I continued to hunt down my drainage, seeing lots of sign, but no game. I was quite surprised that I did not even find a deer and in fact saw very little deer sign. There are both whitetails and mule deer in this area, but they sure weren't living where I was hunting. I reached the bottom of the draw about mid-morning and met the rest of our group. Mike and I decided to hunt up another draw to get back on top of the ridge and to our ATV's. The rest would loop back up and wait for us on top. Mike was to my right as we headed up and in thicker cover than I. I zigzagged up the drainage, even dropping into the heavy cover in the next drainage, but saw very little sign. It was warming up, and I had to stop twice and peel off layers. I looped back into the draw we were hunting and came out into a beautiful open park. I found a survey marker from 1916 and then managed to goon up the picture (out of focus), but this one shows most of the detail.

     I came out above our ATVs and dropped down to where we parked them. I started mine up and maneuvered it to face the sun, and then put my feet up and caught a little nap. Mike came out of the timber (sounded like a bull elk, so I was awake and ready...). He said he'd jumped a big bull about 1/2 an hour earlier and he ran to my side of the draw. That would have been about the time I was in the open park with the survey marker and the bull must have slipped through the timber below me. Mike said all he saw was yellow rump and the last three tines, but they were long an polished.
     We all met back up and then headed back to camp to eat and figure out where we wanted go spend the evening. After lunch, we decided on a draw beyond the one we hunted warranted our attention. On the way in I had the group drop me off one draw over so I could hunt into the draw and link up with them. It was a beautiful evening to hunt the still timber. As with the morning hunt, we found everywhere elk had been and no where they were. As we made our way back to camp in the dark, 30 head crossed the road in one of the parks, just to let us know they were around. Everyone but Dad and me departed camp that night, so we had things to ourselves. We simply planned to hunt the same area as we had the day before, but focusing in on the heavy timber on the north facing slopes. We ate supper, spent the evening talking about everything from family to past hunts to careers. It was a good way to end a perfect day. Below are some shots of the country we hunted.

     Day two dawned far different from opening day. It warmed up during the night and at dawn it was 41 degrees. The sky blue and clear. Dad and I hunted ridges east of where we'd been the day before. We made several loops, criss-crossing ridges with open south facing parks filled with grass and north facing slopes covered in thick timber. Again we found plenty of sign, lots of it very fresh. However, no elk. The thermometer was climbing and we made a decision. If the elk hunting was no good, maybe the fishing would be better.
     We grabbed flyrods and headed up the river. The road along the river was the roughest road I'd ever been down. It had begun as a jeep road after WWII, but years of use had worn ruts two feet deep in some places. The road made 23 river crossings before it ended on a private wilderness ranch. We went up 14 before the canyon opened up to a stretch I wanted to fish. I had no idea what to fish, but the water was crystal clear and I could see fish holding deep in the holes so I tied on a tried and true Bitch Crick Nymph.

     On the first drift, I hooked a nice fish, who promptly ran me into a snag and broke me off. I had only packed a few flies, and that was my only one of that pattern. So I tied on another favorite, the Wooly Bug.

     It was not sinking fast enough, so I added a split shot and that did the trick. I had no idea what kind of trout I'd catch, the drainage has brookies, rainbows and browns. All wild fish and none native. The brookies were spawning (late I thought) and their colors were spectacular. I snapped picures of a couple.

     These were no giant fish, that largest one with the humpback and hooked jaw is all of 11 inches, but they were the fish I'd grown up on. Small streams, no one else around and wild trout. Dad did not want to fish, he took a ride up river and then came back and caught a few z's. We both had a great afternoon.

     We headed back for our last night in camp. The only deer we saw after covering a lot of ground were a doe mule deer and her two fawns that through camp as we pulled back in. I grabbed my rifle and pushed around through the timber in the off chance there was a buck hanging around. That was not the case, but I did jump a whitetail about 200 yards from where we'd seen the mulies. That is one of the things I love about Montana, its diverse big game population. We have two species of deer, elk, moose, pronghorn, two species of bear, wolves, bighorn sheep, and mountain goats in addition to waterfowl, upland birds and turkey. Given the right tags and seasons, one can hunt for nearly all of them in the same area and even in the same day. Along with all that, you can catch five species of trout, again sometimes in the same area and the same day.
     We had originally planned to stay longer, but my great aunt had passed away and they were going to bury her on Wednesday. We got up Tuesday morning after sleeping in til seven. Then we put the camp in order, loaded up the truck and headed out. We decided to go home through the mountains and see some new country. We did, but we also found snow. Enough snow that we had to chain up. Been a long time since I've had to do that.

     We came out of the mountains and pulled into Stanford, a small ranching town in the heart of Charlie Russell country. It is not as wild and wooly as when Charlie painted it (sorry I could not find an online image nor my book with one to scan), but they did have a good burger. The thing that surprised us the most, the lack of wind.

     For anyone who knows anything about central Montana, the wind always blows. We were stunned when we saw that flag.
     The drive home was filled with more sweeping landscapes of mountains and prairie. At one point, we could see seven mountain ranges (North and South Moccasin Mountains, Judith Mountains, Snowy Mountains, Highwood Mountains, Rocky Mountains and Little Belt Mountains). No matter how many times we have driven through there it always leaves us in wonder.

     We got home, unloaded the truck and had dinner with my Mom. The next morning, I went to coffee with my Dad, to the same shop he goes to every week to meet with old cronies. Fred, a gentleman my Dad has known and hunted with for nearly 50 years wanted to hear all about what we had done. Fred, at 90 with failing eyes has sold his guns and fishing gear. Though he can no longer go, he loves to live through our adventures.

     After coffee and the funeral, My brother, Dad and I all headed out to the Highwood mountains to hunt deer on a friends small ranch. The ranch has both mule deer and whitetails. The area was open for either sex, either species. My brother's wife has refused to eat venison for years, but this year her mother told her it was good for her. In addition to that, with two young boys, they can use any help they can get with the grocery bill. We stopped on our way out of town and I bought a second deer tag and my brother bought his. We got to the ranch and the wind was really picking up. Since this was the only day my brother had to hunt while I was there, I volunteered to drive the coulee for him, so they dropped me off at the top of one finger draw and then headed out to take a position over looking the head of another finger draw where we expected the deer to come out of. Since my brother had not shot his rifle in years, I gave him mine and I borrowed another of my Dad's pre-64 M70's, this one in .243. I pushed down the draw, across the crick at the bottom and then began to weave my way through the buffalo brush and rose thickets that filled the draw they were looking into. I could hear deer ahead of me and saw the flash of a couple tails. It was not easy working my way through all that cover, but I really wanted my brother to get a deer. It has probably been close to 15 years since he's shot one and it had been exactly 20 years since the three of us hunted together. It was exactly the kind of memories I wanted to make in the few days I had to be with my Dad. I came out out of the draw where my bother was and he told me he'd seen five, but they were moving too fast for him to shoot. Then three deer came out of the brush across the coulee. They were close to 400yds away and trotting, so he did not shoot. They were followed by two more and then a fox. The deer all moved out of the draw and into the next property, so our chance at them was over. We headed back to the truck and moved over to a piece fo state land on the other side of the butte, but saw nothing. As we headed back to town, we all talked back on past hunts and shared ideas about future hunts. It was great to have the two of us boys share the time with Dad, I know he was mighty proud and happy.

     Thursday, Dad and I drove out to the ranch of another friend of his who needed to have the deer on his place thinned. Only thing he asked was that we shoot does. I wanted to bring home venison and you can't eat antlers, so I was happy to oblige. As we approached the hayfield the rancher suggested, a big fat raccoon ambled out of a stubble field and into a weed patch. It was the first raccoon my Dad had ever seen in the wild. After 70 years in Montana, much of it spent in the outdoors, he had never seen one. It was pretty cool to share the moment with him. We drove in along the road next to the hay field right at dawn. We could see lots of deer out in the field. Dad stopped the truck behind a bunch of hay bales and I slipped out.  He drove off down the road and worked my way into the field out of sight behind the hay. I put my gun up and crawled up onto the second to last bale and there they were, bunches of deer. I just had to pick which one I wanted. I chambered a round, calmed my breathing and I touched off the first shot and the deer dropped in her tracks, followed by the thump of the bullet hitting. A pheasant rooster cackled his displeasure at me disturbing his morning and a bunch of honkers down on the river started telling me their woes too. The rest of the deer ran about 20 yards and when they stopped, I shot the second one, which jumped straight up, ran a couple steps and dropped dead. I picked up my brass, slid off the bale and paced off the distance. It was 328 to the first deer.

After having watched a few hunting shows on TV, I am not sure how I ever managed to be successful:
     - I never ranged my target, I estimated the distance
     - I did not use a tripod, bipod or shooting sticks (don't own any)
     - I did not use a belted magnum for shooting over 200 yards
     - I used a gun older than I am
     - I didn't have someone over my shoulder telling me which deer to shoot and where to hold.

     Dad heard the shots and drove down to the field. We had 'em dressed and in the truck by 0800 and headed for home.

     In talking with Dad about the morning we determined my pre-64 M70 .30-06 has been fired seven times in the field over the past 20yrs (this Navy gig really bites into my hunting time) and has killed two antelope and five deer for those seven rounds. The second deer above is the farthest any of them have ever traveled. All were killed from the batch of reloads (100rnds) my Dad loaded the year before I joined the Navy.

     We got the deer home and hung. Then I decided I needed to get in a bit more fishing. I drove out on the Smith River and the water looked perfect. I had borrowed my friends waders and though a bit short in the crotch, I was set. I headed upstream, casting a Montana Nymph into the pockets of the first riffle to no avail. I fished the first deep hole and foul hooked a whitefish - thought I had a monster on at first. I continued upstream and nearly soiled my borrowed waders when a pair of ringnecks exploded under my feet. I managed to hook one more fish, legitimately this time. It appeared to be a brown trout of about 14 inches. I say appeared because it wrapped me in a downfall and broke off. Seems I need to work on my fish landing skills more than I do my fish hooking skills. On my way back to the truck I found my real trophy, a net tangled in the willows.

     Thursday night I gave my Iraq fishing slideshow to the Missouri River Fly Fishers. It was a special meeting they called in order to take advantage of my time in town. I was well received and think they appreciated hearing first hand about some of what has happened over there regarding fly fishing. They will be working to put together another batch of donations to get there before Christmas.

     Friday Dad and I cut up the deer. I had the burger ground at a butcher, it only took them about 3 hours to have it ground an packaged in airtight 1lb bags for me. I put all the meat in the freezer and it was frozen solid by the time I had to leave at 0500 on Saturday. My Dad took some, my brother took some and I packed the rest into my seabag. I had traveled up light, knowing I would need to pay for a second bag to get the meat home. I said goodbye to my folks at the airport and started the trip home to my girls. I made it home in time to go take them to lunch (Mexican of course) after they picked me up at the airport. It was great to go, but it was also so good to come home to my wife and daughter. I am grateful they are so understanding of who I am and how Montana fits into my life.

    After getting back from Montana I spent Thanksgiving with my wife and daughter. We took a family road trip to the Owens Valley in south central California and then came home through Death Valley. It was a great trip with lots of scenery.

     04Dec08 After Thanksgiving, I had to make a trip to Pascagoula, Mississippi to get underway on my ship (ship was putting to sea for the first time ever). I did manage to find a little time to get on the water. Ended up catching a white sea trout and what is called a "hardhead catfish." Lives in brackish water and eats just about anything. Not sure if they can be caught on flies or not.

  
White Sea Trout                                                                               Hardhead Catfish

    I came home from Mississippi in time to spend Christmas with my girls. I headed back to Mississippi for another go at sea trials in February. In between, I did manage to get out fishing once. I fished South San Diego Bay with a couple guys (Tom and Craig) who really know their stuff. I caught six spotties on my six weight before I had to call it a day and get to work. Still, it was a nice introduction into new water. Besides bass, Tom also managed to catch a couple bone fish - gotta get me some of that.

    I returned from the second set of sea trials only to pack up and move to Mississippi in mid-March for the final period before the ship was delivered. I lived part of the time in a barracks and after the ship was delivered on April 16th, I moved aboard along with the other nine hundred Sailors assigned to the ship. It was not easy living away from my family, yet again. However, I managed to make it a little easier when I discovered red fish. They are all over in shallows along the Gulf Coast and I loved catching them.

My first redfish - caught on a shrimp

First redfish on a flyrod
  

  
  
  
  
I really got dialed in the the redfish
  
I caught some other fish - like this spade fish and ladyfish
  
I also landed white sea trout (left) and speckled sea trout (right)
  
And then there are the sailfin cats - caught a lot on a sinking clouser - they smell of anise and are the slimiest fish I've ever caught.



And then I found this

         I was catching those redfish off the pier where my ship was moored. Often I would see a long (several feet) shadow slide by and the fish would stop hitting. After a while, they’d be back at it. I learned that these shadows where alligator gar. My next thought, was, can they be caught on a fly?
         After some research, I learned gar are caught on flies and in fact can be quite sporty. They are a hardy fish and though they may appear docile are voracious feeders. Alligator gar have been recorded a lengths exceeding ten feet and weighing nearly 300 pounds. I’d seen a couple around the ship that were all of seven feet or more. I knew I didn’t have gear for anything like that. However, from my research, I found the IFGA world record to be all of 12 pounds. I had yet to see one that small. I also learned they are caught on rag or nylon rope flies, so I set out to create one.
         I made a fly out of eight inches of three stand 3/8 inch nylon rope and a 18 inch steel leader. I doubled the steel leader into a loop tied the rope and steel leader together in an overhand knot, creating a head with a four inch loop of steel leader forward of the knot. I staggered the ends of the steel leader so they were along the body of the fly about 3 inches apart. I attached a 2/0 stainless short-shanked hook (the biggest I had) to each end. I then frayed out the nylon strands to create a body. The point of the nylon rope body is to have that tangle in the gars teeth and hope the hooks found purchase in the bony jaw. Now I had a seven inch long streamer that would flow and swim like a fish, with hooks and a leader to handle a big fish.
         The first night I tried my creation out, I hooked a gar of about three feet, but it tossed the fly after a few minutes. I never had another chance that night. The next night was different. I went down to my usual spot, just forward of the ships bow. The flight deck towed fifty feet above me and the security lights illuminated the water. I could see a number of fish, small white sea trout, bigger redfish and then gar. The first fish I spotted was just the size I wanted, about three feet long. I cast as the fish crossed in front of me, only to have it sink out of sight. I spotted it seconds later, swimming right at me, about 25 feet away. I made a quick roll cast and the fly slopped down about a foot behind the fish. I quickly stripped and the fly swam past the fish’s head. At that moment the fish rolled and snapped up my fly. I could see the nylon tangled in its teeth, but could not see the hooks set as it began to run after feeling the strain from my rod. The fish was strong, but did not run far before I turned it back to me. It would not come in easily, but it never ran more than 30 or 40 yards. After five such runs I had the fish close to hand and then it exploded. Water went everywhere as the fish tossed its head, jaws snapping. My fly came out of the fish and the line fell slack on the water.
         I was not disappointed for long. Ten minutes later, a larger fish showed up and presented me with a crossing shot. I cast well ahead and beyond the beast, allowing my fly to sink out of sight before I stripped it past my quarry. The ploy worked and again I was hooked up, only to a much larger fish. This fish headed right to the bottom and I could immediately tell it was not going to be as easy as the previous fish to bring to hand. The fish made a long run, back under the ship, taking me well into my backing, not is a sizzling speedy run, but a powerful steady pull that I could not stop until fifty or more yards of my backing had melted off my reel. I slowly gained ground on the fish, a few inches at a time and brought it near the surface where it rolled and thrashed. My jaw must have dropped, this fish was huge – well over five feet! I knew I was under-gunned with my TFO 8wt flyrod and 20lb tippet. None the less, I set my mind to land this fish. The fish made no more long runs, but every time I worked it to within 10 feet of me, it would surge down and away, but a little less each time. I was wearing it out and winning the fight. After a dozen or so of these foretold encounters, I worked the fish along side the landing. I reached down with my fish gripper and then realized I had way more fish than I could handle with the tool in my hand. The jaws would not open wide enough to grab the fish’s mouth and the fish lunged and snapped at my hand, letting me know the fight was not out of it yet. With that same surge, my hook came loose and another battle ended with the gar a winner. I called it a night after that. I’d fought the fish for 52 minutes in the humid Mississippi night and was not ready for an immediate rematch, but I was not giving up on my plan to land one of these monsters.
         I did not make it back for a few nights, but soon enough I was back on the pier, this time with my TFO Axiom 10wt and heavy leather gloves. I was ready. I didn’t have to wait long and soon had a shot at small fish (three feet) who grabbed my first presentation. The hooks did not bite and the fish was gone as quickly as it had snapped up my fly. The water was quiet and empty for about 15 minutes and then the white sea trout began to feed again a couple of redfish ghosted past. I waited patiently and was rewarded by the appearance of a long dark shadow. This fish was deeper than any others I’d cast to, but I let the fly sink for several seconds and began to strip it past where I estimated the fish was. My line went tight and I stip-set the hooks, hoping they held. The fight was on and just as before the fish made a long, slow but powerful run, taking me well into my backing. This fight was an exact repeat of my previous dual, including the final surges as the fish’s energy waned. While I was fighting the fish, a shipmate stopped to watch and offered to help. I gave him the gloves and he leaned down to grab the fish. The fish opened up that mouth full of teeth and lunged at him. He jerked back like he’d touched a hot stove and when he turned to me the shock was still on his face as he said “….That thing has a lot of teeth!!!” The fish’s surge caught me by surprise and the strain was too much for my rod. It broke at the tip and the fish thrashed once more, tossing the fly. Gar – 3, me – 0. Flashback to my mangar attempts in Iraq.
         It was over a week later before I had another opportunity at a gar. I had just gotten back to the ship after spending 4th of July with my wife and daughter in San Diego. It was late and though a bit travel weary, I was still on CA time and wide awake. When I came through the security check point, one of the guards, who knew I had been trying to land a gar, told me there were half a dozen of them in my spot. So, up to my room I trotted, where I changed out of my suit and tie, grabbed my gear and back out into the muggy Mississippi night I went.
         Just as described, gar were circling in the security lights off the bow of the ship. I see them ranging from three feet to well over six. I rigged up my trusty 8wt TFO (since my 10wt had succumbed to that last battle) and looked for an opportunity to present to one of the smaller fish, in hopes of landing one. I spotted one and on the first cast I tie into a fish that is probably just over 3ft. He makes 2 strong runs and then the fly comes free - the hooks not finding purchase in the tough maw of my target.
         I waited patiently, ignoring the redfish feeding furiously below me, which is not easy knowing I had another rod rigged with a white clouser ready to cast for them. Soon I spotted another small gar and after three attempts, got it to slash at my fly. Again, the hooks fail to dig in.
         Soon a slightly bigger fish that looks just shy of 4ft crosses right to left in front of me, about 30 ft away - an easy target. I cast, putting my nylon rope and steel leader fly a couple feet beyond and three feet in front of the fish and let it sink a foot or so before stripping it in. The fish turned, but ignored my offering. I soon realized why. A larger gar, one I had not seen, charged out of the depths and inhaled my fly. The hooks bit and I realized I was tied into another five foot plus monster.
         When the fish realized it had been hooked, it tore off line from my reel, heading for deeper water. I knew if the fish made it to the main channel, he'd spool me. I'd gotten a look at the fly just before he turned to run, and it was solidly buried in the corner of his mouth. I pressured the fish as much as my 8wt would allow, working to turn his big head.
         I stopped the run about 40 feet into my backing. I slowly gained ground on the fish and began to work myself into a better position to fight and land this fish. From the top of the pier, I worked to pass my rod under four of the ship's mooring lines, a process I’d rehearsed a number of times on the gar I’d previously hooked and numerous redfish I’d landed. I then went down a ladder to the small boat platform on the pier at the waterline. I kept steady pressure on the fish as I worked through the obstructions. I stepped onto the boat moored there and began to fight the fish in earnest. For the next hour I wrestled with this prehistoric behemoth, working him to the surface only to have him surge to regain control of his head and sound again. Several times he charged past the boat rail gulping air and popping his long toothy jaws. Each time I could see my stout fly planted firmly in place in the corner of his maw. On one of his last runs past the rail, he attempted to throw the hook by splashing and slashing just like a pike would. It was an impressive sight to seen the power of that big fish from four feet and getting sprayed in the process. My heart was racing.
         Shortly after the acrobatics, I was able to steer the fish along side the boat. I'd made a dog catcher's noose using the boat hook, something I rigged during the fight, (not recommended). I had planned to build my noose before I began fishing, but since the first fish was small enough to land with out it, I failed to fully prepare. I began to attempt snaring the fish so I could land it. During this melay - I managed to over flex my beloved TFO 9ft 8wt and turn it into a 8ft 14wt. The fish however remained solidly hooked and on about the 10th attempt, the noose slide over the toothy jaw and behind the head. With the head under control, I got the other end of the rope around the jaws before hoisting it out of the water. It was a chore to haul it up to the light, where we posed for some quick pictures before I got it back into the water. I got it in water and it quickly surged out of the loosened noose and slung that huge head around to snap at my hand before sinking out of sight and disappearing into the dark depths with a wave of its broad, spotted tail.
When it was all over, I had to sit down and get the shakes under control. I'd marked the fish's length on my rod and measured it at 5ft 8in. I did not take a girth measurement, but it was bigger around than my thigh, which measures 22 inches. Putting those two parameters into LandBigFish.com, the result was 116 pounds, by far the largest fish I've ever caught, period. Doing it on a flyrod made it that much better!

  

The pics say it all

         My gar adventure was just about my last fish in Mississippi before my ship sailed. We needed to get from where the ship was built in Pascagoula to our homeport of San Diego. The ship is too wide to pass through the Panama Canal, so we needed to sail around South America. I was prepared - my stateroom looked like a tackle shop. I had spinning rods, casting rods, trolling rods and of course, fly rods. South American and Antarctica are the only two continents I have not caught fish on. Don't think I'll ever add that seventh continent to my list, but who knows. The only problem with our trip around was timing - it would be winter when we passed around. None the less I managed to coordinate a fishing trip in a couple of places. Brazil was a bust - the outfitter stood us up. The best I could do in Valpariso, Chile and Lima, Peru was some bottom fishing. Still, it was good to get on the water.

         Better yet was fish call off the ship. I convinced the CO to let us fish a couple times off the stern of the ship. Tough part is we were 35 feet off the water. Didn't stop us from landing a tuna and a mahi-mahi. Both were consumed on the spot - delicious!

Don't know what this is I caught in Chile
  
We would have let the tuna go (it was tiny) but it was dead when we landed it. Let a doh-doh go? No way!

         When I got back to San Diego - I managed to get a day on the water with Capt Scott Leon of Paradigm Shift Charters. He has a great boat for fly fishing and we ended up catching small calico bass, barracuda, mackerel and I caught a nice bonita. It was great day on the water.

  
I lost 1/2 that mack to a dog (sea lion) and they bit my bonita, but didn't take it.

         That is the latest from me, hope to see you on the water sometime.

                                                               Fish on!  Joel  

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Revised: 12/14/09.