That’s never been a problem for me as a hunter. My dad has two stories he likes to tell about me and my ability to find the trigger. The first occurrence was during my second year of hunting. Dad took me out behind the house on some neighbor’s property to see if we could get my first buck. Sure enough, after a while of hiking in the hills behind our place, dad spotted a herd of deer. We glassed them for a while and then I made the announcement that there were no bucks in the herd. I put my binoculars down and began thinking about where we would hike to next, but Dad was intently glassing that herd. I started to get restless when Dad’s voice cut through my plans.

“That back one’s a buck,” he said calmly. That snapped me back to the present in a hurry. Up went my rifle.

“Really?” I asked. I sure wasn’t seeing any horns. Finally, though, I thought I saw a sticker of horn and I asked Dad, “The last one - quartering away and feeding?”

“Yeah,” he answered. He started to turn away from me. “Hold on, let me get my….”

BOOM!!

I jacked another shell in. BOOM!! Two misses. I looked over at Dad and his glasses were cockeyed on his face and he was looking pretty well startled.

As it turns out, Dad, who wears eye glasses, was turning to put them back on as this was before the days when they made binoculars that can be used while wearing glasses. He had just started to say that he wanted to get his rifle to back me up.

Oh. Well, I wonder why he didn’t say so in the first place! The next time my trigger finger was on display was a few years later. I was now the proud veteran hunter - I’d bagged two deer and one elk at this point. I was elk hunting with Dad and my oldest brother, Benji. We had hunted all day without seeing hide or hair and we were hoofing it back to the pickup. Well, Benji and I were, anyways. Dad was a hundred yards or so behind me and Benji was even further ahead than I was. I was trying to catch up to Benji when Dad hissed from behind me, “Psst!! Tom!”

I stopped. When I looked back, Dad had his binoculars up and he was looking across the draw. I then hissed at Benji: “Psst!! Benji!”

Now we were all on the same page after having received the same message. We made it back to Dad and he said, “There’s a bull over there with some cows.”

I asked, “How far is that?”

Dad answered, “400 yards.”

I told Benji, reluctantly, “Well, since I’ve already shot an elk, you can go ahead and take the first shot.”

I got settled in and put my cross hairs on the bull. Then I waited. And waited. Waited some more. And waited a little more.

“Where should I hold?” I heard Benji ask.

Where should you….! I couldn’t believe it! I was screaming on the inside, “Just shoot already!” Dad gave him an answer and I settled back in and waited some more. Everything became quiet. I tensed up anticipating the shot.

“You sure that’s 400 yards, Dad? Looks further.”

My thoughts were screaming, “Are you kidding me, Benji? I mean, there’s an elk - shoot, for cryin’ out loud!” I was getting pretty keyed up, now.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dad said.

I waited some more. Finally - BOOM!

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

I kept my word and let Benji have the first shot, but I sure wasn’t giving him a second or third. Or fourth. Or fifth. As the bull ran away unharmed, I looked over at Benji and Dad who stood there with their mouths agape. “Why didn’t you shoot again, Benji?”

I’m guessing his thoughts were something like: “Why didn’t I …..?!! Are you kidding me?!”

Well, no, I wasn’t kidding - I thought I’d left a brief pause in there to allow him a few shots as I reloaded the magazine for the third round. Or was it the forth round? Oh well, I guess that’s his loss if he didn’t want to take advantage.

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Whenever I think of that boat, I’m filled with wonder that I ever made it beyond childhood.  It was a small boat, yet I remember numerous times having it packed with mom and dad, gear, food, and four kids - and barely staying afloat.  I’d guess that by today’s standards, we were a little over loaded.  Dad used to enjoy taking real sharp turns because he knew as the water crept dangerously close to the top of the boat on such turns, it would cause a high pitched squeal from his youngest son - his youngest son who to this day insists those were squeals of delight, but the rest of the family remembers as screeches of fear.  What do they know, anyways?  Despite the many warnings the boat gave us of its less than ideal temperament, we insisted on taking that boat places it flat didn’t think we should be.  This blog from Outdoor Odyssey reminded me of one such trip.

We headed out to Owyhee Reservoir to do some bass fishing - and this was a special event because Owyhee was our prime bass water, but it was also a large body of water that we generally stayed away from because of the unpredictability of our beautiful floating vessel.  “We” included Dad, Grandpa, my two older brothers, and myself.  You’ll have to excuse the fuzzy details as they are recalled from the depths of my memory as this must have occurred around the time I was seven years old or so.  We hit the lake and started up the reservoir.  Initially, we had wanted to stay close to the ramp, but shoot, the reservoir is 52 miles long, so what’s the fun in just hanging around the ramp when there is 52 miles of fishing to do?  We crept a little further and a little further from the ramp.  We hit a cove here, then noticed a nice looking cove just a little ways further.  We kept this up, till in one fateful cove, as we packed ‘er up to head to the next nice looking cove, the engine decided it’d had enough.  Nothing.  Not even a whisper of energy left in it.  My mechanical father tried everything - from telling the boat what a beauty she was and how sleek and shiny she was to telling it what an ugly brute it was and some other things I didn’t quite catch.  Finally, we succumbed to the reality that we were going to have to paddle back.  We were now several miles up the reservoir - and to a seven year old it seemed like we were 50 miles up the reservoir.   We realized we had just one old wooden paddle, some rope, and a few old whipped cream cartons.  It’s amazing what becomes a paddle when one is desperate enough.  Some might scoff at how unprepared we were, but when it comes to fishing, the only things we think about are: fishing pole? Check.  Tackle box?  Check.  Let’s go fishin’ and we’ll worry about what might happen later.

Off we went - paddling with our one oar and our whipped cream cartons.  Then we realized we had the rope, and we could just tie on to the boat, and Dad and my oldest brother, Benji, would take turns towing the boat along shore.  Then it was discovered that I had an Oregon State Beaver shirt on.  To this day, that is the most confusing part of the story - I have no idea what my family full of Oregon Duck fans was doing allowing me to wear such an atrocious shirt!  But, it was orange, and thus we figured it to be the most visible.  I was designated as the waver.  Any time a boat became visible, I was to stand up and wave the shirt as high over my head as I could.  Still today, that is pretty much the only use for an OSU Beaver shirt that I could possibly imagine.  Apparently, there were no Beaver fans on the water that day, though.  We decided it was going to be a long journey back.

After what seemed to be forever, we finally made it to the ramp - or at least parallel to it, but on the wrong side of the long and narrow reservoir, and now we had to traverse the deep water and there would be no towing.  I say “narrow” but when all you’re armed with is one oar and a host of whipped cream cartons, there is no such thing as a narrow reservoir.  I continued to wave my shirt in hopes that I might look busy and get out of having to help paddle.  Didn’t happen.  You should have seen this site - Dad using the one oar, Grandpa and the three kids paddling away with little whipped cream cartons for all we were worth!  Not exactly the power of 200 horses at our command, but we were moving.  We made it more than half way across, and still nobody is stopping to help us.  We made it three quarters of the way, and as a boat went by on the other side of the reservoir, I jumped up and began waving - and they slowed down.  Then, they turned in our direction.  They were coming to help us!  We were so glad for the help - no matter that it came after we’d nearly made it the entire way ourselves because we were truly exhausted.

The one good thing that came from that day is the boat vanished.  Maybe it is because I was just seven and don’t remember real well what happened, but I’m not sure if we sold that thing or took it to the dump, but I do remember this: that was the end of that floating time bomb.

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First of all you’ll have to understand how I ended up with a closet like I did. Twenty two years ago when our daughter was born with some very special needs I realized she was not only going to be sharing a corner in our bedroom but also now I was going to be sharing a closet with two ladies. One kind of pushes the limits but I am intelligent enough to realize that with two something had to give and all I had to do was look in the mirror to figure out ‘the something’. Being male and placing shopping right up there with going to the dentist as some of my least favorite things to do, I called a friend of mine who owned a store that kind of reminds me of a army surplus store. He assured me that he had just the right closet for me. After all these years he’s probably still chuckling. When he brought this monstrosity out it took 4 of us to get it situated in our bedroom after some smashed fingers, grunts and whatever, I knew that thing had found its final resting place because I wasn’t going to be the one to move it again. Sue has been very kind to let this bomb shelter stay there as she has learned to just work around it. As for me, well I guess I’ve kind of grown to like it, as its mine , and if something gets lost in there i just set up my own search and rescue operation and no one balks at the way I do it.

This all brings me to a couple weeks ago when I approached ol Brutus to try extricate one of my favorite shirts from its bowels. When I opened one of the doors it squeaked. So in an experimental fashion I closed it and opened it slower. Yeh, it sounded a little like a cow elk. After working with it a bit I got it to sound pretty good. So I grabbed the other door in my other hand and hot dog,it sounded better, only at a lower pitch. This was getting rather interesting as I tried to coordinate the two and soon I had them sounding like a whole herd of cow elk. I had gotten pretty involved by this point so was totally spooked when behind me I heard, ‘are you getting a little impatient for elk hunting?’ I had been so engrossed in my elk hunt serenade that I had failed to hear Miss Dead Eye come up behind me, and I began to feel that red start creeping up the back of my neck. In elk hunting vocab, I had been busted. To cover for my embarrassment I asked her if she wanted to hear an encore which she politely declined. Inside I was excited though that she recognized the sound even though it was evident she failed to recognize the skill involved.

So this fall while you are out elk hunting, if you come across an old red faced guy with his closet strapped to his back, you now have a clue. Wish him luck.

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A New Mule Deer Record for Oregon

Oregon’s 2007 archery season would mark Chris’ seventh year as a bow hunter. He has taken several deer and worked hard to bag a bull. He was determined to pull out all the stops and make this his best year to date. Chris lost weight and began a stringent exercise routine, which included running five miles – five days a week. Several years of hunting the same terrain inside Jefferson County served to make his numerous scouting trips time-well-spent. This season held great expectations for he and his hunting partners, which included Oregon resident Nate Richardson and Dave Isenberger from the state of Georgia.

The first several days of the archery opener were a blur of high emotions and missed opportunities. Chris and his friends worked hard in the steep, rough and dry terrain. Although they saw numerous bucks, the difficulties associated with archery hunting stuck to them like the dust and chaff from native plants adhered to perspiration on their skin. Chris told me that before he bought his first bow, a close friend had given him a poignant warning; “Bow hunting is an emotional roller coaster.” Chris said he has found that nothing else in his experience can take you from low to high and back again, all in fifteen brief seconds. His 2007 archery hunt got off to an agonizingly slow beginning.

The men saw more than a few good bucks. They estimated some sported antlers that would have scored in the 140 to 160 inch range. But, every stalk had ended in failure. One evening Chris came upon a very nice deer. He felt this typical 4×4 held 145-inch antlers above a large mature frame. As the buck fed along peacefully, Chris began his stalk. When he got close the buck alerted and sharply raised his head into the air. The buck stood broadside and fixed his gaze in Chris’ direction. Placing his 40-yard pin on the animals’ vitals he cautiously released the string. The arrow disappeared into a manzanita bush and the buck bounded away unharmed. Sickened, use of his range finder showed Chris the buck had been further from him than he had estimated.

With a good nights sleep, the hunters woke with renewed determination on Monday, August 27^th. Beginning the day at a deep canyon he refers to as his “honey-hole”, Chris quickly spotted something that looked out of place. Raising binoculars for a closer examination, Chris told me, “… All I could see was HORNS!”

Not bothering to count points, he immediately knocked an arrow and prepared to shoot. His bad luck was cemented in place; as Chris raised his bow he accidentally touched his release. He instantly felt the shock of the string blasting the arrow haphazardly into open air space. The arrow landed twenty-yards in front of the monstrous mule deer. Chris and his friends watched helplessly as the buck of their dreams exploded across the hillside, taking three additional deer with him. As the big deer bounced out of sight, Chris’ binoculars served to add pain to the event, allowing him to view the incredible rack of antlers, with long kicker points protruding from the left and right sides. As this was the last day of their first outing, a dejected Chris Dunlap broke camp and headed home.

Four days later Chris and friends were back on the mountain and resolute as ever to fill their tags. But it was not to be. The weekend came and went, with no deer being taken. However, his personal run of bad luck was about to change in a very big way.

On Saturday, September 8^th, Chris and his friends were back in the woods. Forsaking deer hunting for the moment, the group was concentrating their efforts on finding bull elk. But, while telling Dave about the big one that got away, Chris decided to show him the area in which the buck had been feeding. At this point the buck was nothing more than a good story.

On site, the men observed some does and decided to give the canyon a closer inspection. In minutes Chris saw a deer that appeared to be twice the size of those standing near to it. Looking through the slightly enhanced lens of his range finder he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had stumbled onto the big buck, again!

Stopping as close to the buck as he dared, Chris raised his bow as the animal walked slowly ahead, quartering away from him. Desperate to succeed, he repeated to himself, “Do not punch your trigger”. He released the arrow and remembers that, “It just felt good”. As the buck spun and began to run, Chris heard Dave yell, “Perfect Shot!” The arrow was visibly protruding from the big bucks rib cage and his dash to escape was brief. Traveling only thirty-yards, the buck was down.

Amazed by the site of this colossal buck, Chris couldn’t wait to have the rack scored. Long time big game measurer Glen Abbot traveled to Chris’ home and pronounced the buck had a gross score of 230-1/8 inches, with an official Pope and Young Club net score of 225-3/8. This buck handily became the new Oregon state non-typical in velvet record. According to the North West Book for Oregon Big Game Animals, with a score of 221-2/8, the #2 archery mule deer buck in velvet was taken in 1960.

To top off his newfound achievement, Chris harvested an archery bull elk four days later on September 12^th. Although it was a bit rough in the beginning, I feel confident believing Chris Dunlap’s 2007 archery season will be a tough act for him to follow in 2008.

Chris with his buck of a lifetime.

Edited - Jim just emailed me an update - he’s sold the story to Rack Magazine, so look for it in the December issue!  Congrats to Chris - and now, also, to Jim!

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Our show, Off Trail, is now viewable along side some of the other great names on outdoor television such as Bill Dance, Roland Martin, North American Hunter, Bighorn Outdoors, and others, soon to be including fellow blogger, doodaa Productions. We’re very excited about this, to say the least, and encourage you to check us out on MOTV.

I’m afraid that I’ve spent many hours watching show after show on MOTV when I should have been doing something more productive. The reason I love the idea behind MOTV is that viewers can watch shows that they normally wouldn’t get to see because they’re out of their market. Because we’ve never owned a TV, this becomes the only  way we can watch a show without buying the DVD. But, for the majority of folks that do own a TV, you’re limited to the national shows and the shows in your area - until you discover MOTV and a whole world of hunting and fishing shows are opened up. Check it out, then drop me an email or leave a comment below and let me know what you think.

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All told we boated somewhere around 20 fish and had numerous strikes and fish on that got away.  I caught one of the bigger Cutthroat I have caught on this river in the exact same hole I caught my biggest trout to date last year, a 25” German Brown.  We saw it feed right before we drifted through the area and when I casted into his hole I was not sure he would be ready to eat again so soon but the big easy meal of a free drifting salmon fly proved too tempting for the 19” fish. 

 A somewhat interesting happening came when we drifted down one good looking side channel in the river.  I was casting into perfect looking pockets and in the span of about 75 yards of river had five consecutive fish smash my big stimulator fly, but no hookups.  After taking some good natured ribbing from the other yahoo’s (my father-in-law, and my little brother, whom you all know as Tom) in the boat I thought, “You know, I have been known to miss a few fish but that was just weird, I better check my fly to make sure it still has a hook.”  Really I had no expectation that there would be any such discovery but sure enough when I pulled the line in and looked at the fly there was a perfectly good looking #6 stimi with no hook.  It had broken off mid shank.  Not sure when that happened but I have a good idea that it could have been the result of one of my hookups with the thick brush along the bank and trying to yank the hook out of there.  Anyway, it was another fun trip. I am looking forward to the next one already.

T’was the Night of the Hatch

By Benji

T’was a cool night in July, and all over the river

Not a creature was stirring, not even the beaver

The 5 weight was rigged, and leaned against the wall

Ready to go, for that expected call

Then it was Friday, and work was, well…work

And my casting arm, was developing a jerk

I clicked on a website, with remedies for this

The fishing report, said “’The Canyon’…can’t miss”

“The Salmon Fly’s, are hatching their way”

“Up, up the river, at a mile a day”

“By Monday” they said, “you can be expecting to see”

“Fish piling up, under each bush and each tree”

“Gulping huge bugs, as they slipped from the twigs”

“Fish with good size, some call them pigs”

In a flash it was on, I threw the gear in the truck

Said good bye to the family, who wished me good luck

Barreling down, the freeway we went

One image in my mind, a rod that is bent

In the shape of a taco, and on the end with the hook

A big German Brown Trout, worth a second look

At Spring Creek we launch, with our heads in the clouds

Expectations are high; the call of the river is loud

The ramp is alive, with boaters bustling about

Here we are putting in, while they are all taking out

As we float under the highway the bridge fades from view

Leaving civilization behind, to see “The Canyon” anew

The sounds of the road die slowly away

Displaced by the sound, of the oars and soft sway

Of the drift boat, as it bobs gently along

In the current, that’s in tune, to nature’s sweet song

Casting in time, to an inaudible beat

To fish that we hope, are ready to eat

I get my first strike, but it’s gone in a flash

But fish fever has set in, (minus the rash)

Finally a hookup, the brown puts on a show

Splashing and jumping, not ready to go

Into the net, and a quick, painless release

It swims back to its hole, with grace, and with ease

Ah, this is the cure, for the twitch in my arm

The rivers soft rush, has rung its silent alarm

The rest of the float, is more of the same

Big bushy flies are the pawn in this game

Under each grassy bank, there are trout eager to eat

Where the rivers swift current, and the canyon walls meet

As my mind, and the river sync up in their pace

I am glad for one day, I am out of the race

They say is for rats, but we do it each day

Hustle and bustle, to each make our hay

No matter how short, we make the best of these times

Even when they result, in these ridiculous rhymes

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Enjoy.

Benji Sorenson

South Fork of the Snake River

I have a favorite river that I will make sure I get to every year for a little fishing. The place is the South Fork of the Snake River about 45 minutes East of Idaho Falls, Idaho. There is a stretch of river there known as “The Canyon.” It is a good 12 hour float, depending on the time of year, in a drift boat from the put in at Conant to the take out we use at Byington. The river winds lazily out and away from the highway between Idaho Falls and Jackson Hole, Wyoming, through a steep walled canyon lined with majestic cottonwoods and filled with wildlife. I have seen Bald Eagles, Beavers, Osprey, Deer, Moose, and Turkeys now on the four floats I have taken down the canyon. It is truly an experience just for the peaceful ride down the river but when you add in the fact that the river is loaded with hungry Cutthroat, Rainbow, and Brown Trout it becomes a must do item each year despite the fact that it is a 6 hour drive each way from my home on the other side of the state. This year the trip was epic, yielding quality as well as quantity. We caught fish throughout the day with very few lulls and I landed the largest trout I have caught to date.

The First Fish of the Day

The trip got off to an outstanding start when we arrived at the boat ramp at 7:00am and saw the parking lot was empty. It is always a welcome bonus to have the canyon to yourself. We launched the old 16′ Alumaweld driftboat and headed across the river for the opposite bank. We received another boost to our outlook for this trip when on my third cast of the day I flipped my white streamer up against a stump whose roots were exposed to the river due to some erosion and felt the jolt as a colorful 17 inch brown sucked it down. The Browns here were preparing for the spawn, which would get underway in another three to four weeks, as well as fattening up in anticipation of the coming winter. And the winter in this beautiful area in the shadow of the majestic Tetons can be brutal. This river is primarily known as a premier westslope cutthroat fishery and in my previous trips this had been the predominate species of fish I had landed. However, the river is home to a very healthy population of german browns. The Idaho state record brown, up until this year when it was broken at another eastern Idaho body of water, was caught here in 1981. (A 26 lb 6 oz behemoth) Late September is definitely a time for the browns to shine.

About 100 yards downstream from the boat ramp I got a real wakeup call as to what kind of quality fish dwell in this river. As I threw my white Zonker streamer up against some rocks along the bank I watched my line drift with the current and suddenly just stop midstream. It was running deep there so I knew something had taken my fly. I set the hook and felt no give, just a solid tug back. Then as quickly as it started it ended when whatever I hooked into decided it was out of there. My line took off upstream at mach 10. I could not react in time to loosen my drag and the 3x fluorocarbon tippet snapped at the eye of the fly. Two seconds was all that one lasted. I really would like to have seen the fish that took that fly. The fly I replaced it with though lasted the rest of the day. I tied on a tan and brown Bead Head Zonker and never had to switch. We caught an abundance of nice cutthroat, rainbow, cut-bows and browns with little effort all morning. My father-in-law Kelly landed a big 21 inch brown and we must have caught 5 more fish between us that were pushing that 20 inch mark.

Then about three o’clock in the afternoon we were in the middle of a little lull in the action. Kelly had been on the oars and I had been fishing for about a half hour and I hadn’t even had a follow. I was getting a little weary and actually was just about to suggest we switch and I take the oars for a while. Then along a rock wall that the river cut into making some real deep protected pockets for fish to hang in I threw the streamer right up against the wall. As I stripped it in trying my best to mimic a wounded bait fish making a fast yet sporadic get away, I saw a flash of yellow as a big brown came out of hiding to ambush the hapless little Zonker. As soon as I saw the flash I knew this was a fish and a half. The next 10 minutes would prove that to be true as the big hook-jawed male pulled trying to get into any number of hazards near his lair. We were in moderately fast current with a large boulder with driftwood caught up on it downstream and some ugly rocks against the bank so Kelly had to row furiously upstream to hold us in the pocket we were in. He was constantly rowing, I was fighting this monster, and we are both trying to figure out how we would be able to get him in the net. Soon my forearm was cramping up as this fish made run after run and I had to put a little more pressure on him than I wanted to keep him out of those rocks and driftwood piles. We had him in the net twice only to have him escape and go on another run. Finally on the third try Kelly scooped him up and I had my biggest trout landed yet. A 25 incher with a girth over 14.5 inches, he estimated at just over 6 pounds.

The big one

By the time we finally landed him we were all shot, Kelly from rowing, me from fighting the fish and of course the fish was beat. He had two small flies in his mouth that he took from previous fishermen, a small copper john and a bead head pheasant tail. Obviously those fishermen needed a little stronger tippet than what they were using. All in all I ended up landing 15 trout all over 14 inches most in the 16-18 range. Of course it was an awesome trip. I can’t wait for the next opportunity to float “the Canyon”!

South Fork Sunrise

The river where we stopped for lunch

Sensational Scenery

Another Look at the Canyon

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A six hour drive put us at the river where we would take out.  After filling out the necessary permit information, we left Benji’s pickup at the take out and piled into Kelly’s pickup to put in at Spring Creek for the 27 mile float where Benji and Kelly would target german brown and cutthroat trout with streamers and big dry flies.  Benji was excited because the salmon fly hatch was supposed to be on, and I was excited because a salmon fly hatch meant it would be a prime opportunity for some exciting filming!  I never thought I’d see the day when I was just as excited to pack a camera on a fishing trip as a fly rod!

We put in and floated our first evening down to Pine Creek camp #1 - which Benji and Kelly figured would give us a two hour headstart on the way they usually float the river - a one day affair.  The sun was in our eyes, making it difficult to see what I was getting on film, but upon watching it yesterday, I’m very happy with the results!  The country was all new to me, and quite frankly, would have been worth the float even if there was no fishing.  Right off, Benji had two fish jump on his streamer and missed them.  I got a taste of that a little later when a fish jumped all over his streamer and he hooked it - and I missed getting the set on camera!  I was soon realizing that a fishing show was going to require hours and hours of footage, and I was glad that I took the extra tapes and batteries!

All told, we saw three moose - including a very nice bull - beavers, pelicans, bald eagles, hawks, numerous ducks, incredible country - and by Benji’s count, 19 boated fish.  I learned a lot about the difficulties of filming a fly fishing adventure - and on a drift boat just to make things a bit tougher.  I was glad for the opportunity to tag along on this trip - my first experience on a drift boat.

We took out at Byington and Kelly and I took the pickup up to Spring Creek to take the pickup and trailer back to Byington where Benji stayed to get the boat cleaned up and everything packed up.  We got the boat on the trailer, and Benji and I headed back home, making for a very quick trip - but what a trip it was!  We had the six hour drive, ariving at Spring Creek at 7 pm on Sunday, then floated the river, taking out at Byington at 8:30 pm on Monday - and I was home and in bed at 2:30 AM on Tuesday morning a very tired and sun burnt guy!

Although we took this trip on our own because Kelly is familiar with the river, this is not a river I would suggest a person that doesn’t know it well to go by themselves.  So, if you’re ever in southeast Idaho and you want to float the river, check out the fine folks at South Fork Outfitters and they’ll set you up with a great time!

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One of the most interesting stories came from an unexpected source, a young mother with a three year old daughter and six year old son and a husband who’s eye’s glaze over when you start talking hunting.  So  usually I expect the stories to come from him because he has an arsenal full of them, but not this time.

Dawn comes from a very close knit family from the north end of Idaho.  I tell you this so you don’t get it wrong when Dawn says she was abused.  She took her kids up to visit her folks over the 4th of July weekend and her dad was cutting wood so invited some help out in the woods.  This is what is considered abuse.  I’m sure we’ve all felt that way one time or another when dads have directed our feet towards work.  Anyway dad gave her directions where he was cutting at the end of a certain forest service road and said she could probably hear the power saw from there.  So Dawn drives to the end of the road with her car and starts getting things together to go find her dad.  When she looks up, here comes a bear out of the bushes.  Of course my question was how big was it? I could tell by her answer that there are no such things as small bears in her mind.  But she did say when it walked in front of the car a lot of the bear was above the hood.  So how far in front of the car was it? The answer was kind of clipped, like what part of RIGHT in front of the car don’t I understand.  I understood that, and I now understood it was a rather large bear!  Dawn being a rather determined young lady decided to sit there for five minutes till the fear factor subsided and then she would make a wild dash to find her dad.  Well the fear factor was still in high gear after five minutes but she had made up her mind so she packed a young’en under each arm and headed down the trail.  Then the trail split and she remembered she was to listen for the power saw which she couldn’t hear so the fear factor just jumped into the red zone.  No time to flip a coin or make a sane decision so she just took off down one of the trails knowing full well there was a bear behind her and one behind every bush.  She lucked out and ran into her dad not to far down that trail.  One look at his daughter told him all things weren’t right in her world.  I’ve tried to visualize what he saw coming and I’m sure it wasn’t all pretty, a wild eyed daughter with her kids under each arm, racing like there was no tomorrow, it would have been quite the site.  I’m sure her dad enjoyed the moment as he was really appreciated about then and probably didn’t hear to much about abuse for the next few hours. 

Knowing your fearless husband Dawn, I know he would never got out of the vehicle.  Whats it called - bearophobia??  I think he called it wisdom. 

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When we reached the turnout where I wanted to park, we noticed a few thousands of these black dots covering the road.  Because we’d had an experience with these critters once before, we knew exactly what we were looking at - shieldbacked katydids.  Okay, so we didn’t know that’s the technical name for them - we knew them as mormon crickets.  And I mean there were everywhere!  The ground was crawling with them and their chirps were quite intense.  My wife promptly informed me she was not going for a jog with those giant insects waiting to gnaw her leg off, so, we opted to turn around and head down the road a ways to do our jogging.  But not before I jumped out to snap a few pictures - this is certainly impressive!  These bugs can actually cause hazardous road conditions when they get too thick as the smashed insect fluids actually make the road like ice - honest truth.

 Here is a look at where we wanted to go hiking - you can see how much thicker the bugs get the further up the road you go.

 Here’s a close up look at these cute little things.

As we drove away from the infestation of bugs, I knew my mother’s reaction was going to be, “They better not make it down here and eat my garden.”  I knew my dad’s reaction was going to be, “That’s a lot of bugs.”  (You see, Dad is prety mild and it takes quite a lot to get him riled up over something.)  I already had heard my wife’s reaction - but this whole time, I had two thoughts running through my head:  could these things possibly cause enough damage to the feed up here as to make the deer and elk look elsewhere for feed?  If you’ve ever seen the damage these pests will do, I’m sure you will see some validity in my question - and perhaps even an answer - in which case, I’d be pleased to hear.  The other thought running through my mind was - look at all the fish bait crawling around going to waste!  Now, I’m not sure if fish are fond of eating a cricket, but imagine my delight when looking up “mormon crickets” on wikipedia and finding out that they’re actually a katydid!  While I don’t know if fish eat crickets, just ask any fly fisherman and they’ll tell you how trout love a good katydid!  I think this might call for a return trip by myself - just me and my bait bucket.

 And, this is why we like to jog in the mountains in the first place.

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