A Tale of Fins and Feathers

The opening weekend of the stream fishing season is full of hope for warm days, campfires, hikes, fun surprises, plus a creel full of fish. This particular weekend in paradise included a special addition: a pheasant hunt. Brad Henman, is the owner of Clear Creek Sports Club, located behind the Rolling Hills Casino. He had arranged a special hunt for us.

The Leadup

In the past, I would join my friends Dave, John, and Mark, at campsite #50 of Hat Creek campground. We would scout for developed holes and for fish, so we could claim our spot early the next morning. But this was not a usual Friday before the opener. I took on the job of coaching our high school softball team and we had a double-header that afternoon. Now, instead of filling my car with fishing poles, coolers, a tent, and other camping gear, I spent Thursday evening packing the back of my Outlander with softball equipment. The middle seat would have to hold the sparse supplies I could fit in for fishing and the pheasant hunt on Sunday.

As I replaced the line on two poles the excitement of what was to be a very full weekend filled my head. I was going to drive to the games, meet the guys at the camp, and fish until Saturday afternoon. Next, I would drive 60 miles to spend the night with a friend. After that, I had 50 miles the next day to go hunt pheasant at the Clear Creek Hunting Club. Finally, it would end with a two and a half-hour drive home.

Fishing

Friday afternoon in Fall Rivers Mills had perfect softball weather. It was sunny skies, no wind and warm. Our girls played great ball and as we headed into the last inning of the second game I found my mind wandering again. What will the creek hold for me this year? Can I land another of those big Brook Trout that seem to hide amongst the smaller Rainbows? I left the field and headed south towards Old Station. I stopped on the way to grab a roasted chicken at the local market.

The campsite was set up but void of my fellow anglers. They had gone out scouting after fishing Clear Lake that afternoon. When they returned, we sat around the campfire. We recalled stories of fishing adventures and life events of the previous year. I made plans for an early departure. Three AM? Is that what Dave was planning? No way! I mean, sure, I want to get a great spot. But I didn’t even know where that was going to be because we were all going to go our separate ways.

3 AM is crazy. I set my alarm for 4:07 AM. At 2:22 AM and I am awakened by a noise outside of my tent. NO! It can’t be time to get up, not yet. I poked my head out of the tent, still wrapped in my comfortable down bag. I watched Dave as he loaded his Pathfinder and headed out. Humph. The alarm wakes me at 4:07. Jacket, gloves, headlamp, instant coffee and rods gathered I hike to the stream in search of a great spot.

How I am going to find a great spot in the dark is beyond me. But I claim a spot along a beautiful little stretch that offers a deep hole at the end of a rapid and has a cut bank close by. It’s 5:19 AM. The moon is full and I expect to see a parade of headlamps wandering about the woods for the next half hour. I fidget in the cold air, eyeing the handful of anglers traipsing about. I’m ready to defend my hallowed ground. Lights on the other side of the stream approach. I turn on my headlamp and face their way as if to say: “Not here! This spot is mine”.

But they never get close and I go back to focusing on keeping my fingers from going numb due to the cold. 6:03 AM — I scan the eastern horizon waiting for the promise of light. 6:12 — my shadow from the moonlight is finally gone. I can see the water quite clear. It’s almost time. I am at a perfect spot. The report from the guys the night before was that there are fish everywhere. I am going to slay them!

Where did they go? All those fish that should be waiting for me to fool into my creel? Perhaps they moved downstream so I hike, tossing in my line along the way. I chat with others as I go. “Nope, haven’t caught a thing” I repeated as I move along. I pull out a solitary small Rainbow that is barely big enough to be bait. I continue searching until I find Dave. Thirty seconds after my arrival he’s exclaiming “I knew they were here!” as he pulls in the first of several nice-sized Rainbows from under a log submerged in the stream.

Landing the Big One

Dave is one of the nicest guys you could meet. He is always cheerfully working to make sure that everyone else is completely cared for. Want to go fishing? Dave will have a rod, tackle, snacks and all ready for you and then he’ll point you to fish, wait for you to catch your limit and, of course, clean them all!

I didn’t hesitate when he pointed at the underside of the log, telling me to try to present my worm “right there”. But there wasn’t enough room so I scanned the area. Fifteen feet away from the roots of a small tree, along with other entanglements, offered shelter in the cut bank. I carefully guided about eight feet of line between the snags that waited to entangle my line.

With my index finger on the line, I inched the bait back towards me. Stuck. Wait. Stuck? No, that was a light pull. I respond with a continuous light pull of my own. BAM! The tip bends, the line pulls down across my finger. Fish on! Now, how am I going to maneuver this guy out between the roots and snags? I have lost too many monsters due to impatience but after forty-three years of practice, I finally get it.

Eight minutes is an eternity when working a trophy out of its’ home. It was five minutes until I finally caught the shimmer of its’ golden, spotted side. Yahoo! Patience pays off with a 23-inch, 3.5 LB Brookey.

Of course, I walked the long way back to camp. I made sure the wanna-be anglers got an eye full of my great accomplishment. I was obscure in my description of where I bagged this beauty but offer hope to all along the way. I tried a few more spots, but have to settle with this solitary prize. That is until we drive to another spot that afternoon, where we all land several small browns.

On the road

I left my friends late Saturday afternoon. I stopped to spend the night outside of Redding, at the ranch of a good friend, and a regular guest shooter on the TV show “ California Shot-Gunners”. We inhale some coffee, load the gear and dogs into another friend’s truck and head south towards Corning. James and Randy are both big boys. They’re over 6’3″ and 250 lbs so there is no question about who is riding in the back seat with the two dogs.

Carriers in the back of the truck? Not for these hunting partners! The black Lab is 3 years old and trained for waterfowl. Raleigh, a German Wire-Hair. He’s a rescue dog that came from a kennel in southern California weeks before and is still gun shy. We meet the other two at the club. One more dog joins the group. Abby is a 7-year-old Golden Lab with lots of field experience but not much time out lately. The local temperature has been in the low to mid 90’s. We are not expecting to hunt very long.

Feathers

The air is cool and there is a light breeze at 8:30 AM when the first pheasant was set out into the field. There were five hunters, three dogs and a total of 35 birds. 14 birds went out for the first round, and then 21 for the next round. After that had the freedom to hunt the property for birds leftover from earlier in the week.

We watched the first five birds dart off into other fields before we even step into our designated site. We shot seven birds. Randy, Randy (yep, two Randys) and I bring them down with simultaneous shots from two of us, six of seven times. We stopped for a break at the truck. “Sheeze!’, James proclaims ‘this is the last time I’m going to hunt with a bunch of guys who never miss!”

One hundred feet into round two and Abby is on the point. I am on the interior edge of our line and don’t bother with that bird. Instead, I scout the ground for the rooster that I know is there. Bam! Bam! James and Randy each take birds. I set my eyes back down, about 30 yards out. There, a movement. A redhead and bam! My first solo rooster of the day. The weather cooperates with a cooling breeze and water is available for the dogs. We hunt out that field taking another thirteen birds before taking our lunch break.

Dogs and hunters alike enjoyed a lunch of hickory-smoked ribs from the night before, with lots of water and jerky. We decided to move along the northern border of our field. Then, we cut back along the other side that has a stream and heavy cover. I moved between the top and bottom of the small ridge that divides the two fields. The dogs are on my far right.

Raleigh is settling into his role as he mimics the actions of the other two. He flushes out a hen. Randy O. swings his over/under up along his hip, at the sky-rocketing bird launched from a missile pad. Bam! One-shot from the hip and that hen drops at Randy’s feet.

I catch a quick movement and scan the far edge of the bank. Another rooster! My shot knocks the bird sideways. I call the dogs and we search the blackberries along the steep ledge where it once sat. Ten minutes later I accept that I became responsible for the only lost bird of the day.

It was a good day. The weather cooperated. Everyone got in quality shooting, and Raleigh proved to be a natural hunter and great asset. Of course, in true fashion of all my adventures, the hunt ended with the last bird coming with a bit of difficulty.

We pushed through the last field of the day, staying along the water’s edge. Randy H had trudged through the flooded field of Cattails. With thirty feet remaining of hunting, a hen flushed out behind me, moving to my left. One-shot and she falls into the cattails. Heck yeah! I am proud of that one!

Russ and Randy spot her. Abbey jumped in for the retrieval. But Abbey had a long, tiring day. She picked up the bird and began to swim. Unfortunately, she swims in a circle and spits the bird out: she’s done. Randy does his best to convince Abbey to “get the bird” but she can’t go any further. Instead, Randy becomes the retriever, plodding through the marsh in water up to his knees. Against the odds, bird number 25 will go home with us.