Dave Richey OUTDOORS

What happened next was predictable. I tried to back up the clay to a firm foothold on gravel, but the clay was too greasy and the current was too swift, and your hero went downstream through this deep hole and came sputtering to the surface with all the dignity and grace of a foundering whale.

I broke into my version of the Australian crawl, difficult enough to do with filled waders, but made all the more impossible by having to swim with my rod and reel in hand.It had to be a comical sight, but I wouldn't take a bow for this one.

A cold & wet swim.

My skinny frame hit the next gravel bar with my head and face, and I grabbed a handful of pebbles, and all it did was spin me around. Now I'm facing upstream, and began digging in my toes. Finally, crabbing along the gravel like a giant crayfish, I made my way to shore. I bent forward, drained most of the water from my waders, crawled ashore and poured out even more water.

"Smooth move, Chief," said one of the older fisherman in camp. "What are you planning for an encore?" Chuckle, chuckle.

There would be no repeat performances that day. At least I'd been able to make one person laugh.

Years later, while duck hunting with my old buddy, Max Donovan of Clio, we were duck hunting the marshes near Fish Point. Max, if you remember, was an amputee and wore what he called "a wooden leg" or at times when he felt like a pirate, a "peg-leg."

"Boy, you get out there and start setting them dekes before it comes on shootin' time and you're still messing about this little pothole," he said. "Don't forget what I taught you: black ducks land into the wind. Leave a hole straight out in front of us where they can pitch in. We'll shoot them when they drop them red legs toward the water. Now hurry!, ya hear?"

I heard. The decoys were set perfectly with an open spot 25 yards out in front, and I glanced to make sure none had flipped over, and stepped into a muskrat run, stumbled and fell face-first into the water. It was very cold and much too wet for my personal tastes.

Donovan was laughing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, and I was soaked to the skin and the nor'easter was building and the temperature was dropping.

My mentor took me over the hurdles.

"Good header, kid," Donovan cackled. "Best wring our your duds, empty your waders and try to get warm. I'd loan you my heavy coat, but I need it worse than you. It's shootin' time right now. Skin off them clothes, wring 'em out, and get ready. You haven't even loaded your shotgun yet. Too late, here come two black ducks. Don't move!"

He shot one, and missed the other, something he rarely did. He felt that since he was my mentor, that the mentee Me) should do most of the work, and he soon had me shagging his duck.

That morning found an early flight of ducks while I was trying to dry out a bit, and the action soon ended. Max had his limit, hunkered inside his heavy coat, and cat-napped while urging me to start shooting so we could get home before I caught my death of cold. We quit four hours later, and I never saw another duck within 200 yards but Max had himself a nice nap.

In 1970, while doing a story for Outdoor Life magazine, I managed to fall and break my back by nimbly falling off a fire escape platform at a Moosonee hotel. It peeled the hide off my buck, broke two vertebrae, and ruptured a disc. The back and left-leg pain was bad, and we took the Polar Bear Express south, grabbed a cab, drove to a northern airport and flew south to Toronto. I then drove about eight hours to Clio from Toronto.

The next day, the earliest the neurosurgeon could put me under the knife was Nov. 19. That meant I could still hunt a few days of the firearm deer season. Mind you, it was late August when I got the word about the surgery date. I toughed things out until Nov. 15, put a scope on my Model 870 Remington. and did what any sane person would do. I went hunting,

Couldn't miss the firearm deer opener.

We were hunting in eastern Shiawassee County in a muddy soy bean field. The deer were everywhere in the beans, and finally a decent buck came by within range of my scoped 12 gauge 3-inch magnum. He was 40 yards away, and I eased up the 30-inch barrel, put the crosshairs on that bucks chest, and the impact of that slug knocked his nose in the mud.

I couldn't raise my left leg so I dragged it behind me, digging small furrows or trenches all the way to the animal, and my buddy soon found me and the buck in the mud. The deer was dead and I felt like I was about ready to tip over myself.

He field-dressed my buck, lifted its head so I could grab his antlers with my right hand. I'd already unloaded my shotgun, and it was empty, so I used it as a crutch in my left hand and arm. The barrel was full of mud, but this crude method enabled me to scrabble a half-mile with a dead leg and broken back.

Sadly, the shotgun was a horrible mess. Some stupid mistakes and an error or two in judgment are indicative of an outdoor writers who occasionally gets caught up in the moment and makes a fool of themselves.

Normally, I try to reserve such things for when I'm alone, but in these cases, all of these nitwit errors were witnessed. And, on occasion, I am gently reminded of each one. It's always a pleasure to be the life of the party.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors