10-6-11

A client of mine and fellow steelhead fanatic has come up with a nice site dedicated to steelhead fishing and fishermen.  It has some good articles and information and it's a site that's put together very well.  I encourage you to check it out by clicking the link below: 

http://www.steelheadfishinganglers.com/

Enjoy and Good Fishing! 

Hutch

Taken from the book: The Fish of a Thousand Casts--Tales of Mischief and Mayhem in the Great Outdoors! (2002)

My father, The Chief, was always looking for ways to have fun in the outdoors. It didnt matter if it was back yard camping trips, bonfires, or canoe excursions at the local millpond; the outdoors was our playground. We were always doing something that involved the outdoors--it's who we are.

Now, when I speak of this in the past tense, I'm not trying to imply that The Chief has passed on to the spirit world. The Chief is alive, well, and still the adventurous one despite the decrepitness of his 60 years of age. Its just that he's slowed down a little in his twilight years. He seems to focus more on his other personality, the globetrotting tourist, than he does his role as The Chief. His outdoor skills are slipping because of it and he's resorting to the very things that he used to ridicule me about.

Take my use of rental cabins for instance. When Beef, Wally and I go north for extended salmon fishing trips, we rent a cabin. Why fumble around with a tent when all you want to do is sleep, eat and fish? The cabin is excellent at providing a haven for sleeping and eating, without all the inconveniences of a tent. I love camping, but lets face it, camping time is one thing and fishing time is another. Time spent setting up and taking down a camp is time subtracted from fishing. Its all about priorities! The Chief would crack jokes about our choice of shelter and would frequently question our...uh...manhood, until a couple of years ago, that is.

We'd invited him to join us several times and he always had some excuse not to. Finally, my mother intervened and forced him into his vehicle and he found himself knocking on the door of our cabin.

"I'm expected to stay in this?" he questioned. "This is hardly suitable for a world traveler like myself!"

"Yeah, but its good enough for The Chief," I said. "The Chief doesn’t mind a little squalor!"

"I just got back from England chaps," The Chief stated. "I'm not feeling like The Chief yet."

It didn't take long for him to revert back to his outdoor loving persona. By the end of his stay, he'd stopped bad mouthing the cabin and started complimenting its convenience.

"This isn’t so bad," He complimented. "Are you going to get a bigger one for next year?"

"Next year?" I asked.

"Yeah, next year," he answered. "I wouldn't miss this for the world! Heck, I might even bring up a couple of my buddies."

He never would have enjoyed a cabin a few years ago. If it wasn't a canvas, mountain man, wall tent or a homemade teepee, then he didn't want any part of it. The Chief has definitely gotten softer as the years creep up on him!

Back when I was younger, The Chief was always building some sort of Indian lodging. Longhouses, stick huts and teepees were a mandatory part of our camping experiences. No one could build a teepee like The Chief. He'd been building them since he was a kid and his knowledge grew to such a point that even Sitting Bull would be hard pressed to build a better shelter! Whenever The Chief bought a new batch of canvas, a new teepee was to be erected.

When I was just eight years old, The Chief came home one day with his old white truck loaded with two things: a new canoe and a batch of canvas. I grinned from ear to ear when he pulled into the driveway because his new acquisitions meant that a camping and canoeing trip was on the immediate horizon.

"Like her?" The Chief asked as he pointed out the new canoe. "We're going to break her in this weekend!"

"Can Beef come along?" I asked.

"Of course!" The Chief answered. "Tell him to bring his sleeping bag. I figure we'll float down the Muskegon and camp along shore. You guys can do a little fishing while I do some grouse hunting."

"We gonna build a teepee or sleep in a tent?" I questioned.

"Teepee! What do you think the canvas is for?" The Chief said, smiling.

The very next weekend, we loaded the old truck with the necessary equipment and set forth toward the Muskegon River. Beef had recently been battling a severe soar throat and it took some coaxing for his grandmother, who he lived with next door to us, to let him out of the house. To ease his sore throat, she'd mixed up a bottle of some old fashioned throat tonic. The tonic, which was in a fruit juice bottle, consisted of various numbing, ingredients and had as much power as liquid novocaine. He'd gargle with that every once in a while and his mouth and throat would be completely numb for hours. He didn't say much on the way to the river and it was probably for the best. The Chief used to get very irritated during long drives and having Beef and I in the same vehicle usually didn't help matters. Beefs numb mouth prohibited us from engaging in our usual arguments and verbal highjinks and The Chief was still in a pleasant mood when we got to the river.

With two eight year olds in a canoe, The Chiefs mood had started to get a bit foul. I dont know what he was fretting about, it was completely accidental that his beer spilled and we almost tipped over. The weekend we chose for this trip was during a mid-autumn warm spell. Bugs and other creatures took the opportunity during the warm period to tend to last minute business before they went into winter hibernation. A large dragonfly decided to keep landing on the back of my neck and it was very irritating. I didnt realize it was a dragonfly at first and thought it was Beef messing around as he sat behind me on one of the coolers.

"Knock it off, Beef!" I said, swatting at the air behind me.

"Knock what off?" he answered. The novocaine concoction had worn off and he was speaking normally. The Dragonfly buzzed my neck again.

"That!" I shouted. My swatting behind me caused the canoe to start rocking.

"Settle down!" My father barked as the canoe rocked in the swift current. "You're going to tip us over!"

"Tell Beef to knock it off," I whined. The dragonfly made another pass.

"I'm not doing anything!" Beef shouted. I grabbed my fishing pole and swung it behind me in an attempt to whack Beef. He saw it coming and ducked to one side. The canoe then tipped to that side. My father barked some more. Since Beef ducked, the tip of my rod went over his head and connected with The Chief's hand--the one holding the beer. He dropped the beer and it landed in his lap. The dragonfly flew away when The Chief's barrage of foul language filled the tranquil air. He was always getting wound up over little things like that.

That’s the thing about The Chief, you can tell when he's angry by the amount of cursing he adds to a sentence. He never, ever, swears during casual conversation, but when he's mad...watch out! Being a student of the Indian culture, he once boasted that he knew how to speak Indian but it was usually just phrases he heard in a movie. The Pottowattomi were the band of Indians that used to live in the area of Hillsdale county, therefore if The Chief did know any Indian language it would've had to have been pottowattomese. I later deduced that he learned his lingo from a renegade band known as the "Profanitee" tribe. When he was angered he would revert to that lingo and I discovered, at my expense, that he was quite fluent in profanitese.

My father grew tired of our escapades and quickly located a spot in the woods for setting up camp.

He searched high and low for the best teepee poles possible and erected the frame of our shelter. A large tripod stood 15 feet in the air and he filled in the gaps with several other slender poles. Beef and I watched as he pieced together the dark brown canvas and adjusted the flap that would allow the smoke to escape from the campfire inside. In no time at all, he had it constructed and we laid out our bedding and started the fire. It was one of the finest teepees he'd ever built. The Chief sat back on a log, opened a can of Coke (no beer this time, he was getting ready to hunt) and admired the shelter as it blended nicely with the surrounding forest. You could almost picture the adjacent Indian village and the activity that accompanied it. Beef and I grabbed our trusty Zebco 202s and headed toward the river.

"Stay right in this area!" The Chief advised. "Don’t go wandering off. I'm going to try and flush some grouse from that thicket back there."

Beef and I stood on the riverbank, baited our hooks with thick leaf worms, and tossed them into the rusty current. That kind of life is wonderful, no matter if you're eight or 80. We managed to get a few decent sized brown trout and threw them on the bank to have for dinner that night. At that stage of our fishing careers decent sized meant anything that was bigger than the worm! Our young ears had never heard of catch and release. The Chief was apparently flushing some grouse since we heard a couple of gunshots boom forth from the thicket. This was turning into one of those camping trips that you remember for a lifetime!

Long attention spans are not programmed into boys our age and Beef and I soon grew tired of fishing. We started skipping rocks across the water and began searching the banks for frogs, crayfish and other aquatic creatures. To fuel our creative urges, we attempted to build crude Indian devices. I took a rather limber stick, tied a piece of kite string from one end to another, and had my own homemade version of a bow. Since I had the bow, I needed arrows. The bank we were playing on was loaded with sand stone so I began looking for pieces that resembled arrowheads. Beef found a piece that looked like a tomahawk blade and he tied it to a forked stick. I had the bow, he had the tomahawk, heck, we were pretty mean looking little Indians! I found several rocks that looked like arrowheads and I started scraping them against other rocks to sharpen the points--and I did a mighty fine job of it, I might add. Next, I took a roll of electrical tape out of my little tackle box and taped the arrowheads onto several straight sticks I'd gathered. I notched the ends out so they'd fit in my bowstring. The whole set up didn't look half-bad! Beef was trying to scalp a tree with his new tomahawk and I drew back my bow and aimed toward an old stump. The bow had more power than I thought and the arrow soared right over the stump and into the bushes behind it.

"Help! I'm under attack!" a voice cried out from the bushes.

Beef and I walked through the bushes and saw an elderly gentleman tossing a fly rod from the bank of the river. He had long gray hair tied into a ponytail and a slight wisp of a beard. His kind old eyes lit up when we emerged from the bushes.

"I'll give you your arrow back if you promise not to scalp me!" The gentleman joked, eyeballing Beefs tomahawk.

"Nah, we wont scalp ya!" Beef said. "You don't seem mean."

"Names Orville," he said, "Orville Lightfeather, what’s yours?"

We introduced ourselves and proudly told him that we were eight years old--almost grown up!

"Lightfeather's a weird last name," I said. "Where'd you get that?"

"It's Chippewa," he answered. "I'm half Indian."

Whoa! A real live Indian? Cool! We'd never met one before! The Chief was the only Indian I'd ever met and he was really just a white man who thought he was an Indian who thought he was a globetrotting playboy (although my mother would chuckle at the latter portion of that statement). We told Mr. Lightfeather about our teepee.

"I saw it," he said, "and what a fine teepee it is."

The Chief came walking up the bank with four grouse stuffed in his game pouch. He introduced himself to Mr. Lightfeather and they began talking about the teepee. Soon after, Mr. Lightfeather invited us to his camp for dinner. We accepted.

Mr. Lightfeather was retired and he'd been camped in the area for a couple of weeks. His campsite was made up of a large wall tent and he had a big fire pit with cooking utensils scattered about. What a life, I thought. I couldn't wait to be retired so I could spend as much time in the outdoors as I wanted.

"If you're an Indian, where’s your teepee?" Beef asked. His sore throat was acting up again and his voice was hoarse. He removed the fruit juice bottle from his jacket, took a gargle of his grandma's homemade novocaine throat tonic and didn't say anything else for quite a while after that.

"I dont know much about teepee building," Mr. Lightfeather explained. "I only know a few Indian tales that my grandfather once told me."

The smell of sizzling trout and grouse was heavenly. Mr. Lightfeather threw in some fried potatoes and corn on the cob. It was probably one of the best dinners I've ever had. As it got darker, some ominous storm clouds appeared on the horizon. As with any of our adventures in the outdoors, the threat of rain has followed Beef and I no matter where we go or what we do!

Once it was dark, we sat around the campfire. The Chief tried to pick Mr. Lightfeather's brain for any Indian knowledge he had. They were enjoying a number of adult beverages--and getting quite inebriated in the process. Beef and I toasted marshmallows. The Chief got into the spirit of things by rolling up a handkerchief and tying it around his head like a headband. He stuffed a bunch of tail feathers from the grouse he'd shot into the headband and sat there with a pretty cool looking imitation of an Indian headdress.

"Let me tell you a little tale," Mr. Lightfeather said. All ears turned to attention and the old man started telling his story.

"There's power in these woods," he began, "a power that we'll never understand. A long time ago when the natives ruled this land, a brave by the name of Tripping Beaver was famous throughout the entire Chippewa nation. Tripping Beaver was strong and feared nothing, but he was also a bit clumsy. That’s how he came about his name; he was constantly tripping over something. His brothers, Hairy Beaver and Gnawing Beaver, would always pick on him no matter what he did. If he was chasing game, he'd end up tripping over some log or rock and the game would get away! For all his strength, Tripping Beaver was only known for his clumsiness. This angered him something fierce. He couldn't stand being ridiculed."

"Did he kill everyone who picked on him?" I asked.

"Nope, wasn't his style!" Mr. Lightfeather continued. "Tripping Beaver decided to set out on his own and create a nation that didn't pick on him. He wanted to be a chief and that wasnt about to happen--living where he was living that is. He loaded his canoe, said goodbye to his brothers, and started down this very river right behind us."

"Was it a birch bark canoe?" The Chief inquired. He was always asking questions like that.

"Yep--built it himself!" Mr. Lightfeather said. "He didn't know where he was going, but he knew that this river had to lead somewhere. He canoed for a couple days, and when he came around the bend back there, he saw a deer by the riverbank. Now ol' Tripping Beaver was feeling a little hungry, you see, so he got out his bow and shot the deer! Whack--direct hit! And the deer fled into the woods. Tripping Beaver pulled up to shore and followed the blood trail into the forest. Just as he was coming up on where the deer had laid down, he tripped over a big old log...might've been that one right there, who knows, but this time it was a nasty fall. Tripping Beaver tried to get back up but his leg was broke and twisted like a pretzel. He couldn't walk and just kinda laid there--until it got so cold that he couldn't take it anymore. He cried the old Chippewa war cry and died right then and there!"

"Died?" we all asked, swallowing hard. I clutched my bow and arrows, Beef tightened his hands around his tomahawk and The Chief chuckled at our nervousness and took a few more swigs of his beer.

"Dead as a door knob!" Mr. Lightfeather went on. "But his spirit didnt die with him. You see this forest belongs to Tripping Beaver now, and he swore vengeance on anyone who settles here! His spirit wanders around looking for trespassers. Since he was all alone, he didn't receive a proper Indian burial. Now he's doomed to haunt this forest until the end of time! An old trapper saw him once--just once, mind you. You never get to see Tripping Beaver's ghost a second time. He finishes the job right quick! Sometimes, when he's mad, you can hear his war cry in the wind. Heck, he's probably watching us at this very moment!"

The wind started rushing through the trees and the sky came alive with the sound of thunder. I felt a slight chill and it gave me goosebumps.

"Storms here," Mr. Lightfeather said amidst flashes of lightening, "or maybe it's ol' Tripping Beaver! What was that? Did you see something moving by that tree over there?"

Beef and I were terrified. The Chief finished his last beer and said that it was time to hit the sack.

A few raindrops were hitting the ground and the thunder rumbled like the sound of war drums as we scurried back toward the teepee. Well, Beef and I scurried that is; The Chief was a little slow from his drinking activities. His grouse feather headdress added a little comic effect to his staggering.

"Hurry up, Pop!" I yelled behind me. "The ghost of Tripping Beaver might get us!"

"There's no ghost out here," my father said, "that was just an old Indian tale!"

"Well, I'm ready for Tripping Beaver if he wants to come and gets us!" Beef stated. He swung his tomahawk in the air in a mock display of bravado. " I'll whack him in the head and then you shoot him with an arrow! That'll take care of that ghost!"

"How ya gonna whack a ghost?" I asked. "They're just air. My arrow will go right through like he's not even there! Don’t you pay attention to the movies?"

"Uh...you're right," Beef said. "I hope that old ghost don't think we're trying to settle here!"

"Mr. Tripping Beaver, sir?" I cried out. "We're just camping here. We'll be gone tomorrow so--you just stay away, ok?"

We picked up our pace considerably and made it back to the teepee just as the sprinkles of rain escalated to a torrential down pour.

The glowing embers of our campfire had heated the teepee very well. It was comfortable enough, but Beef and I stayed dressed in our pants. The Chief, feeling the effects of the alcohol no doubt, complained of the heat and stripped all the way down to his underwear. He was so tired that he didn't even take his grouse feather headdress off. Every time he'd snore, the feathers would vibrate. Beef clutched his tomahawk as he fell asleep and I had my bow and arrows within reaching distance. We were very nervous that Tripping Beaver was going to make an appearance--the thunder continued to boom.

I don't know how late it was, but at some point The Chief awoke from his stupor and decided that he was very thirsty. He wandered around the teepee in his underwear and grouse feather headdress, looking for something to drink.

"Chief...thirsty," he mumbled, smacking his lips. "Ah...fruit juice!"

In the glow of the campfire, he spotted a bottle of fruit juice sitting on the ground near Beef. He picked up the bottle, removed the cap, and began taking huge gulps. His face began to tingle as he lost all feeling in his mouth and throat. He tried to spit out what was left on his tongue, but he'd already ingested a huge amount of the homemade throat tonic!

"Nod Rammit!" The Chief hissed. His face began to droop and was somewhat disfigured by the sudden loss of muscle control. He looked down at the bottle he was holding in his hand.

"Dis ids not phluckin flute joots!" he exclaimed. It didn't take long for the mixture of beer and throat tonic to throw his stomach into a tizzy. I don't believe that the tonic was ever meant to be swallowed and as a result The Chief became very queasy. His futile grunts and stuttered attempts at profanitese soon turned to eerie moans and groans. Beef and I were awakened by a loud thunder crack. What we heard after that, were the moans.

"Do y-y-you hear th-th-that?" I whispered. My voice was trembling with fear.

"Y-y-yeah," Beef whispered back. His voice was equally nervous. "I think this t-t-t-teepee’s haunted!"

There was a slight illumination from the glowing ashes of the campfire. All we could make out was a pair of bare feet stumbling around the teepee.

"Hey Pop, wake up," I stuttered. " I think there's a ghost in here!"

The groans were replaced by an eerie voice.

"Id's no doast," the voice grunted. "Ma phlucking mouf ids numb!"

The pair of feet started walking toward us. We swallowed hard as the feet got closer and closer. With each step you could hear them flatten down on the dirt floor of the teepee. As the feet got too close for comfort, one of them stepped down on a couple of my sharp arrowheads.

"Aaaargh!" the voice bellowed out in pain. "Whut da phluck?"

A pair of hands reached down and picked up my bow and arrows. Whatever it was, it now had my weapon! Beef readied his tomahawk in case it was needed. A bright flash of lightning, seen through the top flap of the teepee, lit up the inside just enough that we could make out the owner of the bare feet. It was a quick glance, but you'd be amazed at what you can see in that instance. The Indian headdress, the disfigured face and my bow and arrow told us all we needed to know. Taking all that into account plus the fact that his underwear sure as hell looked like a loin cloth to us, its no wonder that we both came to the same definite conclusion.

"Tripping Beaver!" we screamed. "He's gonna kill us!"

"Ahm nod Frippin Beafer!" Tripping Beaver said. "Ahm Da Chieth--now knock id off an doe bag to sheep!"

When you're in such an extreme moment of panic, your mind begins to play tricks on you. Mine was no exception. In the flickering illumination that the lightning provided, I saw the specter of Tripping Beaver draw one of my arrows and seat it in the bowstring. The vengeful ghost was going to shoot me in my sleeping bag with my own bow and arrow! Beef must've seen the same thing. He reacted quickly and came to my defense.

"Take that you old ghost!" he shouted as he brought the tomahawk down on Tripping Beaver's foot!

"AI Yi Yi Yi Yi!" Tripping Beaver screamed whilst hopping around the teepee. It sure sounded like the old Chippewa war cry to us.

"Run!" I shouted. Beef and I launched out of our sleeping bags and shot out of the teepee into the pouring rain. Tripping Beaver quickly stumbled after us.

"Det bag here!" Tripping Beaver bellowed. He gave chase as Beef and I scurried into the darkness of the woods. We hid in some bushes that bordered a trail. We could tell where he was by listening for his assorted moans and groans. It appeared that he was circling us! At one point, he came limping by within a few feet of us. He was still clutching my bow and arrow.

"What about The Chief?" Beef asked.

"He's a goner," I answered, "Tripping Beaver already got him! We're on our own now."

"Hey, I got an idea," Beef whispered, "we'll set a trap for ol’ Trippin Beaver!"

He pulled a length of kite string out of his pocket. I jumped over to the other side of the trail, and we tied the string around two trees. The tripwire was strung across the trail, and Tripping Beaver was getting ready to make another pass. I picked up a large stick and held it like a baseball bat, Beef readied his tomahawk and the moans and sloppy footsteps got closer. Time stood still as Tripping Beaver walked the last few yards to our position. Closer--just a few more feet now. Beef and I were in attack position.

SPLAT!

Tripping Beaver lived up to his namesake and stumbled over the kite string, landing face down in the mud. We immediately jumped out of the bushes and attacked. Tripping Beaver bellowed as we whacked him repeatedly with the stick and the tomahawk. The bludgeoning only infuriated Tripping Beaver who slowly rose to his feet with Beef and I still attached and whacking with all our might. The terrible ghost roared out in anger and the mud dripping off of him looked like flesh peeling off his bones! It was hideous! We gave up our attack and retreated back to the bushes. I noticed my bow and arrows lying on the ground and quickly grabbed them before diving into the brush. Tripping Beaver tried to circle around and catch us on the other side. We reversed direction and made a beeline for Mr. Lightfeather's camp.

All we had was the lightening flashes to guide our way through the night. When we got to Mr. Lightfeather's camp, Tripping Beaver was already there. Stalking the grounds in search of fresh blood, no doubt! Mr. Lightfeather heard the commotion and stuck his head out of the tent.

"What’s going on?" he said. "Who's out there?"

Tripping Beaver started toward the opening of the tent, moaning and grunting.

"Of all things holy," Mr. Lightfeather gasped. "You better take yourself back to the spirit world, Tripping Beaver. I ain't got no beef with you."

"Ugh blah hookin' pho Deef n Teeven," Tripping Beaver mumbled

"I don't understand Chippewa, but I do understand this!" Mr. Lightfeather shouted. He pointed his shotgun barrel out the tent. Tripping Beaver looked horrified and madly waved his hands in air.

"Your magic ain't gonna work on me, demon!" Mr. Lightfeather said. He fired one shot into the air in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit. Tripping Beaver jumped back, but kept waving his hands and, again, started toward Mr. Lightfeather, moaning and grunting.

"The next shot is gonna send you back to hell, Tripping Beaver, unless you turn around right now and go back from where you came!" Mr. Lightfeather warned. He started scurrying around for another shotgun shell. "Where in the hell are my shells?"

Tripping Beaver was still going for Mr. Lightfeather.

"He's gonna get him!" Beef shouted.

"Not if I can help it!" I said. I loaded my bow and brought the arrow back until the kite string hummed. The evil ghost was almost on top of Mr. Lightfeather, waving his arms and grunting fiercely. My hands were shaking as I let the arrow fly.

"Ayeeeeeeeee!" Tripping Beaver screamed as the arrow struck him in the backside. It was a perfect shot! The arrow left my bow like a laser and hit the gluteus maximus of the intended target--exactly where I aimed it. Too bad the arrow head wasn't sharper, it might've stuck instead of just opening up a nice gash and falling to the ground. At the moment of impact, Tripping Beaver let out the high pitched yelp and began dancing around the campfire in an obvious Chippewa war dance. The Chief would've been proud that I was able to make such a perfect shot. It was too bad that ol' Tripping Beaver got him before he had a chance to see me make that shot. Tripping Beaver danced away into the bushes clutching his right cheek and screaming. Soon, it was quiet.

Beef and I congratulated ourselves with high fives while Mr. Lightfeather pulled out a bottle of whiskey, chugged down a large portion of it, and retreated to the inside of the tent. Tripping Beaver was defeated.

"Arrrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhh!" Tripping Beaver roared as he jumped out of the bushes behind us. His eyes were fierce with rage and glowed like embers from a campfire! We screamed and took off running toward the river. The Indian poltergeist was hot on our heels, screaming and yelling. The Chief’s new canoe was within distance, our only chance for escape. Beef and I pushed it into the current and dove in, paddling as if our lives depended on it--which, from our perspective, it did. Tripping Beaver started running down the bank after us.

"Teeven, bing bag duh nod ram ganoe!" Tripping Beaver hollered. We paddled faster and soon started to out distance the ghost.

"Teeven! Dumb back!" the ghost hollered. He tripped over a log and landed face down in the water. He looked up and hollered. "Dumb back...Dumb back!"

It was morning when we came across an access site. A couple of fishermen helped us pull the canoe to shore and called the sheriff. We were wrapped in blankets and the sheriff was getting ready to motor up river in search of The Chief's body and to check on the welfare of Mr. Lightfeather. A small boat came around the bend with two people.

The boat got closer and we could make out that one of the people was Mr. Lightfeather. You could spot his pony tail a mile away. The other person looked familiar--it was The Chief. He got away from Tripping Beaver after all, and was alive! It must've been quite a struggle as my father was battered, beaten and bruised. He jumped out of the canoe and started limping after me with his typical angered glare. I guess he was a little upset that we'd abandoned him, but what were we to do? We thought he was dead!

Thankfully, the sheriff subdued him before he got to me. Beef and I rode home with my mother, who came to the sheriffs department to claim us. When the whole story was pieced together and everyone, except The Chief, had a good laugh over it, I placed myself under her protection. The Chief was not going to let this little misunderstanding go by without retribution!

Thank God, my mom was there to protect me...

The Fish of a Thousand Casts--Tales of Mischief and Mayhem in the Great Outdoors! by Steven Hutchins. 

 Click Image below to order a copy:

Steven Hutchins  (Feb. '11)  　

The beauty of steelhead fishing is that it’s always a learning experience no matter how many years you’ve been doing it. In over 20 years of chasing these fish in Michigan rivers, I’ve been able to utilize certain patterns and techniques to find some degree of consistent success. However, I still find myself learning many different lessons and try to get out of old habits that have proven less successful in the past. For example, while I frequently cover a lot of water in any given day, I also have a bad habit of sitting in one particular spot for a little too long. If you have spots that are holding unmolested fish, they’re generally going to let you know that they’re there in short order. I have many days where as soon as my bobber hits the water on the first cast, it’s going under—twenty minutes later I’ve already hooked six fish out of that spot. What happens next is a lull where I’m casting futility for over an hour without a bite. Realistically, I should’ve gotten out there a considerable time earlier since I probably sore-mouthed any fish that was willing to go. I’ll be the first to agree that it’s hard to leave fish to find fish, but sometimes that’s what you have to do in order to have some big “number” days.

There’s certainly several spots I fish that I was taken to by good friends and fishing partners, but for me the ultimate reward, and the reason I love fishing so much, is discovering my own spots that yield consistent success every time I fish them! To me, discussing any particular river system is pointless since the key to successful steeheading revolves around technique, timing and the basic understanding of what holds fish once they enter the tributaries. Sure, certain techniques may work better on one river as opposed to another, but a bobber and spawn bag, just to name one technique, will rack up numbers on the St. Joe just as it will on the Pere Marquette or the Betsie. Where you find success is learning WHERE and WHEN to fish certain rivers and even certain sections of a particular river. A hole that may have been productive in early November might be barren come January. Steelhead that aren’t focused on spawning are a transient species and the old adage of “here today, gone tomorrow,” was probably thought up by a hardened steelheader! If fish have moved out of one spot one day, you need to go find them the next. How I tend to locate new spots is by a method that a good friend of mine refers to as the West Coast practice of “Boondoggling.” How this works is I just set my anchor so that my boat is slowly drifting down river at slightly less than current speed and I cast into anything that looks “fishy.” In most cases, that could be distinct current seams or areas that have moderate depth (4’ to 8’) and a large degree of woody structure. Hooks are expendable and losing a few to the wood doesn’t faze me in the least—it’s a risk/reward proposition and finding the reward is absolutely worth the risk of sacrificing a few hooks! When I’m performing this drift and cast method, I’ll immediately drop anchor when I hook a fish and then work that area thoroughly. Sometimes that might be the only fish holding there while others I might hook a half-dozen in a short amount of time. If it’s an area that’s holding several fish, then I try to get a handle on its characteristics so I can understand why the fish are attracted to that area and thus, eliminate wasted time later by looking for areas that have the same similar characteristics. Each river is different, yes, but there will always be similarities to where fish gravitate to within any river you choose to fish. In some rivers productive spots couldn’t be more obvious if they had a flashing neon sign that said, “Fish Here!” Other rivers the spots are far more subtle and might even have you scratching your head as to why the fish might be there. Either way, there’s going to be something that draws them there—and there will be other spots within that system that have the very same traits.

 Every river sees its share of angler traffic and popular spots will get beaten to death day in and day out. While those spots draw traffic for good reason, it doesn’t take long for those fish to get educated and subsequently, the well can run dry in no time at all. The ability to find unmolested fish is what separates good fishing from poor fishing. If I’ve learned anything in my time on the water it’s that steelhead that haven’t been pressured will generally be aggressive no matter what the weather conditions and how many boats might have roared by the area they’ve been holding in. A dozen boats could bypass some inconspicuous, yet productive, area that holds fish, but if the fish there haven’t been thrown at, then in most cases, you won’t have any problems finding eager biters once you stumble upon them! I’ve had many double digit numbers days where the general report from other boats on the river is that the fishing is “slow.” Is it because my skills as an angler are better than theirs? Absolutely NOT and I would never presume as such. Most of the time, it comes down to something as simple as the formula that I was merely spending my day casting into areas that other anglers hadn’t. On the flip side, I’ve found spots that gave up a good amount on one day and then I don’t touch another fish there for the next month thereafter…hence the emphasis I put on breaking my own personal habit of sitting in one spot too long. Despite the fact that, in some circles, the steelhead as a species has been elevated to a position similar to that of a mythological deity, they’re absolutely no different from any other fish that swims. By that, I mean if you put something in front of them that they find to their liking, they’re going to take it. Where they tend to develop lock jaw is in areas that see a higher concentration of angler pressure. Even then, a simple change in presentation can get pressured fish to turn on. For example, if “Dead Deer Bend” is a spot where fish have seen so much spawn that they completely turn off of it, running a jig and waxworm might have them lining up like a banker looking for a government bailout. By the same token, find fish that haven’t seen anything at all and you can be hooking fish as soon as your offering hits the water!

I’ve gotten to the point where my approach is pretty simple and I concentrate on one or two different methods that work well for me. Granted, I have practice in other techniques should the need arise and that versatility can certainly come in handy once in a while, but it’s the rare day where I’m not presenting spawn in some form or another. For me, that is the one offering that produces day in and day out IF I’m doing what I do on a consistent basis and that’s locating fish that aren’t pressured. At that point, I honestly don’t think it matters what you throw at them. I’ve kept fish that when I cleaned them; I found an aquatic smorgasbord of items in their digestive tracks. Eggs, nymphs, worms, crayfish, minnows, zebra mussel shells, discarded spawn netting…even leaves! Steelhead fishing is definitely not “easy” by any means, but once you reach the point of not over engineering the sport in terms of the bait you’re using, you can instead place greater emphasis on the far more important aspect of where you’re throwing said bait of choice. Like I said, variety can absolutely mean the difference between feast or famine in pressured areas, but when I’m targeting spots that are off the beaten track, so to speak, a spawn bag will produce for me in January just as well as it would in October. In that case, I simply let the spot dictate how I present it—it might be a bobber spot or it might be a spot where drift fishing, or bottom bouncing, comes into play.

While fishing for spawning steelhead requires a change in the locations you target (gravel), that’s a short-term fishery that peaks during a limited window from late March until the end of April. The bulk of the river steelhead fishing occurs from the first of October, all through the winter and up until that point where they seek out gravel in the spring. During that long time frame, fish already in the system will move up river, drop back down, move up again, etc. At the same time, new fish will trickle in and add to the mix. For every one “Dead Deer Bend” where anglers congregate on a daily basis, there could be 10 other spots not far away where the fish haven’t seen a hook in weeks. If you have 30 miles of river to work with, you’re going to find fish that haven’t been touched. Holding fish do not shy away from feeding and just about every spot you find in any river has something that those fish can use to their advantage in that respect. First thing is some degree of depth that puts them in a comfort zone. I’ve found that 4’ to 8’ depth holds far more fish than those that exceed 10’ or 12’. Even in areas where the front of the hole or slot is over 10’, I’ve hooked most of my fish where it starts to tail out into shallower water. Secondly, is there some sort of structure that provides cover should the need arise? It could be something as simple as a large log lying in the middle of the run. Fish will hug tight to that log and then dart out into the current seam when some type of food offering comes drifting by. In rockier gradients, it could be a larger boulder that has a distinct pocket dug out behind it. Other areas might have an undercut bank that the fish huddle in. The one absolute in any location is there will be a seam of some kind that the fish utilize as a “feeding lane.” Once you locate where fish are holding, observe the area and try to get a read on why the fish are drawn there. At that point, the odds of you finding fish in other like areas are pretty high!

Steelhead fishing can frustrate even the most experienced anglers, but there are distinct patterns you can develop that will help you achieve productive results on a consistent basis. Some days you’ll work your tail off to put a couple fish in the boat, other days you’ll find a batch of fish that are so eager to bite that it’s like the frenzy that would ensue if Angelina Jolie walked into a crowded night club and announced she was looking for a new husband. The result would be a stampede of guys jumping up and down screaming, “Pick me! Pick Me!” No matter what, getting off the beaten track and fishing the flow less traveled will greatly increase the likelihood that you find those pockets of hot fish that are willing to go!

*Steven Hutchins--from the book, The Fish of a Thousand Casts (2002)

Beef and I paid a visit to our good friend Wally. His wife nervously paced the house, as she doesn’t like Beef or myself, but didn’t say much because she knew we were on a mission of mercy.

“How ya feelin’ old buddy?” I asked. Wally was sprawled out on the couch with an ice bag covering his…well… “sensitive area.”

“I’m a little sore,” he answered. “Feels like I got kicked!”
“I’d be more than sore if they cut mine off!” Beef pointed out.

“They don’t cut ‘em off,” Wally answered. “What do you guys want?”

Before I continue, allow me to explain that Wally’s predicament was self-induced. You see he and his wife felt that with three children they’d contributed enough to society. Since there was now plenty of offspring to carry on the family name, Wally was elected to undergo “The Big V”. I think you know what I’m talking about. I’d recently gone through the Big D, but at least that painless, and welcome, extraction didn’t involve surgery. Wally was now recovering and Beef and I felt his recovery would be faster if he got out and enjoyed some fine winter steelheading. The cold Michigan air would do him some good…maybe reduce the swelling, who knows?

“What do we want? What kind of question is that?” I said. “Get your coat, we’re hitting the river!”

“Hitting the river? I’m in pain!” Wally shot back. “I’m not leaving this couch for anything!”

“I can’t blame you,” Beef spoke up. “I wouldn’t want to do nothin’ but lay around either if I got mine cut off…”

“They don’t cut ‘em off,” I said to Beef. “Now quit whining, Wallace, and get your rod and waders…we’re angels on a mission of mercy here.”

“Angels? You two?” Wally’s wife snorted. “More like the angels of death…”

As I said before, Wally’s wife doesn’t like us, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. Undaunted by her snide remark, we continued on in our mission of mercy. Wally was adamant about not joining us for a little fishing. He was bound and determined to stay on that couch. He argued and refused even as he sprawled himself out in the back of my Explorer.

“You’ll feel a lot better,” I said as we backed out of his driveway. “A little fishing will take your mind off the pain.”

“How would you two know about the pain?” he whined. “It’s not like you’ve been through this! So you forced me off my couch, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to get out of this backseat…”

“You know,” Beef said. “I remember this old dog my grandparents had. He kept running around every night and the neighborhood was over run with puppies. They finally took him to the vet and that poor dog didn’t want to do anything afterwards. It was like they removed his soul. I felt bad for him you know?”

“And your point would be?” Wally asked.

“Oh, no point,” Beef answered. “I just feel sorry for you that’s all. I know I could never get mine cut off that’s for sure…”

“They don’t cut them off!” Wally and I shouted in unison.

A heavy snow was falling as we made our way to the Dowagiac River in Niles, a favorite destination of ours for winter Steelhead. The Dowagiac has a large mixture of summer run fish and fall fish so we usually had pretty good luck there. When we arrived I had two choices, I could park at the easy access parking lot or I could slap the Explorer in four wheel drive and navigate a rough two track back to some isolated holes.

Wally began whining as the vehicle bounced along the two track.

“Ouch!” he shouted. “Is there a particular reason you’re doing this? EEK! Why didn’t you just park back in the lot? Ooof!”

“Just hang on to your ice bag,” I countered. “We’ll be there in a minute”

When I finally stopped the vehicle, Wally was glaring at me as a cold sweat ran down his face. I could tell that he wanted to unleash a flood of vulgarities but that’s not his nature. He did everything to restrain himself. The snow continued to fall at a blinding pace…

“Ah…doesn’t get much better than this,” I said. “There’s nothing like being on the river in the middle of a snowstorm.”

“Yeah…let me know how it is,” Wally said. “I’m just gonna lay here with my ice bag and wait for you guys…”

There is an overpowering urge to winter steelheading that cannot be ignored. Wally tried to ignore it but as Beef and I donned our waders and began rigging our rods, he started to flash a little enthusiasm and finally relented to our mission of mercy.

“You know…maybe I’ll make a few casts after all.” Wally said.

Our trek to the water was delayed a bit as Wally slowly snugged his waders up to his chest, wincing all the while. He positioned the ice bag inside his waders for maximum relief and hobbled along the narrow trail down to the water's edge.

The spot we chose to fish was a long, deep hole that ran the entire length of a wide river bend. Winter steelies often like to hold in such areas and we’d had decent luck there in the past. At the tailout of the bend were several logjams that made fighting a fish tricky if you let them run that far. A layer of shelf ice created a small ledge at the riverbank.

“Anybody got a bobber?” Wally asked. “I left mine up in the truck.”

“If you were in good health, I’d make you walk back up there and get them,” I said. “But since I’m feeling benevolent today, I’ll let you use one of mine…”

“I’d make him walk,” Beef stated. “He did this to himself…”

When it comes to fishing for Steelhead in the dead of winter, bobbers are like gold. We die hard anglers horde them like kids with a stash of Halloween candy. It was a great sacrifice for me to give one up to Wally thus proving that I was, indeed, on a mission of mercy. Under different circumstances, I’d have made him walk.

Now, despite the fact that when the three of us get together certain bad things happen, I will say that we do pretty well when it comes to hooking fish. A spawn bag under a bobber is our standard offering of choice and we take a lot of fish with that, but when things are slow we break out the “secret weapon”. The secret weapon is nothing more than a wax worm. Put a wax worm under a bobber and you’ll get fish. It’s as simple as that. The bobber is the key, however, and the reason we value them so much. Winter steelies are a pretty lazy bunch and the only sure-fire way to tell if they hit is to watch your bobber go down. I’ve tried doing it by feel but with cold, numb fingers, you don’t feel much. Heck, I’ve had steelies inhale the wax worm, chew on it for awhile like bubble gum, swish it around their mouth a few times and then spit it out. All the while my numb fingers never felt a thing. With a bobber, you can at least wear gloves!

The three of us lined up on the ice ledge and began casting into the hole. The snow at this point was coming down so hard that we had it piling up on the top of our heads and we could barely see our bobbers.

“You know, this is pretty peaceful just standing here,” Wally said. “I really don’t feel that uncomfortable!”

“See? I told you so…beats laying around on the couch feeling sorry for yourself.” I answered.

We kept casting and finally my bobber went down. A nice buck steelie, maybe 6 pounds or so, decided my pink spawn bag would make a good snack. He was pretty lethargic and after a quick battle, I removed the hook and allowed the vanquished creature to wander back to the depths of his hole to sulk for awhile. It wasn’t long after that when Wally’s bobber went under. He set the hook and realized he was into a fish much bigger than mine.

“Whoa! I think this ones a biggie!” he grunted.

The fish darted back and forth around the pool as Wally kept pressure on the rod. In an instance, the fish leaped from the water in spectacular fashion revealing his enormous length and girth.

Everything goes in slow motion when you’re out on the river. What happens in a second seems like minutes. The fish was in full winter colors and as he hung in midair you could almost count his spots. He had a brilliant crimson streak down his side and a gnarly hooked jaw that showed he was a pretty nefarious figure in the underwater crime syndicate. Other fish most certainly avoided this character, as he was probably the type of bully that would push you down and steal your milk money! He hit the water with a resounding and magnificent splash. Soon after, he made a break for one of the logjams.

“You better follow him or else he’s going to get in those logs!” Beef pointed out.

Wally shuffled along the slippery ice ledge as best he could. The faster he moved, the more he started to grimace. He was obviously in a great deal of discomfort and most of us would have said, “Nope…I’m not risking further pain by chasing a stupid fish,” but this was the biggest steelie of Wally’s life and he wasn’t about to let a few ripped stitches deter him from subduing this thug.

Despite his efforts, the beast went under one of the logs, turned around and headed back upstream. Wally’s line was wrapped around the log as his bobber went scooting by him in the opposite direction.

“Hey…he’s still on,” Wally said. “What should I do?”

“See if you can get your line out from under the log!” I answered. “Go out a little further on that ice ledge and see if you can run your rod tip under the log…”

“I don’t know how safe that ice is!” he shouted back.

“Just put one foot on the log and the other on the ice…it will take some weight off the ledge,” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Wally did as instructed. He put one foot on the log, left the other on the ledge and was beginning to get his fishing line out from under the log when…the worst thing happened.

It was so slow, that it is painful just to describe it. First, there was a loud cracking sound and Wally’s eyes shifted downward with a look of panic. Immediately thereafter, a section of the ice ledge broke free and began drifting away. Apparently, the excessive snow and cold caused the felt on the bottom of Wally’s wader boot to adhere to the ice. As the ledge drifted away, Wally’s legs began getting further and further apart. He began to scream. It wasn’t a normal scream, mind you, but more like a high pitched wail. Beef and I were helpless and could only wince as Wally sunk lower and lower. His legs separating all the while. It was painfully slow. Wally reminded us of his faith in the Lord by summoning up numerous “Good Lord help me!” and “Sweet Jesus have mercy!” phrases mixed in with his high pitched wails. I was amazed at the absence of profanity in all of this. Weaker individuals, like myself, would’ve used up every vernacular in existence and even created a few new ones! But that’s Wally, God fearing and focused…even under the direst of circumstances. The agonizing descent continued and when it was all said and done Wally had performed the splits so well that a teenaged cheerleader would have stood in envy and asked for pointers. His legs were completely straight out in opposite directions.

“Did you get the line out from under there?” Beef finally asked.

Wally’s response cannot be printed here but, suffice to say, he was going to have to go to confession when he got home. Even I was shocked that such vulgarity could escape the lips of a God fearing man like Wally. Everyone has their breaking point.

As Wally hung inches above the water with legs spread wide, the fish grew tired due to the pressure on the line and began thrashing on the surface. I waded out to him and slipped the net under it. He was a pig…almost twenty pounds! Beef got Wally dislodged from the ledge and helped him back to shore.

It was the biggest steelie of his life and Wally decided to have it mounted. All the way back home, Wally didn’t say a word. He simply laid in the back of the Explorer; cradling the fish and whimpering like a lost puppy. We helped him back to his couch where he didn’t move for almost three days. His doctor figured that Wally had set his recovery back by more than a week.

“Why is he blaming us?” Beef asked. “He shouldn’t have been out if he just got ‘em cut off!”

“I know!” I said. “The doctor told him to just take it easy and relax.”

“Some people just never take responsibility for their own actions!”

“Snow, Steelies and The Big ‘V’” is taken from the forthcoming book, “The Fish of a Thousand Casts…Tales of mischief and mayhem in the Great Outdoors” By Steven Hutchins. Available in  hardcover, paperback and e-book.

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