daverichey November 2nd, 2009

Those anglers who began steelhead fishing in the last several years missed some of the finest river fishing ever seen back in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Good numbers of steelhead were being planted all around the state, and the Betsie and Platte rivers offered great sport that was certainly was as good as it could ever be.

Left-right: George Richey, John McKenzie and Dave Richey -- the Tres Amigos -- years later

There was some natural steelhead reproduction 40 years ago, and the DNR was planting fish as well. The number of anglers who knew how to catch steelhead were few, and the fish numbers were very high.

My guiding career began in 1967, and brother George joined me in guiding fly fishermen to salmon, steelhead and broad-shouldered brown trout. John McKenzie became the third member of Tres Amigos, and we cut a wide swath through runs of spring and fall-spawning salmonids.

Snagging was rampant  in those days, but not for us. We fished with No. 4, 6 and 8 single-hook flies, and it may sound like bragging but it’s not: we were good anglers and guides, and there was no need to snag fish. We fair-hooked fish on a regular basis. The sheer numbers of fish meant if we spooked fish in one spot, a short hike upstream or down would show us other willing fish. Spook one, and it was easy to find others in different locations.

The steelhead runs were huge in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and I can remember days on the Little Manistee River when we could hook 30 steelhead in a day. Not all fish were landed, but George and John tied the flies we used while I handled the guide bookings for all three of us.

We were a busy bunch, and were on the river every day. We knew where the salmon, steelhead or browns would be found from day to day, and we had little competition. We came and went, and sometimes Tres Amigos were all on the same stream, and at times we would be spread out across three different rivers. We’d compare notes at night, and decide who would fish where the next day.

John, 13 years younger than George and I, was a good-looking guy. I often paired him with husband-and-wife teams or father-and-daughters, and his great talent — besides catching fish — was being able to teach people how to fish. He was patient, and clients easily learned from him.

John McKenzie unhooks a spring steelhead for a client

George and I were older, and by nature, seemed to attract the older anglers or the chief person who brought a crew up to fish with us. We treated everyone the same; we’d fish from sun-up to sun-down if clients wanted to spend that much time on the river, and we cleaned and froze fish at night and would be up early the next day.

Guiding fishermen was a way of life for Tres Amigos, and we were very good at what we did. We could spot fish, coax anglers into putting the fly in exactly the right spot so it would be scratching gravel when it passed the fish. They would hit, and we’d have a big fishy battle on our hands.

One thing captivated the three of us: putting people into big fish for the first time. The smiles that crossed their face when they fought a 15-pound steelhead for the first time; got hooked into a 30-pound chinook salmon; or was trying to land a big hook-jawed male brown trout weighing 12 to 18 pounds. It’s been many years since those faces broke out into a smile, but we vividly remember most of them.

There wasn’t anything we wouldn’t do for each other. John was known to tie flies by hand on the river bank if we ran out. George was always there to coax anxious anglers into following a big fish downstream, and I was the guy that made it all work with the precision of a fine Swiss watch. All of us had a job to do, and we greeted each peach-colored dawn with a smile on our face and a jump in our step.

For 10 years we were Tres Amigos — three friends — who made a living in the best possible way — being outdoors, on the river, and with a client holding tight to a big fish jumping in the river.

We often went without eating, found ourselves upside down in the river current trying to net a client’s fish for them, and we looked out for each other. We also paid attention to our clients, catered to their every wish that was ethical and legal, and we coaxed more out of our client’s skill levels than they knew they possessed.

George Richey nets a 25-pound chinook salmon in fast water

We put people into fall-spawning rainbows that had tiny tails, fat waists, and a 23-inch fish would weigh 13 pounds. The browns, especially the big males, were a golden-bronze with big spots; the steelhead were mint-silver and high jumping; the chinook salmon were avid tackle busters, and some mighty battles would cover a half-mile of river. The coho salmon were seldom finicky about a fly: put it to them at their level, and they would hit.

It was a magical 10 years, and now brother George is gone. John McKenzie still avidly fishes, and he and I occasionally take trips down memory lane. We were there for the finest salmon and trout fishing this state has ever seen, and we pride ourselves on being the first river fly-fishing guides during those halcyon days.

And that, my friends, was pretty heady stuff years ago and it’s something we’ll never forget.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tags: dave richey, flies, fly-fishing, friends, guides, Michigan, outdoors, salmon, tres amigos, trout

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daverichey October 24th, 2009

Strange things happen while fishing, and many are remembered long after a limit catch has been caught, bragged about and eaten.

It was about this time of year 30 years ago when I was trolling Manistee Lake near Filer City with brother George, and Randy Colvin of Flint. We were trolling X-4, X-5 and U-20 FlatFish at putt-putt speeds.

I was trolling a U-20 silver FlatFish off the starboard side, Colvin was pulling a U-20 in grey-pearl off the port side, and George was using some weight and was fishing a chartreuse with red spot U-20 right behind the boat while running the outboard motor.

An against all-odds catch

It was a cold and blustery day when Colvin had a jarring strike. I began reeling my line in immediately when I felt the boat rock as he set the hook, and his line broke from a too-tight drag and too much hook-set. I'd made about 10 turns on the spinning reel handle when my rod tip shot down, and I was into a jumping fish that cleared the water behind the boat.

George reeled up, Randy reeled in his broken line, and that steelhead and I had a good battle. I gradually worked him out into deeper water, and soon he was swimming in circles 10 feet below the boat. I eased him to the surface where George slid a net under the fish.

No big deal here. But imagine our surprise when we learned that one small treble hook point of my lure went through the line-tie of Colvin's FlatFish. The odds of such a thing happening are well off the charts.

He howled that it was his fish, and me being a reasonable gent, suggested that his over-zealous hook-set and my finely timed retrieve was what led to my cleverly inserting a hook point of my lure through the line tie of his lure. Thus, any reasonable person should know that not only did I land the fish but also gained a new fishing lure.

I relented, after further reasonable thought, and gave him back his lure. I kept the fish. That seemed only fair to me.

Hooking the same big Chinook salmon three times

Another time, during my river guiding career from 1967 through 1976, I had occasion to fish the Betsie River with a fly rod and wet flies for chinook salmon. My clients had caught a bunch of fish, and being thoroughly tuckered out from running up and downstream after fish, had pulled up stakes after two days and went home.

A huge king was spotted upstream from a tree that had toppled into the water, and he was holding court with a big hen. I hooked that old boy once, and he ripped and snorted downstream, tangling my line in the fallen tree branches, and broke off.

I fished elsewhere for an hour, went back to the big king, and he was back out guarding the redd. I changed fly colors, rolled the dark fly in front of his nose, and he darted out to grab it. I set the hook, he uncorked a tremendous leap that landed him in the tree branches again. The line broke like sewing thread.

Two hours passed before I stopped by to pay him another visit. There he lay, alongside the nearly spent female, and they rolled up on their sides in unison, she discharging a stream of golden eggs while he let loose a cloud of white milt. They spawned until her eggs were exhausted and he could only muster one tiny puff of milt.

They had ended their spawning chores, and death would soon follow. I eased into the river again, made one cast, and the big male moved forward to intercept it. I set the hook, set it again, and literally forced him across the surface toward me. He slipped past me as I steered him clear of the tree branches and into the open river.

He headed downstream like a barge drifting out of control, and I followed him as fast as humanly possible. He rolled to the surface, thrashed around, turned sideways to the current, and he let the swift water carry him down to a deep hole. I knew the hole was clean of debris, and carried the fight to the now sluggish fish.

It was perhaps not the most noble end to his life, but he had fulfilled his destiny and would soon die, his carcass tumbling end over end downstream until it lodged in a log jam. I eased him toward shore, skidded his massive head up on shore, picked him up by the tail and it was over.

That fish, two hours later, weighed an honest 38 1/2 pounds on certified scales, a major catch on a fly and fly rod and 10-pound tippet. It's said that salmon are born orphans and die childless.

And that is a true fact, and I'd like to think this great fish (the largest Chinook salmon I've landed on a fly rod) graced my life and died in an honorable fight rather than succumbing to the wasting-away process that befalls all salmon. He blessed my life with his presence and his strength, and that memory will live with me until my death.

Three big brook trout from Algonquin Provincial Park

One last topic concerns a trip to Ontario's Algonquin Provincial Park for brook trout. My wife Kay and I hiked into a sparkling little lake as I carried a canoe on my shoulders. We began a slow tour along the first dropoff out from shore, and cast copper-color Devle Dogs toward shore.

Kay hooked the first brook trout on one of those Eppinger spoons, and it fought a stubborn battle on six-pound line, and I eventually netted a 5 1/2-pound lake brookie. It had broad shoulders abd within five minutes she caught another fish of about the same size.

Two hours later we pulled up to a big boulder along shore, and got out of the canoe to stretch our legs. My third cast produced a jarring strike, and a few minutes later I eased a five-pound brook ashore.

We fished the rest of the day without a strike but the size of those three brook trout have seldom been equaled elsewhere. It produced wonderful memories we'll both remember for many years.

Uncommon Fishing Experiences ((tag: Dave Richey, Michigan, Outdoors, brook trout, canoe, Chinook salmon, Devle Dogs, FlatFish, fly fishing, trolling))

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tags: brook trout, canoe, Chinook salmon, dave richey, Devle Dogs, FlatFish, fly-fishing, Michigan, outdoors, trolling

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daverichey September 28th, 2009

Positive thinking can take anglers and hunters farther down the road to success than negative thoughts. I’m going walleye fishing later this week, and I’m already feel confident and positive about catching fish.

One thing I’ve noticed over many years in this fishing and hunting business, and writing about trips and photographing them during my freelance career and my 23+ years as the staff outdoor writer for The Detroit News, is that negative thinking is a downer. People who also plan to go fishing tonight are probably asking themselves: “I wonder if we’ll hit the walleye bite tonight? I hope we catch some fish.”

Think positively at all times

Not me. I know we will hit the bite, know we are going to catch some fish, and feel good about our prospects. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit to being wrong on occasion, but none of us bat 1,000 percent. I find myself being successful far more often than not wit this attitude.

For me, my glass is always half-full while pessimists believe their glass is half empty. I am the eternal optimist. I try to see the upside about everything I do, and although that doesn’t work all the time, thinking positive thoughts are important to personal success.

I’ve used this analogy before. A red-white Dardevle has always worked for me when casting or trolling for northern pike. There is something special about the spoon’s wobble and paint job that turns on big pike.

So, do you suppose I’d make a pike fishing trip here in Michigan or in Ontario without carting along 10 pounds of Dardevles of various colors and sizes? It’s not very likely I would trust a day or week of my fishing time without bringing along lures that have always proved themselves as being superb fish-catchers.

Positive thinking leads to making better decisions

Positive thinking can make any fisherman or hunter better at these pastimes. Looking on the bright side of things is like carrying a lucky rabbit’s foot in your pocket. It gives you a mental edge, and often, that’s all it takes to become productive on the water or in the woods.

One of the key things about positive thinking is it has a tendency to point your brain in the proper direction, and that allows the human mind to filter out extraneous stuff and narrow our focus onto things that will help.

There isn’t a night I hunt deer that I don’t believe an opportunity will present itself. That I turn down many opportunities to shoot a buck or doe, or once or twice a year, hunt without seeing a single animal, is beside the point. It doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm or cause me to second-guess my reasons for being afield.

You see, I believe in myself and my personal abilities. I know what to do, when to do it, and am confident that my tactics will work. If they don’t, regardless of the reason, I still continue to believe in myself and that makes me much more confident when fishing or hunting.

Seek out opportunities & make ‘em work for you

Looking into the crystal ball doesn’t show me doom and gloom. It shows me a vast number of opportunities to succeed, to catch fish, shoot deer, and to do all of the other things that I write about.

It allows me to believe in myself. A personal belief that the fish will hit, the deer will move, the roosters will flush in front of the pointer, are deeply held beliefs. These thoughts bring hope to my heart, and with such positive thoughts, it makes me a better angler and hunter.

When and if something goes wrong, and the fish don’t bite or the game doesn’t move, it’s not my fault. There are days when such things do not happen, and it’s somewhat easier to chalk it up to how nature works. But, even though I get skunked on the lakes and streams at times, it’s not because I wasn’t thinking positively.

My beliefs are simple: I believe in my personal fishing and hunting abilities. I believe that I can catch fish and shoot a buck if I wish, and even though I pass up deer every year, the opportunities for success are there whether I choose to shoot or not. I believe my thoughts on fishing and hunting are positive in my mind, and that those thoughts and this whole concept is what makes me successful.

For me, believing in myself is very important. Anglers and hunters who strive to be optimistic rather than pessimistic are generally the most successful sportsmen of all.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tags: beliefs, buck, Dardevles, dave richey, doe, fishing, hunting, Michigan, northern pike, optimism, outdoors, positive thinking, whitetails

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daverichey September 23rd, 2009

My several experiences fishing Frenchman’s Pond with the late John Voelker, a.k.a. Robert Traver, taught me many things about fishing for brook trout.

The Bard of Frenchman’s Pond always believed in a calm and delicate fly presentation, and he believed these great game fish respond best to a cautious and delicate approach.

I think of the old Judge often, especially when fishing a back-of-beyond beaver pond where getting to the thing is two-thirds of the battle. The other third revolves around finding a receptive taker. Some beaver ponds are sterile.

One man’s thoughts on brook trout

Voelker once wrote that the environs where brook trout are found are invariably beautiful but much of what man has created is not, and if Judge Voelker was right about anything, it was his thoughts that Man could screw up a one-car parade.

Brook trout fishing is occasionally too easy which is why gluttons and other fools who would take a limit of fish today, return to do the same spot tomorrow, and clean up what is left on the third day, should never fish such waters because it is inherently wrong. As wrong as it is, many fishermen subscribe to the theory that if the trout are there, they are meant to be caught.

Such thinking has sounded the death knell for many once-thriving beaver ponds and small streams. The fish simply are too gullible in tiny waters to pass up any chance for a meal.

Show me a beaver pond that holds brook trout, and if the word is spread around, it no longer will be a beautiful, unsullied, fish-producing piece of wonderful water. Sadly, many people subscribe to the “Me first” attitude where the first person in to a pond deserves the spoils. It reminds me of Genghis Khan’s philosophy of rape and pillage.

Hide-outs for fishing cars

I’ve been known to park my car two miles away and hike in to a beaver pond to hide its identity and location. I once fished a tiny pond that produced some 14-inch bookies, and the hiding place for my car was between two huge white pines where the boughs obscured my vehicle. I was never found in that location.

Many little jump-across creeks that flow out of a cedar swamp are destroyed; if not by human pressure, than by the worm containers and beer cans or bottles people leave behind. Such things weigh much less when carried out empty than when carried in full.

An early start

I began fishing brook trout at a tender age of 11 on some tiny Michigan streams. I began by using bait, and garden hackle threaded onto a hook with one split-shot above, was all it took to catch trout in those long-ago days.

It’s all that is needed to catch brookies today. The bad thing is that under-size brook trout love worms, and they will swallow the bait. Easily two-thirds of the fish caught on live bait are killed before they reach legal size.

These days, if the area being fished is too confined for fly fishing, I’ll use a number 0 Mepps Aglia spinner. Two of the three hooks are cut off, and far fewer fish are hooked too deep. A treble hook simply requires too much time to remove without killing the fish.

Beaver ponds are like rare jewels that sparkle in the distance when glimpsed through heavy conifers. They are generally small and very fragile ecosystems, where the removal of too many trout will cause it to decline into a silt and marl-bottomed pond with no redeeming features.

Some of the best brook trout fishing I’ve had came on the land of a friend’s friend. The man never invited anyone in to fish except my buddy, and he would run others off with threats of calling the police.

Bribing the gatekeeper

My buddy knew that his friend had a fondness for strong drink, and whenever we showed up, a pint of whiskey would change hands. He’d make some excuse to his wife about why we were fishing the pond, and our fishing trips usually began at dark.

We’d carry in our fly rods, waders, swim fins and a belly boat. Wading the edges of that pond was a death trap. We would set off into the darkness, sitting in the belly boat, and cast flies here and there along shore. My friend usually caught the largest fish because he concentrated on the deepest water near the beaver dam.

On occasion, we would speak to each other, but for the most part we silently fished in the dark. Most of those brookies were at least 10 inches long, and we caught a few 16-inchers. We would keep one or two of the smaller fish — if we kept any at all — and fished that pond only once or twice a year. The pond went out in a spring freshet when snow melt and heavy rain washed out the dam.

Beaver ponds are like that. They survive between being washed out, and once they are gone, the brook trout go with them. It’s while they are vibrant and still alive that they can be the things of which anglers dream of but seldom find.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tags: beaver dam, brookies, dave richey, Frenchman's Pond, Johnny Voelker, judge, Mepps Aglia, Michigan, outdoors, ponds, Robert Traver, streams, up, whiskey

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daverichey September 22nd, 2009

Yeah, yeah, yeah …. I know. I wrote about coho and king salmon fishing in the rivers some time ago. So what?

Here’s what. I wrote that rain brings both salmon species moving up the rivers. Colder temperatures lower the water temperature, and rain that falls through cold air, also turns river water colder. That is what is happening now.

It’s a pretty elementary thing. That cold water, and slightly higher water levels, triggers salmon to move upstream to spawn.

Sometimes they will scoot 10 miles upstream, and sometimes they stop at the first deep hole, and sometimes they hit extremely well as soon as they reach a deep hole. There are times when they do not.

Salmon fishing over many years

I’ve fished river salmon since the first run in 1967, and have learned over 42 years that there is a lot I still don’t know about these game fish. What I do know is the cold rains in mid- to late-September cause salmon to move, and once they start moving, they are receptive to hitting.

Not always, though. Sometime nothing triggers a strike. These fish are not feeding but they will occasionally grab bait, flies or lures.

One thing stands out about Chinook salmon in Lake Michigan tributaries. Once they hit, and are fairly hooked in the mouth, they peel off on downstream runs that are difficult to stop. Anglers who remain rooted in one spot with a throbbing rod and a fish 100 yards downstream will seldom land that fish.

Salmon fishing can be a foot-race

The only way to keep pace with these fish is to stay with them. Years ago during my lengthy guiding career, I told my anglers: If you want to land these large fish, it’s necessary to follow them. Some fishermen would do it, and beach a big king. Others didn’t think it was necessary or didn’t want to work that hard, and they would seldom land a salmon.

It’s tough work whipping up on a fresh-run Chinook salmon from Lake Michigan. Their mint-silver scales may have faded a bit since entering the river, but they are a real handful.

Holes and runs are where most of these fish will be found before they move up onto spawning gravel, and as often as not, the water will have a generous amount of debris. One thing is certain: if the bait or the lure isn’t near bottom it’s not going to hook fish.

Here’s how

A gob of raw eggs still in the skein, and a bit smaller than a golf ball will work wonders when drifted downstream under a bobber. Attach a small splitshot a foot above the bait and add more splitshot until the bobber stands straight up and down when drifting with the current. Keep adjusting the bobber depth until it drags on bottom, and then shorten up about two inches.

Cast across the river and far enough upstream so the spawn will be skimming bottom through the hole or run. Sometimes small salmon or trout will peck at the bait, but when a big king or coho decides to latch on, the bobber gets sucked under.

There is nothing delicate about this fishery. Slam the hook home, and jab it home again, and hang on. If the fish comes up and jumps, try to pull him sideways. The fish will slam back into the river and may run 10 yards or 50 yards before stopping. My advice to anglers always was to stay as close to the salmon as possible.

Keep the hooked fish off-balance

If he tries to go to the right, pull from the left side. If it tries to swim to the left, pull hard from the right. Get right in tight to the fish, and often they will jump, splashing water all over the angler. I had one 30-pound king 25 years ago jump from five feet away, slam into my chest and it knocked me over in waist-deep water. That was my wake-up call.

It was quite a sight, me going downstream, trying to swim for shallower water one-handed so I could get my feet under me while the salmon ripped off on another downstream run. It was one of those you-had-to-have-been-there moments, but feel free to use your imagination.

Spinners work very well in deeper holes. Cast across and slightly upstream, allow the spinner to sink on a tight line, and reel just fast enough to make the spinner turn over.

Kings that hit spawn under a bobber don’t hit very hard. Chinook salmon that slam a No. 2, 3 or 4 Mepps Aglia spinner, can hurt your rod-holding wrist. These strikes are about as subtle as a train wreck.

The time to be out there is now. It’s 50 degrees at Traverse City and raining right now. It rained some yesterday and last night. The water will be rising up, and so will the coho and king salmon.

Meet them halfway on a river of your choice. The run doesn’t last forever, and catching saknib soon after they enter the river will provide anglers with a fight they will long remember.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Tags: Chinook, dave richey, Lake Michigan, Michigan, outdoors, rivers, saknib, salmon

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