admin November 30th, 2009

Each year in late November of early December I urge readers to order their Christmas book gifts early. I often do a short book review on several great new books that cross my desk, and urge people who are looking for other fishing and hunting titles to look over Scoop's Books at <dave@daverichey.com> . A book on fishing or hunting can make the perfect Christmas gift for the angler or sportsman in your life, and this three-week-plus advance warning gives people plenty of time for delivery providing orders are made promptly. Scoop's Books has more than 400 used fishing and hunting books and magazines for sale.

On The Trail Of The Indian Tiger by Tobias J. Lanz, Ph.D.

Published by Safari Press, 15621 Chemical Lane, Building B, Huntington Beach, CA 92649-1506. Phone (714) 894-9080. Visit their website a <www.safaaripress.com> or email them at <info@safariPress.com> . This book was published in 2009, contains 332 pages and is illustrated with b/w photos & drawings. $34.95 plus shipping.

India was always the stronghold of the tiger, and during the British Raj from 1858-1947, the ceremonies and rituals surrounding this grand hunt was among the most lavish in the world. The British, and their empire building, brought a host of men who wanted to taste the excitement of hunting these giant cats from howdahs, precariously perch atop an elephant's back. The sportsmen of this era suffered the nerve twitching anxiety of hunting from tree-top machans or platforms in wooded areas.

There were famous hunters such as Jim Corbett, who took it upon himself to hunt the man-eating tigers on foot or horseback. Corbett lived through these hunts, wrote books about hunting leopards and tigers, but many native villagers were ambushed by the felines and paid with their lives. This is a hair-raising account about hunting these beautiful animals. This gripping anthology of hunting tales will keep you riveted to your easy chair. All of Safari Press' books are sold only by them, and not sold anywhere else. They are handsome and well-bound books.

Sun Over The Dark Continent by Charles Bazzy.

Published by Safari Press Inc. Address and other information listed above. $85 in hardcover with slipcase. Price does not include shipping.

This book tells the tales of 54 years of big-game hunting in Botswana, Cameroon, Ethiopa, Kenya, Sudan, Tanganyika and Zambia, and it was on the Dark Continent where we also worked as an apprentice Professional Hunter. His career of  taking people to Africa, helping them get their big-game trophies, and soaking up the lore and love of the African continent is a major story among African hunters. Bazzy was a lucky and skilled hunter, and his lesser kudu still ranks among the top five in the world for that species. The brown cloth cover features a gilt setting son with a charging rhino on it.

Bazzy tells the story of this longtime love affair with Africa and its game animals, and between the covers of this book, which is limited to 1,000 numbered and signed copies, are stories about his hunts for African elephant, bongo, Cape buffalo, giant eland, lechwe, leopard, lion, sitatunga, white rhino and much more. This is much more than just about a Michigan resident who loves to hunt in Africa. It holds readers spellbound as Bazzy discusses numerous safaris and the people who made these treks with the author. Again, another exceptional hunting book by Safari Press, the best publishing house  on worldwide big-game and trophy wild game hunting.

Siatwinda by Joe Brooks.

Published by Safari Press. Address and other information listed above. $65 in hardcover plus shipping. This is the story of an elephant control officer and Professional Hunter in Zambia, who also is a crocodile hunter, breeder and an adventuresome type, who has been doing this kind of work since 1962. Many books on PHs are available, and some of them are very good reads. This is that type of book, and Brooks tells some hair-raising tales of controlling rogue and very unpredictable elephants.

Brooks hunted some out-sized monster elephants including one that went over 20 feet. He also regales readers about hunting crocodiles from a leaky boat with a Scotsman named "Crazy Mack." One bizarre tale about Brooks being asked to remove a long-dead elephant from a river. He began by  pulling the dead elephant out with his vehicle, and suddenly several natives jumped on it to float along. The carcass rolled over in the current, and the natives fell into the river amid a bunch of crocodiles, who were following their meal. He also hunted down rogue elephants that raised havoc with local villagers, and once shot two crop-raising elephants with one shot. It is an engrossing book that tells of Africa then and now.

Safari Rifles II by Craig Boddington.

Published by Safari Press Inc. Address and other information listed above. Harcover and dust jacket at $49.99 plus shipping. No one  living today knows more about double rifles, magazine rifles and cartridges for African hunting than the author. He wrote the extremely popular Safari Rifles in 1989 based on his African experiences up to that point. Boddington is the real deal, and is acknowledged as the pro among professional hunters. His name is synonymous with African big-game hunting. Anyone considering a hunt to the Dark Continent should buy and study this book because there is nothing better available.

Boddington realized that the needs of today's African hunting are much different than they were 20 years ago. He presents his information in clearly-explained, bite size pieces that readers can easily digest. The result is the reader gets a solid understanding of what works and what doesn't. He solves the problem many hunters have of which sights are really best for big-bore rifles. Is a single shot a responsible choice for dangerous game? If this isn't, it should become the Bible for hunters interested in learning which rifles, calibers and bullets are best suited for hunting today's Africa. Boddington's books on African game and hunting are cherished by hunters who have been on the sharp point of a charging member of the Big 5, and lived to tell their tale. Boddington knows his stuff, and he delivers it in fine fashion. This book with its lush color photos is one of his best.

The last time I had a chance to speak with Craig Boddington was in 1991 as he prepared to go to war with the US Marines during Desert Storm. He served his time in other hell-holes, and I wish to publicly thank him for his long military experiences in helping to protect the American way of life, and now he is writing some of the most profound books on safari rifles. Best of luck, man!

African Game Trails by Theodore Roosevelt.

Published by Safari Press Inc. Address and other information listed above. Hardcover and dust jacket at $49.95 plus shipping. This book has been  printed and reprinted, time and again through many editions, and it never loses its appeal. It was first printed in book form in 1910, and 99 years later, it is still as impressive now as back then. Teddy and his entourage, as well as his son Kermit, made their safari a year before the book came out. This safari, perhaps the most flamboyant safari ever, lasted almost a year and the great man himself wrote much of the book while on safari and this newest printing celebrates the 100th anniversary of that great experience.

The emphasis of this safari, which was undertaken for the Smithsonian Museum, resulted in Kermit hunting for the more difficult African game animals such as the bongo, giant eland, sitatunga and the white rhino. Hunting licenses were not required for leopards and lions and multiple  elephant and rhino were issued on one hunting license. This is a lavish book, and quality paper was used to provide the best possible reproduction of 100-year-old photos. This is the story of perhaps the most lavish safari ever put together. Anyone with a sense of history, and a willingmess to put everything in its proper perspective, would realize that this was a far-flung event, even 100 years ago.

Mark Sosin: A Sportsman's Memoir by Mark Sosin.

Published by Mark Sosin's Saltwater journal, 681 S.W. 15th Street, Boca Raton, FL 33486.  For more detailed information contact him at <sosinmark@aol.com> . It sells for $29.95 plus shipping and handling. I've known Mark for more years than I can remember, but I remember the occasion. It was at an Outdoor Writer's Association of American conference in 1969 in Duluth, Minn., and it's where we first got to know each other. Since that time, 40 years ago, Sosin has been one of my favorite people. And for good reason.

We are about the same age, and both of us are crusty old curmudgeons. I suspect his voice is louder than mine, but only because he's a bigger man than me. There's one thing Mark is, and that is he is the ultimate professional outdoor communicator. He's dabbled in a few more things that I have, and his television show has seemingly been running forever. We've both done the book gig, have both written for outdoor magazines and newspapers, and each of us has dabbled in radio. Mark is a raconteur, a story-teller with unique talents. He tells stories, and when he's done, people are laughing at him and with him. It's a special talent that too few people still possess.

This book is a collection of 350 stories from five decades of fishing around the world. Even I don't know where all these spots are that Mark has fished, and it's quite possible he may have forgotten a few countries along the way. He's done some freshwater fishing years ago, but his massive out-put of saltwater fishing tales is as big as the man himself. But wherever Mark Sosin travels, there are people who know him and he knows them. He moves in different circles than I do because I can count all of my saltwater adventures on one hand, and have a finger left over. Not Mr. Sosin.

When he talks, people listen. When he tells a funny story, people listen and laugh. When he gets serious, and commences to tell people how to catch fish under certain circumstances, nary a sound is heard. His size, his voice and his presense is like a command performance. I've heard a few of the stories in this lavish array of self-published hilarity, and if you're looking for some good chuckles while reading some very well written stories, this book is for you.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

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admin November 29th, 2009

The firearm season ends tomorrow night, and for some landowners, the 16-day season will have brought trespassers to their land. It has happened to me. Tire tracks were as obvious as a train wreck on my woods road. I hadn’t made them so it meant someone had been trespassing or poaching on my property.

I followed the tire tracks for 200 yards into my woods, and then they ended. A vehicle had come that far and left. It was easy to see where it had been parked, and nearby was an empty cigarette package and a candy bar wrapper.

I continued down my two-track another 200 yards before stumbling over something in the leaf-covered trail. Leaves covered the trail, and I kicked around to remove what I’d tripped over and uncovered a mound of illegal sugar beets.

Clues led to the trespasser's tree stand.

I felt like a detective searching for more clues. My gaze went to the nearby trees, and 20 yards away was a ladder stand. It wasn’t mine so I climbed the stand, unhooked it from the tree, and twisted it free. It was either a very cheap stand that bent easily or my anger made me stronger than I realized, but the ladder got twisted like a pretzel. Darn!

A note was left at the site. It said “If you want your ladder stand back, stop at the first house to the east at noon.”

A truck pulled into my driveway in timely fashion, and I didn’t recognize it. A man got out, walked up to the door, and I met him. He’d come to claim his tree stand.

He said he had put up the stand for his son who was living with other people nearby. I asked him why he used my two-track as a parking spot while he trespassed.

Dealing with the man who trespassed on my property.

“I didn’t know it was private,” he whined. “I’m sorry.”

 He was told that he had purposely driven past two No Trespassing signs near the road, but he claimed ignorance. He said he hadn’t seen them.

“Do you want your ladder stand back?” I asked. He said he did.

“Let me see your drivers license. I need some information, and once I have that information I’ll return the stand.”

“Why should I show you my license,” he asked.

“If you don’t, you won’t get your stand back. I’ll walk outside before you can back out of my driveway, and write down your license plate letters and numbers. Then I’ll let the police track you down. That will work fine for me. How does that suit you?”

“C’mon, man, I don’t want any problem with the police.”

“Give me your drivers license, and don’t call me man. I’ll write down the information, and then give you your stand. But first, a warning: if you are caught on my land again, I will go to the police. If I find your truck on my land I’ll flatten all four tires to keep you here until the police arrive. Do we understand each other? Is all of this clear enough for you?”

It was, and he complied with my request for his drivers license, and I returned his bent ladder stand. I haven’t seen him since, and don’t want to.

Trespass is one of the most common problems that landowners face.

People sneak onto private land, put up tree stands, screw in tree steps, and figure they can get away with it. It is illegal to trespass on another person’s property without permission, but people who do so realize the chance of being caught is not high.

Sadly, trespass is a misdemeanor and few trespass cases wind up being prosecuted. The prosecuting attorney and staff is too busy dealing with armed robberies, burglaries, embezzlement, home invasion, murder, rape and other more serious crimes. They seldom handle a trespass case unless it is a part of a more serious crime.

Sadly, what seems an easy situation for the prosecuting attorney’s office to handle, can leave the landowner blowing in the wind. Is it fair? No, but it’s a fact. This leaves the landowner feeling helpless and used by the system and the trespasser. It’s difficult to get police to the scene of a trespass problem in time to take any immediate action. Often, the landowner must handle the problem alone, and this is not always a wise decision.

Trespass is only one problem. Two others often include littering and property damage.

Another case of trespass on our leased land.

Years ago several friends and I leased 640 acres near Harrison for deer and turkey hunting. On opening day of the firearm deer season we encountered a stranger in the woods. He wasn’t dressed in  blaze orange, and we asked what he was doing.

This gent was antagonistic and surly. He wanted to know who we were.

“We lease this land,” I told him. “You are trespassing and will have to leave.”

“I’ve hunted this land for 40 years and will continue to hunt it,” he said, with grit in his voice. “You can lease it but I plan to continue hunting here. If you call the police, I’ll set fire to the woods. You’ll never be able to prove I did it.”

He left, and we bumped into him again later in the season. He threatened to fight all three of us, and the last thing we needed from a lease was to fight with a cranky neighbor. We finally gave up the lease for apparent reasons.

A deal with the devil.

A doctor who requests anonymity bought 400 acres of land in the northern Lower Peninsula, built a nice log cabin and barn, and began planting food plots for wildlife. He soon encountered a trespasser, and went to talk and politely asked him to leave.

“I’ll leave this time but I’ll be  back and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said. “My daddy grew up in this area and so did I, and I’ve always hunted one specific spot on the border of your property and I’ll continue to hunt it whether you like it or not.

“Put the police on me and I’ll sugar up the gas tank of your brand-new tractor. If that doesn’t educate you, I’ll burn down your barn. If that doesn’t work I’ll burn down your fancy log cabin. However, I am a reasonable man.”

By now the doctor was terrified, and asked what “reasonable” meant.

“Give me written permission to hunt my one spot on the corner of your land, and I’ll be the best caretaker you’ll ever have. Poachers and other trespassers know who I am, and I’ll keep everyone else away from your house, barn and farm equipment. I won’t hunt if you have a bunch of company, but I won’t allow anyone to hunt my stand.”

“How do I know you’ll do as you say,” the doctor asked. “What guarantees do I have?”

“There are no guarantees. It’s a simple deal. Give me my one place to hunt, and I’ll keep everyone else off your land. You live up to your end of the deal and I’ll live up to mine. Trust me, you don’t need me as your enemy. I’m just a little bit crazy.”

So he cut a deal with the devil. He honored the agreement and has had no problems even though his cabin and land is in a remote part of the state, off a dirt road with no close neighbors except for his new caretaker. No one has broke into his cottage, sugared his gas tank or burned down his barn.

Not many trespasser will work out such deals. They come and go until caught, and if anything happens, they get a naughty-boy slap on the wrist and are turned loose with a minor fine.  Some may retaliate. Most do not, but they may return to trespass again.

Trespassers want to hunt private land, not federal or state lands.

Land is getting tight in the Lower Peninsula, and as more farms are sold and subdivided, the acreage where people could once hunt has shrunk. It becomes a situation of the haves and have-nots. Those who own land worry about the have-nots trespassing on it.

There has been a few cases of physical violence over the years although most such actions have involved snowmobilers. It seldom comes to that with sportsmen.

However, the specter of trespass is never far away. What does the future hold?

It’s a question that is most difficult to answer. The most  obvious concern among landowners is the threat of increased trespass cases. That also brings to mind the possibility of retaliation.

Several people I know have made friends with the local Sheriffs Department deputies, and offer them a chance to hunt their land in return for them running  people off. Others invite Michigan State Police officers to fill the same role. It eliminates the need for the owners to physically confront  trespassers.

Should such actions be necessary? If we lived in a perfect world, it wouldn’t be but this is not a perfect world nor are all of our citizens nice people. The perfect world would allow for a jail sentence for repeat offenders and something far more substantial than a wrist slap and a small fine and court costs.

The perfect world would teach trespassers to stay on their own land or hunt federal or state land. That obviously doesn’t work in today’s society, and violence on behalf of the landowner only exacerbates the problem.

Solving this issue takes time, proper legislation, solid law enforcement, landowner cooperation and a court system that will address the issue properly while administering justice and punishment in a swift manner. One can only hope that day soon comes.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

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admin November 28th, 2009

It was 20 years ago, and a friend and I were hunting mule deer on a northeastern Wyoming ranch. There were some good bucks on it, and I shot a dandy mule deer (shown below) as did my hunting buddy.

A few hunters on the ranch were there for antelope, not mule deer. One was the sort that let his mouth overload his back-side, and he told everyone within shouting distance that he never missed a shot. Not once, not ever. He was Dead-eye Dick with a rifle. He acted as if he was several notches better than the other sportsmen in camp.

Such people irritate me almost as much as those who say they always shoot bigger critters than onyone else. Most are obnoxious louts that other hunters dislike having in a hunting camp. I occasionally hassle them, if for no other reason than they deserve it. It becomes a bit of fun to publicly embarrass them.

Starting to put the pressure on the loud mouth.

"Is that a fact?" I asked, setting the hook into him. "I'm frankly in awe of anyone who can shoot game and never miss a shot. Do you mind if I shoot some photos? It would make for a good magazine feature, and later tonight I'll do an interview. For now, I just need some photographs of you in action. OK with you?"

'You bet, kid," he said. "I'll show you how it's done. I pull the trigger, and the 'lope hits the dirt. You'll have to be quick to catch me in action."

"I'll try to keep up with you," I said, adding a bit more pressure to the situation. "I'll do the best I can. It's going to be great watching a hotshot like you shoot."

We drove around until we spotted several antelope, and the gent said we could get closer on foot. He said the biggest buck would go 15 inches or a bit better, and that is what he wanted. That and some good cutters.

He and I stepped out of the truck, got a roll of ground between us and the antelope, and I dogged his tracks. We covered a quarter-mile, and he cautiously peeked over the hill. The antelope were 125 yards away, staring off toward the pickup truck.

The moment of truth.

He sat down, got his shooting sticks situated, and I was right behind him, prepared to shoot photos over his shoulder. He eased the rifle fore-end into the sticks, snuggled up tight to the rifle stock, peered through the scope, and whispered "watch this, kid."

I was watching the buck antelope and clicking photos with a telephoto lens. The buck goat never moved at the shot.

"You missed," I whispered to him.

"Nope," he said. "Just watch, he'll topple over soon."

"Better shoot again. I can see him through my telephoto lens, and he doesn't know where the shot came from. You flat-out missed him. Shoot again before he runs off."

He did, and with the same result. Braggarts are a pain, and I needled him a bit. "Hey, partner, you flat missed that antelope. Try it again."

By now, he's ticked at me, mad for making a fool of himself by bragging up his ability to shoot, and aimed and fired a third shot. The antelope wheeled, looked our way, and put it in overdrive.

"Missed again, bub," I advised. "They're gone now and are probably halfway to town my now."

"They will pop up on that rise and I'll try again," he said. The rise was 400 yards away, and I knew the antelope would be moving fast.

Up they came, and he shot, and the buck antelope dropped. It was hit in the back end. We jogged over to the fallen animal, and he shot it at close range to end its misery.

"Must be tough missing those three shots when you've never missed before," I teased. "You had me going there for a bit. You were just putting the shuck on me, weren't you? That last shot ruined most of the steaks, but then, antelope are pretty small critters at 400 yards. Right?"

He wouldn't talk to me, and left camp as soon as we returned, and never talked to a soul before pulling out. It's what bragging does to people who can't back up their words.

Every hunter missed at one time or another.

A friend of mine missed two whitetail bucks today. No excuses, he flat missed. But then, I've seen him miss once or twice in the past 30 years, and I've also seen him make some almost unbelievable long-range shots.

A buck came out in front of him at over 200 yards during a drive, and he missed that buck with both shots. It crossed a nearby road, and everyone in his hunting party searched for blood or hair. Both were clean misses, and he'd made those kinds of shots many times in the past.

On the next drive he spotted another buck, shot once, and missed again. They checked for blood or hair, and it was another clean miss.

"Hey, I just plain missed," he said. "I've got no excuses. For whatever reason, I missed, plain and simple."

I had gone years without missing a whitetail with a bow, and casually mentioned that fact to a friend a few years ago. Sure enough, that was the night I missed an easy quartering-away shot. Bragging is never a good idea.

There is a big difference between these two men. One was a loud mouth and braggart, and the other freely admitted to his misses, just like I did just now. The first one got needled hard because he had bragged himself into a corner from which there was no escape, and the other man and I deserved the sympathy we got.

We've all missed deer in the past, and may very well miss again in the future. It's a part of deer hunting, and those who say they never miss have either shot very little game or is a stone cold liar … or, most likely, a combination of the two.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

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admin November 27th, 2009

The Night Of The Brown Trout Moon Dance
By
John McKenzie

The late-October day had passed all too quickly. The thrill of fly fishing northern Michigan streams during the peak of the fall salmon and trout spawning runs had been a mesmerizing experience.

The setting sun had brought to a close an award-winning episode on Michigan’s famed Platte River. Longtime friend, guide, and outdoor writer Dave Richey and I had been guiding clients from Iowa. That day had found us in the midst of a heavy run of chinook and coho salmon and some huge brown trout.

We had put our clients into a mind-boggling number of fish, and it had been a truly legendary kind of day. We fished a stretch of river that looked yellow-orange because of the spawning colors of lake-run brown trout.

One of our clients with a trophy brown trout.

I witnessed savage runs of these powerful fish, and watched them break 10-pound test line like it was sewing thread, leaving clients drop-jawed and speechless. But now the day was over, and our clients had returned to their cabin.

They were sated from numerous struggles with big fish. They complained of sore arms and wrists, but their smiles stretched from ear to ear. They had brown trout, Chinook salmon and coho salmon carefully wrapped and padded for a taxidermist, and they would be frozen solid as they headed for home in the morning. Their salmon and trout fillets were packed away in the deep freeze.

Our waders, rods and tackle all rested in their proper places, and we were on our way to dinner. We were lean and mean in those bygone days, and one meal a day was normal for us. Now, after all the day's work was done, we were on a bee-line for some hot grub.

After a great meal and one sundowner, we talked about the numbers of big brown trout we had encountered that day. Dave and I couldn’t shake off the intensity of that outing, and the number of big bronze colored and silvery brown trout we had found.

Perhaps, deep down inside, we knew the odds were very strong in our favor that we'd never see a river filled with browns again during our lifetime. Some of the gravel spawning beds had held 10-15 male and female browns, and more kept nosing their way upstream in their continuing search for a spawning site.

It was 10:30 that night as we left the restaurant and the night sky was filled with the energy and light from the Rutting Moon. We looked at each other, and then I said: “Lets go back after ‘em. They will still be there.”

Dave put the car in gear and we were heading for the Platte River. I'd noticed that his Black Beauty fly rod was all ready to go, and knotted at the end of the leader was a No. 6 Dave's Favorite that had been tied by his twin brother George.

The big browns were still there.

We found a crystal-clear river, filled with trophy-sized spawning brown trout. The night sky, energized by the light of the full moon, provided great lighting, and we were as giddy as school girls.

We soon reached the river, parked the car and walked slowly and softly down the bank. The shallow gravel beds, fanned hard and shiny with overturned white stones, glistened in the moonlight. The river was choked with big browns.

A pathway, clear of obstacles, lay alongside the spawning trout, and it provided perfect casting opportunities. I tied on one of George’s Platte River Pink flies, and the first cast retrieved across the gravel bar triggered a strike that sent a huge brown trout tail-walking in a moon dance of silvery spray across the shimmering Platte River. Two fishing guides had arrived at Fly Fishing Heaven.

I hooked a big fish, a male with a kype as big as a crooked little finger, and the fish took me down the river. Dave shook out line through his fly rod, shot a cast across the river, and as it swung in the current, another brown trout hit.

It was nonstop fly fishing action.

For two hours we danced one brown trout after another across the moon-sparkled river. We were deep in our individual thoughts during this piece of time. Just us and the fish that took us there.

Dave then worked a big brown down the river, and I sat on the bank, unable to cast again. I was shutting down alongside the river that had given us the greatest single night of brown trout fishing either of us had ever seen.

I awoke to Dave’s voice: “Hey, partner, I almost stepped on you! You had enough magical fishing for one night?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “let's pack it in. We need some sound sleep before meeting our new sports in the morning.”

We walked back to the car, stowed our rods, and as I looked up into the night sky, I knew we would never forget the Night of the Brown Trout Moon Dance. And you know what? We never have forgotten that one night in our shared lives when the brown trout fishing was twice as good as anyone could ever want.

Editor's Note: John McKenzie was one of my fishing guides from 1968 to 1975, and this is another of his stories based on an event that happened almost 40 years ago. He loves river fishing and whitetail deer hunting, and he, like I, remember the old days with great fondness because they may never happen to us again.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

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admin November 26th, 2009

Thanksgiving Day is the one day each year set aside for giving thanks. It may be to our Lord and Savior for all the good things in our lives, and it may be given to our family and friends. It is a special day for me, and later today I'll spend time with family and friends, and on this special day, I'd like to thank all of these fine folks.

On this day, I wish to thank:

*My wife Kay (left) for putting up with me and my sometime quirky behavior. She is my lover and my best friend, and she has been there  for me for more than 32 years. She has picked me up when I have fallen, nursed me when I was ill, traveled with me in the early days when neither of us knew where our next magazine check would come from, and together we've weathered many storms. She's my best hunting buddy, and she loves to hunt. She also loves me with all her heart, and I love her with a fervent passion. Who could ask for anything more from their mate?

*My twin brother George (right), who passed away more than six years ago. He and I gave of each other to help the other person. He died of cancer, and a part of my life disappeared that evening in September when he drew his last breath and moved on to a better place. We shared 64 years of memories that began in the womb, and during that time, there was nothing he wouldn't do for me and nothing I wouldn't do for him. We were soulmates for many years, and shared countless fishing trips and deer hunts. I miss him, and there has been a terrible sense of loss as I think of him daily.

*I'd be remiss on this day if I didn't remember the armed forces of the United States of America. These men and women, at home and abroad, stand ready at all times to guard this great nation from those evil forces who would take away our Constitutional rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Countless men and women have made the ultimate sacrifice to keep our proud nation free. To one and all, past and present, I salute you and offer my heartfelt "Thank You" for the many sacrifices you've made on my behalf and that of other citizens. I'm eternally proud of each and every one of you, and may many others in this wonderful country of ours pay their respects today as well.

Write and get paid for it is a great gig.

*I've been a lucky man. In 1967, I chose my path and way of life when I began writing outdoor copy for a living. The first few years didn't provide much of a living, but I was happy and proud to say that for most of my adult life I've made my living doing a job I thought needed to be done. I wrote countless magazine articles, newspaper columns and features, books, and for the past six year, a daily blog. I've dealt with some editors for all these years that were memorable people. There was Stan Meseroll of Sports Afield, who bought my first magazine article in 1967, and several others. He was a man who believed in me and my dream of making a living as an outdoor writer. There were others, like the late Ben East of Outdoor Life, who really taught me how to self-edit my material and how to make each piece the best it could be.

Other editors such as Lamar Underwood of Outdoor Life and Sports Afield; Jay Cassell of all three of the Big 3 outdoor magazines (Field & Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield); the late Gordie Charles of Traverse City, Michigan, who invited me to go to New Zealand 30 years ago on a fishing trip I'll never forget; the late Mort Neff, who was the eternal gentleman, and a pioneer in outdoor television; and other writers like the late Jack O'Connor who gave of his time to help lead the way by example during the early 1970s; the late Ted Trueblood, who knew who I was and was willing to spend time talking with me while he slowly and painfully died of cancer at his home in Idaho; the late writer John Madson, who had a magic pen that could make an ordinary story into something that may have been the best written story in the world.

Writers who had a great impact on me.

*I'd also like to give thanks to two men I never knew except through their writings. The late Gordon MacQuarrie of Wisconsin was a newspaperman who also wrote magazine articles and books. His book "Stories Of The Old Duck Hunters & Other Drivel" was a magical one. I've read it many times, and he died much too early but he had a dramatic affect on me and my writing. Another man — the late and inimitable Robert Ruark — may have been the finest outdoor writer that I've ever read. His two books — The Old Man & The Boy and The Old Man's Boy Grows Old — should be required reading for anyone who wishes to play in the outdoor writing sandbox. Ruark had a major drinking problem, and like Ernest Hemingway before him and Peter Hathaway Capstick after, the booze led to an early death long before they should have died. All were at the top of their game when they passed on, and I honor their memory and give thanks for the great work they did.

*I'd be remiss in this list of people to whom i owe a large measure of respect would be my old mentor, Max Donovan of Clio, Michigan (lower left). He was a hemophiliac, who took me under his wing as a teenager, and did his best to teach me right from wrong. He could nick himself during a morning shave, and be laid up in bed bleeding for two weeks. But, when he was at the top of his game, he taught me most everything he knew about trout fishing, catching spring bluegills, how to hunt red foxes on winter snow or haughty black ducks on a late-fall nor'easter when gust of wind blew the cattails flat and brought the big red-leggers down from Canada and to our decoys in a marsh opening. Max coached me along for about 25 years, teaching me what he know, and guessing accurately about things he didn't know, and we were a pair. I miss his mentality and his wit, and fortunately I was able to tell him how I felt about him when he was still alive. Now I'm giving thanks for the privilege of having known and fished and hunted with him. It was an education I truly treasure.

*The late George Yontz of Wolverine was another person deserving of my thanks. Serious asthma and hay fever problems brought George and I together in 1952 along the banks of the Sturgeon River in Cheboygan County. He was a short-legged, long-waisted Dutchman who was a plumber by trade but who owned a small tackle shop along old M-27 and rented cabins. Me and a school friend used to spend all summer along the Sturgeon River fishing because we had problems breathing the pollen-filled air of southern Michigan. Yontz spent hours teaching me how to fish for steelhead, big brown trout and walleyes. I acted as his "man" when some big stout young feller would drop in to challenge Yontz to an arm wrestling contest. I never knew him to be beat at arm wresting, fishing or for being a storehouse of solid no-nonsense fishing information. He, like Donovan, coached me from an early teenager into adulthood, and I owe him much more than a debt of thanks. Men like Roger Kerby on Honor has provided me with many wonderful deer hunts over the years, and I give thanks to him as well.

Everyone deserves my thanks, except one.

*The list of people I worked with on stories, not only recently but also during my early writing years, could fill a book. If it hadn't been for some of my guides, there would have been stories and I wouldn't be deliberating over who to name. Most of my guides were very good, a few merely adequate, and memory only reveals one truly bad guide who cost me a massive 7 X 7 bull elk in Idaho. He deliberately tried to steer me away from the blood trail of that huge bull. He left me up in the mountains without my horse when I questioned his judgment, and it took all day and half of the night to make my way down out of the mountains. He doesn't even deserve this little bit of space because he wound up with my big elk.

Other guides who stand head and shoulder above many others include Mark Rinckey (lower right and I) of Honor, Michigan, who began guiding after I quit my 10-year guiding career in 1976. Mark is one of the finest fishing guides for salmon and steelhead fishing in the rivers that I know. Emil Dean, who spent years guiding steelhead anglers on the Big Manistee, is another man to whom I owe a large measure of thanks. Jack Duff of Leland and I shared 10-15 years of the best big brown trout fishing action this state has ever seen, and the capstone of his guiding career was the 31 1/2-pound brown trout that held the Michigan state record for years. Forty years of fishing with Duffy has made me a better angler. There are other guides like the late Al Lesh of Warren, Steve Van Assche of Harrison Township, Michigan, is perhaps one of the finest muskie fishing guides on Lake St. Clair. Jerry Regan and Sam Surre are two of the finest fly-fishing guides on the AuSable and Manistee rivers.

To one and all, living or dead, on this day of Thanksgiving, I offer my thanks to you. For those not named, but who helped me along the way, you know who you are and deserve a warm "Thanks" for all you've done. Have a good day and don't forget to give thanks in your own way.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

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