many years ago, and while I was really terrible, I will always be thankful that my teacher that day was my brother. He was the salt of the earth, not the salt in the wound, and that in itself was a lesson worth remembering too.  My friend Spencer met me at the range, and before long, I found myself repeating the same words of wisdom my brother had spoken to me. This time, I was playing the role of instructor, and it was satisfying to see an apt pupil instantly improve as he took the lesson to heart.  In late October, we'll surprise a hen or perhaps a rooster, and then, the hours poured into practice will pay great dividends—and the sense of satisfaction will be worth it.

Called Again

In a few short days, I'll be tracing the conduit of the Yellowstone River from Billings to Gardiner, Montana. My thoughts during this upcoming journey will be with those who traveled this way some 200 years ago—those members of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. If there ever is a way to "live" the journey, it certainly isn't hurtling along I-90 at eighty miles per hour in a rental car, but I did read Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose.  I devoured that novel, and in the end, I realized that both Meriwether Lewis and William Clark were at their absolute best, their true finest, during the two-year journey across the continent. I actually felt a degree of sadness while reading the part about their return down the Missouri River to St. Louis, because I knew the journey was over, and I had so much enjoyed being a part of it—vicariously through Ambrose's exceptional prose. 

Lewis departed from Pittsburgh in late August of 1804, drifting down the Ohio River to meet William Clark in St. Louis. He would arrive there in October, meeting Clark and making a winter camp before they would begin the expedition in the spring. From St. Louis, it would take the 30 some member group a year to reach the Pacific Ocean.

I too will be departing from Pittsburgh.  But,  I'll be in Montana just five hours later. Yet, I will be thinking of Lewis, and wondering what thoughts coursed through his mind as he paddled down the Ohio.

Meriwether Lewis (image from en.wikipedia.org)

This will be my fifth journey to Yellowstone National Park in the last eight years. Why I am going back again? Simply said, it calls me back. I've never been there in any other month outside of August. And, while all of those trips were magical, I am looking forward to seeing the park in the slightly waning light of Autumn. I will meet up with my good friend Pollarine who has participated in each one of my YNP adventures. I can sense the twinkle in his native Montana eye when he describes the scenes of September in the west. 

The closest memory I have is Yosemite in September, and goodness, was it ever beautiful. Cool nights led to sunny days. The kind of sun that is pleasant to stand in. A warm sun. One that knows winter is coming and tries to make life wonderful while it lasts.

I love the anticipation of reaching some of my favorite mountain streams and discovering new ones.  The overwhelming joy of casting that first imitation of the adventure, and hooking the first cubby char for the campfire.

There are new streams to fish this time: Solfatara, Pebble, and Gibbon. New mountains to climb: Electric Peak. And new memories to be made. Perhaps some will involve the bugle of the fall elk or the howl of wolves on crisp, cold nights.

Regardless, I hope for a safe journey for all involved, and I hope for a good time to be had. Maybe, just maybe, old Meriwether Lewis had hoped for the same things.

Kettle Creek

The wilderness stream of Pennsylvania is how I often think of Kettle Creek in Potter county. Fortunately, I always seem to have a few chances to fish it every year due to the fact that my in-laws live in northern PA, and any chance I get, I'll escape to its waters when the opportunity presents itself during our visiting trips to "Nan and Papa's house" with our two boys.  I love Kettle because it produces wonderful experiences and terrific trout fishing through May, June, and even July.  Much of the water in our mid-Atlantic state warms up through June, and it can be difficult to find trout though the summer, but the upper reaches of Kettle Creek harbor some of the most brilliantly crimson-colored rainbows I've ever landed along with feisty, undercut bank-hiding browns and an occasional native brook trout. I seem to remember individual trout and evenings on this stream better than any other. 

Years ago, on Memorial Day weekend, I saw the biggest trout I've seen in my life grab an early-morning caddis fly. I had just landed a few cubby trout, and then the torpedo of a fish zipped from the depths and swam right by me.  It was an incredible fish given the size of the stream. Unfortunately, its majesty was not on the end of my line, and I was left to guess of what it was....certainly a monster brookie or perhaps King Brown itself.

A few times my brother and I made it up for some camping at Ole Bull in mid June after the school year ended, and we always got into trout, always.

Did I mention I caught my first ever flyrod trout on Kettle Creek? Again, it was a Memorial Day weekend long ago, and it truly was the first fish I've ever hooked and landed on a flyrod, a beautiful 9-inch native brook trout fooled with a caddis.

Perhaps my best memory to date is when I bolted to Kettle after a family gathering with only one hour of light left in mid-May. Upon reaching my desired spot high upstream, I found myself in a cloud of sulphers carrying tiny orange eggs. The hatch itself was an amazing sight I'll never forget. I quickly switched to a sulpher dun and within seconds landed a beautiful 12-inch native. It was the only fish I caught in the half hour I was on the stream before night collapsed around me, and even through I spent more time in the car driving to the stream than I did on the water, it was all worth it, and this exactly why I love Kettle Creek. It rewards every effort in some natural fashion, whether it be in trout or scenery or solitude. 

Weeks ago, Bek and I took the boys up to Ole Bull for their first-ever camping trip, and there was a fishing derby for children. The boys hauled in some nice brook trout, and I was even able to sneak out in the evening after they crashed in the tent and land a few natives in the midst of a madcap slate drake hatch.

Quinn at Ole Bull SP

And, finally another chapter to my wilderness gem, least I forget. The final weekend of June saw us arriving in Clinton county for a family reunion. After much swimming and picnic fun, the boys were wiped, and I had a chance to hit Kettle for an evening. Thunderstorms rolled through the mountains, and I spent 30 minutes reading in the car before hiking down to one of my favorite stream bends just below the state park. Not much was happening in the way of hatches, so I used a silver spinner to catch two foot-long browns, a native brook, and an outstanding 15-inch rainbow that fought incredibly well. All were returned to the cool waters of the stream, and I hope they are there again if I make it up by summer's end like a pirate recovering buried treasure.

Utah Letter

An excerpt from a letter to my good friend Pollarine in regards to Utah's magical canyon country and high desert...

Utah was spectacular from start to finish. True, we only had about 4 days in state, but Bek and I did the best we could. We loved Arches. I am glad I got the Fiery Furnace tour. I highly recommend it. Ranger Mike was pretty cool. 



The long hike through Devils Garden (including the primitive loop) was totally cool.

Finally, Delicate Arch was the best way to end the day. Loved it. Its magnitude struck me when I rounded the last bend on the trail. I love how it was hidden back there, and I felt nothing but awe. It caught the fading sunlight and framed the Salt Mountains in the background in such a way that I will never forget. 

Delicate Arch

We only really had one day in Canyonlands, but I loved it as well. We did a lot of hikes and scrambled around on the ledges quite a bit.  Seeing the granaries was pretty cool, and on our way out Bek and I checked out some dinosaur bones and pictographs on some trails near Moab. We also stopped and hiked to an awesome waterfall near Orem. And, on the way to the parks on the first day, we did a little walking tour of BYU. 
 

Canyonlands Overlook

We hit up the SLC capitol building at dusk before we flew home, and that was really great too. We also saw the Mormon temple. Yet, such feats of men pale in comparison to nature's art work (in my opinion).

Salt Lake City Capitol Bldg

Camping in the desert was also very enjoyable. The sun and dry air were comfortable, and I feel like we got very lucky with the weather.

Then, when we got back, we had a snow day. This winter hasn't really let up....the boys and I flew kites today, and it continued to snow.

Glad you enjoyed the jerky, it reminded me of Yellowstone, so I picked some up for you guys. I wish I'd had a chance to see you 'round the old campfire, but there will be opportunities on the horizon I am sure.  It really was a good time, and I am sure it felt like two different trips for Joe. I bet the first week was rather "tame" compared to week two....I'd like to hear the tale of "firewater" of which you speak whenever you have some time to recount it.

In summary, I am very glad we went to Utah. It was worth it. I'd still like to see Bryce, Zion, and Grand someday. But, Arches and Canyonlands were truly beautiful and intimate. March seemed like a great time to go, and the snow capped mountains in the background of most desert scenes was captivating.  I still think of the thrilling expanse of the canyons and the yipping coyotes at night. I also believe these places put "time" in perspective. Geez, we are nothing but a minor blip on the radar.  I feel like I now know quite a secret after seeing the beauty of the high desert country.

Alas, when we were in the confines of the Fiery Furnace, Ranger Mike asked his travelers to name their fav NPs. I found myself thinking of Yellowstone. Not just the trout fishing, but the wildlife, the campfires, and the adventure. 

With Bek at Canyonlands overlook...

 

Stories in Pictures

While on the subject of fishing with my boys, there are moments you hope to always remember, and visuals certainly help to conjure up the emotions of the day....

 

The joy of Opening Day.

Quinny is a study in determination...

With his prize...