Mule Deer Fight

For those of you that haven't seen a mule deer fight during the rut - this is without a doubt the best footage I've ever seen.  Kudos to the folks at Skull Hooker for getting some incredible film!

Now the real question: Did he shoot the right buck?  What do you think?


Part II of Survival will be posted within the next week - stay tuned!

Survival: Part 1

It was late August, the Idaho Archery season had opened the previous day, and I was standing in a burning hot warehouse in Southern Utah working - rather than hunting the high elevation basins I had scouted all summer.  Two months prior I had accepted a new position working for a company that manufactures snorkeling and sport diving equipment based in St. George, Utah.  My first task was to relocate our headquarters closer to where I live in Southern Idaho, and this just happened to coincide with the opening of the Idaho archery season.  This particular Friday I was working alone after hours collapsing excess shipping boxes in our warehouse.  I picked up a large box to break it down, when I heard my speaker system short out and power off unexpectedly.  I glanced over to the corner where it sat on the shipping counter, when in my peripheral vision I saw a flash of tan with black stripes.  An intense stabbing sensation in my right forearm made me yell out in pain and jerk my arms back.  I blinked in disbelief as I saw two small, red beads of blood rise from my forearm.

Two and a half hours later I was sitting on a hospital bed with an IV just starting to pump life saving anti-venom into my blood.  After a frantic search, I had been unable to locate the snake that had bit me - which precipitated a much bigger problem upon arrival at the ER.  The box I was handling had been imported from Thailand, and the ER only had rattlesnake anti-venom.  The ensuing confusion and  time consuming attempts to ID the snake delayed my treatment until it became critical.  For two and a half hours my body wrenched in agony as I felt the venom creeping up my arm towards my chest - two and a half hours without pain killers.  The surface of my skin felt as though I had thrust my entire arm directly into a fire, while the inside of my arm felt a bone crushing, twisting pain that tricked my mind into believing my arm was actually rotating and breaking.

My wife sat beside with a concerned look on her face as I tried to joke my way through the ordeal through clenched teeth.  About 2 minutes after the anti venom entered my system, I felt a rush of nausea hit me like a freight train.  Almost instantly, I felt the blood leave my face and my muscle control faded quickly.  I began telling my wife to call a nurse, but I never finished my sentence.  My system rejected the anti-venom and Anaphylactic Shock set in without mercy.  My vision turned an olive shade of green, and just before it went to black I saw the image of nurses and doctors running towards me.  I blinked intensely, aware that my eyes were still open although I was unable to see.  The alarms sounding from the vital sign monitor connected to me were swallowed up by the deafening ringing in my ears.  I felt my head slump to the side, and I was unable to move it back.  The nurses quickly dropped my bed to the flat position as they slapped my cheeks, trying to get me to come to.  For a moment I had a narrow window of eye sight, and what I saw frightened me.  Several doctors and nurses worked frantically shouting my vital signs to one another and instructions as they injected me with adrenaline.  Between the doctors I was briefly able to see the terrified look on my wife's face as she sat crying with her hand covering her mouth.  That is a look I will never forget.

For a few brief moments, everything went dark.  The pandemonium of the room faded, and there was nothing but silence.  I felt no urge to breathe, no physical urge to force myself back into consciousness.  In those moments, I thought to myself "this is how I die."  My wife crying beside me, the beautiful faces of my children, their soft voices - all of it ran through my mind as I tried to understand that these could be my last moments.

After what seemed an eternity, the madness slowly returned to my senses as small areas in my vision came back.  Even though my eyes had been open throughout the ordeal, I felt as though I had just opened them for the first time.  A rush of blood to my head brought me back to full consciousness almost as abruptly as it had been taken from me.  A doctor standing over me sternly admonished me to breathe, which took great effort to do.  After a deep gasp of air, a wave of relief washed over me and the pain surged back into my arm.  Although the pain was intense, it meant I was no longer in the dark. It wasn't until much later that I learned what had caused my blackout and how truly close to death I had been.  The rapidly progressing systemic shutdowns were signs of early stage cardiac arrest.

The pen markings on my right hand traced the concern areas for Necrosis.  This picture was taken the day before I was released, but the swelling was still visible

The rest of the night was spent recovering in the ICU, accompanied by an astounding 10 vials of anti venom.  That first night was completely sleepless, as the threat of Necrosis was constant.  Throughout that entire night I thought about how my life would change if I lost my arm.  The medical professionals that treated me tried to prepare me for anything, including an amputation.  The damage the venom inflicted over the two and a half hours without treatment was substantial, and I was very aware of the battle I still had to fight.  Had the anti venom been administered within the first hour of my admittance to the hospital, I would have required only 1 - 2 vials and my recovery would be more sure.  I silently resolved that night to not allow any lasting disfigurement or even an amputation change who I was or what I loved to do.  In total, I ended up spending 3 days in the Intensive Care Unit on the mend - but my recovery was nothing short of miraculous.  Family and friends alike prayed for me, and there's no doubt in my mind that it made all the difference.  The morning of the fourth day in the ICU I was released and given a clean bill of health.  Walking out of that hospital, I felt like the most fortunate man alive.

We found the snake a week later, still stuck to the box.  It was a juvenile Great Basin Rattlesnake that had become entangled on the packaging tape left exposed on the side of the box.

My return home was very welcoming - my parents and extended family all gathered to help support me through my ordeal and they were there when I finally came home.  Sitting in my living room, I looked at all those around me in a different way.  Two days later, my arm was out of a sling.  Seven days after I was bitten I drew my bow back for the first time.  Holding at full draw, I laughed aloud in elation.  It required far more effort than normal to focus on the shot and my form, but the moment my first arrow left the string and struck the target downrange, I couldn't help but tear up.  I looked down at the release in my hand that just days ago had been swollen to the point of being unusable; all of my life I had taken such simple things for granted.

One week later and 600 miles away, I stood atop a timbered ridge listening to the cool September breeze whispering through the pines.  The peace that surrounded me was golden.  The evening air was interrupted by the challenge of a bull elk below us in a dense stand of pines.  A smile swept across my face as I turned to look at my father standing beside me.  That sound embodies the very spirit of the wild that defines so much of who I am.  With a nod, I slung my bow over my shoulder and turned towards the dark timber - my feet were light and my hopes high...



To read Part II of the Survival Story - click [here].

Mountain Turkeys: Long Beards the Hard Way

Standing on the bare ridge top, even the sound of a distant mountain chickadee was audible.  We stood in silence, intently straining our ears for the sound that had brought us to this magnificent piece of God's country.  My new found friend and hunting companion, Mike Reider, expertly placed the striker on his slate call and let out a short series of hen yelps that undulated down the hillside.  As silence overtook the evening once more, Mike whispered "This is perfect.  We'll be able to hear for miles."  The minutes ticked by slowly while we earnestly waited.  Almost a mile below us on a timbered ridge a gobble pierced the still of the cool April evening.  A smile swept across my face as another tom challenged back a short distance from the first.  The hunt was on.

Vast mountain meadows and heavily timbered canyons provide perfect habitat for turkeys

We quietly discussed our approach to their roost for the following morning as we strode back down the mountain side briskly, anxious to talk with the other party from our hunting group.  We had driven eight and a half hours to our hunting camp, unhitched the tent trailer, and quickly divided into two groups of two in an attempt to locate roosted turkeys before the sun went down.  Upon arriving back at camp, we learned that the other 2 members of our hunting party - father and son duo Tim & Josh Beseris - had located 2 roosted toms right at dark as well.  A sleepless night of anticipation ensued, followed by a morning that came too early.

A mile long hike in the dark put us on the timbered ridge we had heard the toms gobbling from the previous night - but this morning wasn't what we had expected.  All was quiet.  Every precaution had been taken, we were in place long before light to listen for their calls, we had even turned our headlamps off half a mile from the knoll the roost was located on.  A few distant gobbles gave us the general direction of the toms, but we were unable to discern their exact location.  Thirty minutes passed with utter silence.  We crept up slowly to the edge of a clearing just below the peak of the ridge where we estimated they had been.  Quietly we took our positions and Mike began soft hen calls.  Another five minutes of silence passed and my hope was fading, when without warning our tom gobbled from the other side of the knoll only 100 yards away.  I quickly jumped over to a white pine on the opposite side of the ridge and set up with a commanding view of the clearing below me.  Another gobble erupted just beyond my visibility at the bottom edge of the clearing.  I lifted my Benelli to my shoulder and clicked off the safety.  The tom ran up into the bottom of the clearing 45 yards away and gobbled again, he was coming in on a string.

Having arrived at our destination 45 minutes before sunrise our first morning, I had time to snap a few shots.

 I brought the bead to his head and zeroed in on my target.  A single pine bough dropping down from the white pine I was sitting beneath obscured the top half of the toms' head!  I leaned further down, attempting to broaden my shot window.  The entire bird was visible - but I couldn't be certain my pattern would clear the single branch in front of me.  I inwardly cursed my luck but held steady - this tom had no idea where we were, and seductive hen yelps coming from the other side of the ridge held his attention fully.  I only needed two steps to the left and he was mine.  Suddenly, he flipped around and took several quick steps down the hill - directly in line with the branch.  He looked back down the clearing below me and sounded a warning putt.  My heart sank.  In desperation I looked down the ridge to see what had alarmed the tom.  The sound of beating of wings brought my eyes back in his direction - just in time to see him fly down the ridge and into oblivion.

In utter disbelief I clicked my safety back on.  I glanced back over my should to Mike, who lifted his arms in question.  I motioned him forward - still not understanding what had just happened.  "What happened!?  He had to have been right there!" Mike whispered harshly as he arrived at my side.  Dumbfounded I mumbled "I have no idea.  He spooked!"  Mike replied, "I know, I heard his wings!  I was waiting for you to shoot!  What happened?"  I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Mike, he looked me right in the face.  I looked back at him...and I...I...I just couldn't do it!"  For a brief moment, I honestly believe Mike thought I was being serious.  From that moment on, I knew I was hunting with a guy that had a sense of humor.  Luckily.  We stood there for a few minutes reliving every aspect of what had just transpired, and neither of us had an explanation.  Amid our discussion, a coyote barked from the draw below us - directly where the turkey had looked in alarm.

Early Spring in Idaho is rarely this picturesque, but we were treated with  outstanding weather all weekend

"Now it gets hard" Mike said emphatically as we threw our packs on our backs.  These words would prove to be prophetic as the hunt progressed.  We logged mile after mile in the mountains, always pursuing another gobbling tom - and each time Murphy's Law dominated.  Team Beseris had similar luck.  There is both an early and late spring breeding season for turkeys, and the unseasonably warm temperatures had brought the birds into the first breeding season early this year.  This meant that most turkeys were only vocal and responsive to calls right at sunrise as they left their roosts, or in the late evening just before roosting.  In the post peak breeding season there is a narrow window of opportunity in the mid morning when the hens go back to the nests to tend to the eggs, leaving the toms alone - during this time they're also responsive to calls.  However; most toms fell silent almost immediately after coming down from their roost and stayed that way throughout the day - forcing us to cover vast amounts of ground searching for an active gobbler.

Syringas blanket the landscape in these mountain meadows

By the evening of our first full day hunting we had already covered over 10 miles on foot and had 2 toms inside 50 yards, with many others located that gave us the slip.  Yet still, no dice.  As daylight waned, we elected to return to a large, high elevation canyon that had treated us to many toms in years past when hunting pressure in the valley floor pushed the birds up into the high country.  It was there that our luck began to change, but only slightly.  This time, Josh Beseris joined Mike and I on our trek around the rim of the canyon in search of long beards.  With the approach of nightfall, the gobbling kicked into high gear.  We stopped above a steep timbered pocket of timber to rest.  Just as we caught our breath, a tom gobbled from the bottom of the canyon 200 yards below.  A few hen clucks later, he sounded off again - this time closer.  The tom gobbled repetitively as we scrambled into position on the edge of a meadow on the steep hillside, Josh covering the higher ground and me the lower.  For the next ten minutes we went silent and waited expectantly - but the woods fell silent.  Disappointment began creeping into my mind, when suddenly movement below me in the underbrush caught my attention.  Two turkeys were running straight up the hill towards me at 75 yards, they had come in silent.  The dominant tom was in the back, his head ablaze in color.  I twisted to my right in order to position myself better for a shooting lane they were headed straight for.  They passed behind a tree, and for what seemed like an eternity, they disappeared.

The dominant tom suddenly popped up in my shooting lane 40 yards away.  It was a longer shot than I typically prefer, but with the memory of that morning's encounter fresh in my mind - I wasn't letting this one get away.  I clicked off my safety and lowered my cheek onto the stock.  Just as I was closing my left eye to take aim, movement in my peripheral vision caught my eye.  The second tom darted from behind a tree a mere 15 yards to my right and was stopped in some undergrowth.  From his location I would be silhouetted  beside the tree I was sitting below, completely vulnerable.  My breath caught short in my throat, I was certain he'd bust me.  He tucked his head down and dashed even closer - allowing me just enough time to swing my shotgun onto him.  At 5 yards he cleared the undergrowth that had obstructed my view and stopped, searching for the hen that had fallen silent.  With my pulse thumping in my chest, I squeezed the trigger.  The thunder of my shotgun split the evening silence with a deafening boom.  The tom somersaulted backwards down the hillside at the shot, and the other tom flew back down the hillside.  Exuberance overtook me - we had worked so hard for this.  I leapt to my feet and ran down the hill to collect my turkey.

The Merriams Turkey was introduced in Idaho in 1961, and is by far the most numerous of the three subspecies currently found in the state.  
Small populations of Rio Grande and Eastern turkeys can still be found.

While he was not the dominant bird, he was a respectable 4 year old with 1 1/4" spurs and a 6" beard (turkeys at this elevation rarely grow very long beards, evidenced by the long spurs compared to beard length).  A visibly shaken Josh and Mike walked down the hillside to meet me - they had no idea the birds had even come in until my shot.  They saw the dominant tom fly and thought I had missed.  Early in the trip we made a wager - first to shoot a turkey and whoever got the biggest turkey collected cash from the other members of our hunting party, but whoever missed a shot had to buy everyone lunch on the way home.  As they watched the turkey fly away following my shot, Mike whispered "Well, there's lunch!"  Oh, the irony.  Looking up at the grins on my friends' faces, I couldn't have been happier with the first hard won turkey of the trip.


The rest of our hunt would be dedicated to the pursuit of the tom that got away - and got away he did, several times...but that's a story for another day.  Josh went on to bag an outstanding turkey the last morning of the hunt, and what a story it is.  We often speak about drawing a coveted local turkey tag near our home town, where the ground is flat and the drive is short - but I always find my mind wandering back to this rugged country I hunt in general season.  In total, we logged 23 miles over three days to get those turkeys.  The hunting may be easier in the river bottoms of Southeastern Idaho, but the effort expended to collect these mountain turkeys makes the payoff that much richer.  It's like I've said in previous articles - the way the hunt is done should be as important at the result.  The high mountain meadows filled with syringas, the sound of gobbles reverberating down the canyon walls, the vast rugged overlooks, the endless miles hiked - it's all a part of how we hunt turkeys.  And that makes all the difference to us.

Despite temperatures in the upper 60's, patches of snow were still common

The last evening of the hunt we were treated to a chorus of 4 toms gobbling around this meadow for the last hour of daylight as they roosted.  
The following morning, Josh took his turkey near this area

Gear List

Benelli Field Supernova
Primos Jelly Head Choke Tube
Remington Premier Magnum Copper-Plated Turkey Loads
Cody Spec 1 Slate Call & Woodsman Striker
Montana Decoy Teaser Hen
Carry Lite Pretty Boy Decoy

Is Henry's Lake Overpopulated?

The Pendulum Swings

Through the mist rising slowly off the water, snow capped mountain tops materialized almost magically as the October sunrise burned through the fog.  For anyone that loves the outdoors as much as I do, the period of time between pre-dawn light and daybreak is an evanescent moment where anything is possible.  The thrill of the day before you fills the air, yet the world seems to be entirely still.  In this cold tranquility, all the focus of a surgeon is devoted to every cast.  Form, presentation, and stealth become paramount.  Inevitably, I will smack myself in the back of the head with my size 6 woolly bugger at least once in this small window of time alone.  I looked slowly across the lake, admiring the beauty around me while stripping in my fly line.  The only sound breaking the silence was the water dripping from my guides as I brought in my streamer.  Without warning, an aggressive Yellowstone Cutthroat trout smashed my fly.  When I set the hook, my line zipped up into the air from the water, breaking the surface tension and spraying water as it chased down my line towards the thrashing trout.  Very few places on Earth can hold embody the grandeur and wonder this world has to offer to a fisherman as Henry's Lake.

The fish that call these waters home grow freakishly fast, often developing a hump on their backs behind their head as their body weight outgrows their skeletal structure. Henry's Lake boasts a population of over 500,000 catchable trout, with the average trout caught by anglers measuring at 18".  With such a prized lake, it certainly grabbed my attention when I heard some concerning news about the declining size of the fish found here.  Recently, a video has been circulating by Tight Line Media detailing the status of the Henry's Lake fishery.  This lake has been the holy grail for trophy trout fisherman all over the country for twenty plus years, but several consecutive years of good water years have resulted in a population upswing - not in the number of fish surviving that are planted - but due to wild fish spawning.  Tributaries previously inaccessible to trout become viable again with a higher water table, resulting in miles of spawning grounds for wild fish.  Ultimately, biologists believe this is resulting in an overpopulation that is lowering the average size of the trout.

Chris Cutler with a beautiful cutbow caught on the fly last fall

After watching the video, I decided to ask around the local fishing community and see what other anglers had to say about the average size of fish in the lake.  The results could haven't have been more varied.  There were definitely the nay sayers that said the average size fish was "way down" and the F&G didn't care about maintaining the trophy quality of the lake.  From my own fishing experience I hadn't noticed any reduction in average size.  I decided to revisit the F&G website once again for some actual data to shed light on the argument.

Science has a way of polarizing sportsmen.  Either they find it fascinating and agree or vehemently disagree and point to faulty methods - swearing there must be some conspiracy afoot to discourage fishing and hunting.  I have never understood the latter, but I doubt there can be much argument for the data I found.  The following is a chart I drafted to illustrate the variation in average fish length taken by the hatchery during the spring spawning seasons from 2006 - 2010, the 2011 report is not yet available.  Looking back at 5 years of data I think we can draw some conclusions on what to expect and gain some perspective on what a change in size looks like.

The large variation in hybrid trout size is partially due to the relatively small number of cutbows that actually return to the hatchery every spring.  Since the fish are sterile, they should lack the spawning instinct and not behave as natural fish in that respect.  The success of sterilizing these fish while in infancy has fluctuated over the past 5 years from 98 - 100%, which means there are SOME fertile hybrids in the lake.  Sterilization has been increasingly successful, culminating in 2010 with only 2.9% of the total fish returning to the hatchery being hybrids.  The running 5 year total stands at 7.3%, and with a smaller sample group, greater variation can be expected to some degree.  The chart below details the exact numbers.

The Fish & Game also studied fish mortality with extended seasons and opening the lake to 24 hour fishing, and neither had measurable detrimental effects on fish mortality or trophy quality.  While we wait for the final data to be published detailing this year's spawning trout, I think it's safe to say Henry's is not in imminent danger of losing trophy status.  History teaches us that changes of great magnitude often take longer than 1 year in this fishery, so while size may be slightly down - it's unlikely that it should be of major concern to anglers.  With this fishery under close watch from biologists, a plan has already been enacted to combat the issue.

On an average year, 1.6 million trout are released in the lake, this year that will be lowered to 1.3 million, with Yellowstone Cutthroat trout seeing a 42% reduction in planted fish, while hybrid and brookie numbers won't change.  However; there is another interesting piece to this puzzle.  Amid concerns from anglers about the effect extending the ice fishing season until January 1st would have on the trophy population of hybrid trout - the Fish & Game decided to release 10,000 "super hybrids" with the annual planting this year.  These "super hybrids" have spent an extra year in captivity bulking up, and will be a  whopping 10 - 12" when released compared to the typical 3 - 4" fingerlings.  What does this mean to anglers?  These hybrids will clear the 20" mark easily within 3 years, reaching trophy proportions much quicker than run of the mill cutbows.  Survival rates should be higher among these trophy trout as well, resulting in a healthier class of upper-tier giants.

Back in the frigid waters of the lake that morning in October, I stood marveling the beauty of the trout I had in my hands.  Abundant food sources, careful management, and a remarkable marine environment combine to create a truly world class fishing experience.  I gently held the 18" cutthroat in my hands beneath the surface and watched it thrust water through its gills as it regained its strength.   In keeping with tradition, no matter how badly I want to have fresh trout that night - I loosened my grip on the fish's tail and slid it back in the waves.  The first fish of the day swam slowly towards the deep, then quickly darted out of sight.  While we may not always agree with the Department of Fish & Game, and some may question their motives behind certain decisions; it seems clear that they are very carefully monitoring the health of this outstanding fishery.  I applaud their continued efforts to maintain and improve the quality of fishing on Henry's Lake, and have complete faith that they have anglers' best interests at heart with the management of this remarkable resource.  I look forward to the day I set into one of those "super hybrids" on the fly.

As the Canadian brookies mature, more of these humped freaks will be showing up

Spring Fever

Early spring is always a season full of anxiety for me.  With so much to look forward to in the coming months, I find myself spending more time THINKING about what I'm going to do, rather than actually DOING anything.  With spring turkey and bear season just around the corner, it's time to start shooting my bow more regularly and making the endless number of small adjustments I regularly do to ensure my equipment is in perfect operating condition.  Oddly enough, no matter how many small adjustments I do to perfect my system - I will inevitably be awake until the early morning hours rechecking everything before my first hunt of the year.  The same holds true for my first spring steelhead trip of the year.  I make checklists for my equipment, and plan every aspect of the following day - where to go in inclement weather, where to go if there's pressure, the list goes on and on.  Therein lies the essence of my early spring cabin fever - I regularly suffer mild to moderate outbreaks of obsessive compulsive disorder.  One thing that I regularly obsess over, that I feel is a very worthy cause, is researching my hunting locations for the coming fall.

One of the best things about spring to a hunter is that there is always a wealth of information about the previous years' hunt that are invaluable.  The hours I spend in the early spring researching data from the previous fall dictates what hunts I apply for in several states, but most importantly here in Idaho. I think too often sportsmen overlook the mountains of data relating to their home state that can help uncover the next "honey hole."  I have known too many sportsman, myself included, that have hunted the same areas for years without ever attempting to expand into new areas.  All too often the population shifts, predation changes, hunting pressure spikes, or recreational development can alter the outlook on a favored hunting area in just one year.  Without a contingency plan - or several for that matter, one can be left very discouraged.

The first place I always turn to when researching new hunting areas, or even old ones, is the Idaho Department of Fish & Game website.  Their website has multiple reports and data compilations that can help quickly isolate an area of interest - and perhaps the first one I look at is harvest data, which is a sub-section in the Big Game Species Info section.  Both controlled hunts (special permit hunts) and general season harvest information is available, with each being broken down by year - and further yet you can view the number of hunters per unit, number of animals harvested, average days hunted per hunter, antlered vs. antlerless harvest, and % of trophy animals taken.  Comparing that data to drawing odds available in the controlled hunt information will help locate a good permit to apply for.  Any hunter that isn't utilitizing this tool in planning their hunts every fall is short changing themselves.  When analyzing unit data for deer, another great page to view is the whitetail distribution map.  Note that in the harvest data, mule deer vs. whitetail deer harvest is specified.

The second thing I do when researching a new area is to view topographic or satellite imagery of the unit in question.  Google Earth is an extremely valuable asset, particularly "Terrain View," as this enables you to see the contour of the geography, and when paired with satellite imagery, provides a wealth of information about likely holding areas for trophy animals.  As they say, to kill a giant you must hunt where giants live - and giants often live in the most remote and inaccessible locations in a given unit.  Animal survival statistics and age spikes dramatically only 1 mile from the nearest road - most hunters only venture to these areas briefly in their hunts, and almost never at times when animal activity levels are at a peak.  Most hunters simply aren't willing to work hard enough to get back into these areas, or only briefly hunt them.  A dedicated public land trophy hunter should almost EXCLUSIVELY hunt these areas.  This often requires beginning your hike long before sunrise and returning long after sunset, remember; the vast majority of your hunting day should be spent in the more remote areas you are hunting.  More on this topic will follow on future articles.  Targeting these specific locations to hunt is crucial before putting in the time and effort to scout on foot.  You can either work harder, or work smarter.  Utilizing satellite imagery and topographic maps will enable you to pinpoint these areas with far greater accuracy.  The major criteria in play for determining a potential trophy area are accessibility, water sources, bedding grounds, and feeding grounds.  The majority of these elements can be determined with relative accuracy prior to scouting trips.  Google Maps allows mapping hunting areas with phenomenal detail. My maps with all my notes are printed each time I go on a scouting trip so that I can detail any new information with pinpoint accuracy.

I happened onto this buck right before dusk in late July.  Poor lighting conditions and distance prevented a good picture, but it was great to see the fruits of my labor materialize after months of research.

These photos have enabled me to hunt this buck for 3 seasons, during which time he has grown from a respectable 160" buck to a tremendous 180" buck last season.  I'm yet to loose an arrow at this monarch.

The final step in developing a new area is obviously getting some boots on the ground.  Leg work can't be substituted by any other activity, you have to get some time on the ground to learn the geography and animal movements.  Avoid pressuring animals when doing preseason scouting, this means going to the same lengths to cover scent, be mindful of wind direction when approaching likely bedding areas or travel routes, wear full camo, and most importantly - USE OPTICS.  Optics may be your greatest asset when scouting a new potential area.  Try to view animals from a distance and minimize any time spent in or around bedding areas.  Blowing a trophy buck or bull out of his bedroom can upset his entire routine and invalidate hours of scouting.  Too many times scouting trips result in bumping an animal, only to never lay eyes on him again.  If it does happen - back out for a few days and note the location so the same mistake won't be duplicated.  On these scouting trips, remember to record information you gather.  Mental notes are not enough!  I regularly use Google Maps to mark bedding areas, feeding grounds, travel routes, water sources, rubs, wallows, etc. This information allows me to make informed decisions when trying to locate an animal that seemingly disappeared into thin air, as well as branch out into adjoining territory.

Finally, don't give up!  I often hear hunters talk about spending a few days in a new area give up because they simply aren't seeing the animals.  If the elements discussed prior are present, and animal sign indicates there are animals in the area - stick it out!  Just because there aren't many animals, doesn't mean there aren't trophy animals.  In some of my best locations I can go days without seeing an antlered animal, low animal density doesn't equal low trophy density.  Also bear in mind that hunting pressure will change an animals habits, and if you've done your research it may be possible to relocate your animal(s) using information you already know!  Another critical aspect of scouting - particularly in hunts with a short duration or early season when patterns are still predictable - arrive a day prior to the opener.  Your hunting time is too valuable to be wasted hoping that nothing has changed since your last scouting trip.

With turkey season just around the corner, the hunt is already on...

Fishing : An Introspective View

Some view fishing as an art, the endless pursuit of perfection in form and technique that is never mastered; an art in which even the seasoned angler is forever an apprentice.  Some view fishing as a game of chess, the fisherman constantly trying to outsmart their opponent in a beautiful game of deception.  Many more view fishing as boring and uninteresting; a waiting game involving chance and patience - and therein lies a great misconception.  At times, I think the sport can be all of the above, but mostly I view fishing as the perfect time for quiet introspection.  The seclusion of the outdoors is what keeps me coming back for more, and the one on one time it provides with family and friends is irreplaceable.  I have had more meaningful conversations with friends and family while in the outdoors than all other places combined.  I have learned more about myself in the peaceful seclusion of the outdoors than I ever have in a classroom or the private recesses of my home.

                 "Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after."  

                              - Henry David Thoreau

A beautiful sunset on the Snake River

There are times when everything comes together in a surreal and beautiful way - when time seems to stop, and for a brief, fleeting moment...the entire world seems at peace.  The imagery of those moments are etched into my mind forever,  and the only thing more treasured than those memories is the assurance I have knowing that every time I step into God's country there are many more to follow.  One such moment came, as they all seemingly do, abruptly and unexpectedly.  

My wife Jennifer and I were expecting our first child, and with her delivery date approaching we wanted to spend some quality time together prior to the big day.  Many of my favorite fishing destinations aren't particularly inviting to an expectant mother, so we opted for a conveniently located pond just outside of Roberts, Idaho.  We arrived shortly after 3 o'clock in the afternoon with lawn chairs and a portable grill in hand, prepared to spend the evening grilling and talking, watching bobbers on the water in case an unsuspecting perch or trout happened along.  No sooner had we cast our lines and lit the grill when a late summer rainstorm blew in.  We frantically dashed for our car, where we sat soaking wet, laughing at the irony of it all considering the months long drought Idaho had been in.  As I glanced back our gear taking a pounding in the rain, I noticed my bobber bouncing along erratically in the waves.  Laughing, I leapt from the shelter of our car and clammered down the sandy bank to the fishing pole 30 yards away.  With a swift jerk I set the hook on a small yellow perch that the pond was known for.  I stood triumphantly in the sideways rain, holding  up my pitiful yellow perch for my wife to marvel at sarcastically.  Two more fish were caught in the same manner.

As quickly as the storm arrived, it left.  As the clouds cleared and the winds calmed we strode down to the bank, marveling at the beauty around us.  As the sun sank down over the horizon, it cast the most beautiful shades of orange and pink across the thunder clouds behind us.  As we stood in awe, the fishing turned on like a light.  For the next hour, we did something I'd only heard rumors of - we caught the elusive channel catfish in Roberts Gravel Pond.  One after another, we pulled in fish that hadn't been stocked in these waters for years.  

Roberts Gravel Pond

While attempting to rebait one rod while my wife caught fish with the other, I glanced up for one perfect moment.  Jennifer had been clumsily casting her line all evening with my hopeless coaching, but not this time.  Her tackle sailed over the glass-like water, and the only audible noise aside from distant crickets was the sound of her line sailing through the guides on her fishing rod.  As the tackle landed in the water it sent ripples across the darkening water, reflecting the sunset across the water like millions of tiny diamonds.  She turned back to see me standing on the bank with worm guts all over my hands in my sopping wet clothing, smiling.  As she smiled back, I recalled the very thing that brings me into the outdoors...the assurance I have knowing that every time I step into God's country there are many more moments just like this to follow...

Through the Ice

Henry's Lake

I have a love/hate relationship with Henry's Lake that dates back to childhood.  This lake can make you or break you as a fisherman.  Finicky trout abound in this lake - trophy trout.  Trout with eating disorders and bad attitudes.  Similar to other quality fisheries, food sources are equally abundant - and the fish act like it.  Combine that with shallow water depth, virtually no wind protection, and rapidly changing weather conditions and the even most seasoned fisherman can find himself frustrated.  Although I have played many a game of Angry Birds on the bank with my fly rod tossed aside, typically the good days far outweigh the bad.  Ice fishing, however,  is a whole other story...

This past winter I was lucky enough to make it out onto the ice a couple times amidst my marathon trips to and from Fresno, California for work.  If you have ever wondered why a bunch of rednecks would layer up in clothing that looks like a fat suit and run out on a "safe" frozen body of water in subzero temperatures to catch a stupid fish through a hole in the ice - you need to ice fish Henry's Lake.  With an ice tent.  And a propane heater.  And a frying pan.  Late November found me doing exactly that with a good friend and loyal fishing companion of mine, Chris Cutler (who blogs over at Living Fly Legacy).  Chris brought his 4 year old son along for the trip this time, and it was a sight to behold.  He exemplifies the phrase "I can't help it, I was born this way" when it comes to fishing addiction.  I can truthfully say that he pulled more fish through that stupid hole in the ice than I did.

We arrived shortly after daylight and set out on our trek across the lake, towing all our gear in pull sleds (while William, Chris's son, yelled "MUSH!").  The fish in Henry's Lake move up in the shallows starting in the early fall as temperatures drop, and remain there until the spring temperatures pull them back out to deeper water - so when we ice fish for these monsters in the winter, we're typically standing above a mere 5 feet of water.  Hand augers spook the fish much less than their gas powered counterparts when fishing in shallow water, so we got to work immediately.

I took this picture shortly after arriving - the cold, clear beauty of Island Park in November...

Our first stop of the morning took us to a secluded cove that we fly fished just before the ice came on the lake.  To our dismay, the moss was almost all the way to the bottom of the ice - making fishing somewhat difficult.  Similar to the fall, when the fish come in from the shallows they tend to group up and stay put - so locating the fish is the first order of the day.  If you aren't catching fish - don't stick it out, move on!  After only catching a few fish in the first hour, we continued to search for a better holding area.  Ever mindful of the structural character of the lake bottom, Chris drilled a couple holes directly above a small channel that holds fish in the fall.  The jig hadn't even so much as sunk to the bottom before a hungry cutthroat slammed it.  William landed it like a pro.  Again, within a few moments of dropping the jig back into the water another fish grabbed it.  This continued for about half an hour, but eventually died out, at which point we moved to another location in search of another pod of fish.

Father and son take a much needed oatmeal break

We relocated to a different side of the lake - a remote cove littered with underwater structure. Chris and I invariably find the hardest to get to places to fish, simply because no one else is willing to put in the effort.  Most of the time, it pays off - and today was no different. Once we had a couple poles down in the water we put the shelter up and kicked the heater on as we continued drilling.  It wasn't long before we were sitting in our tee shirts munching on Doritos - all while enjoying some of the best ice fishing the state has to offer.  November is a phenomenal time to be fishing the lake - the fish are actively feeding and they strike with all the ferocity of a fat kid eating a cup cake.  Typically it's too dangerous to fish with more than just a couple rods per person, simply because the possibility of losing a pole down the hole is very real on this lake.

Sunlight heavily affects the activity level of the fish - even through 5" of ice

It was interesting to watch the sunlight affect the fish activity level.  Cloud cover would blow over the lake every so often and the fishing followed suit - more sun, more fish.  This continued throughout the afternoon.  Sunlight heavily affects the activity level of fish, but with vastly different results during different seasons.  A bright, calm, sunny day in the fall can make for a very poor fishing day as the fish become sluggish and lazy like the weather.  Conversely, I can think of one very memorable cold March afternoon on the Henry's Fork of the Snake River when quite the opposite was true.  High winds in the upper elevations blew clouds over rapidly - and every time a cloud blew by the fishing all but turned off.  Moments later when the sun emerged again we would be landing doubles and triples, just like this day on the ice.

25" Cutthroat through the ice.  I may need a bigger auger!

As the afternoon wore on and the mid day doldrums set in with full strength, we decided it was time for lunch.  We quickly filleted our freshest brook trout and put it in the frying pan - with nothing more than butter and lemon pepper.  The highly prized brook trout always seem more aggressive at this time of year, and as such is a darker pink meat that tastes better than the less active cutthroats - aside from being a more choice entree to begin with.  As the ice tent filled with the scent of frying fish, our luck changed in an instant.  Chris was hooking fish with his left hand and frying fish with his right!  One after another, Chris hooked and cooked.  As the school of brookies passed, we turned our attention back to the fish in the pan.  Perfect.

  Cookin' and hookin' like a pro

Proof men CAN multi-task

As I sat in my chair inside a comfortable ice tent with a stomach full of fresh trout - I found myself thinking about how fortunate I was to live in a land where I was able to such incredible things.  Like sitting in heated shelter on top of "safe" ice on a frozen lake, surrounded by carbon monoxide gas from the propane heater - all the while fully aware that if this ice breaks - I'm a dead man.  It just doesn't get any better than that.




Gear List

Eskimo Quickfish 6
Nils 8" Hand Auger
Mr. Jigger Rod Holders
Shakespeare Ugly Stick Ice Rods
Mr. Heater/Cooker

A New Beginning

Welcome to The Pursuit. 

As you can see from the description to the right – this site is dedicated to the pursuit of all things wild in the beautiful piece of God’s Country that I call home, Southeastern Idaho.  My passion for the outdoors began as an inquisitive and talkative 5 year old chasing pronghorn and mule deer in the high deserts.  I can vividly remember bouncing along in dad’s ’67 Chevy pickup down dusty mountain roads and across sagebrush hills in search of adventure.  It was all about the excitement, the thrills, the disappointments, and at times…the humor.  Since those early days, my unabated passion for the outdoors has done more than drive me - it has defined me.  My father taught me since childhood about our stewardship for wildlife and the sacred nature of the places they inhabit.  He believed in fair chase, public land, do-it-yourself hunting and fishing. Those beliefs are not only mine as well, but they are the foundation of our sport in its purist form.  This site is dedicated to that tradition, because how something is done should be as important as the result itself.  No guides, no fences, and no boundaries.  It’s the hunt - the pursuit - that defines us.