By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
As soon as the sun topped the breaks to the east I saw them – three mule deer bucks across the creek, their antlers flashing in the bright light.
I dropped to the frozen ground, set up my shooting sticks and rested the rifle on them. Through the crosshairs I watched the bucks go about their business, which on this late November morning was chasing does.
There must have been two dozen mulies scattered across a football field size of prairie real estate. Deer kept disappearing and reappearing as they dropped into the dry creek beds that cut through the sage.
The country looked flat and featureless until you got into it and discovered it was veined with cuts and draws and low ridges.
For a couple of years I had driven past it on my way to hunt other places, dismissing it as just another expanse of hardpan prairie lacking enough vegetation to hide a grouse let alone a buck deer. But one evening in October I climbed the breaks above the valley floor to glass for antelope and saw that the hardpan stopped at the creek bank 200 yards from where I had parked the truck on the two-track. The country beyond was broken and covered thickly with sage, and sat just enough lower than the surrounding landscape that it was hidden.
Back at the truck on flat ground the country lost its allure. Dry, spare and dotted with prickly pear, it held little appeal, but now I knew better. Like a plain girl who attracts no attention until she smiles, the forgotten piece of creekbottom had flashed a million-dollar grin at me in the fading light. I was hooked.
Two days later I was back with the dogs and found sharptails in the thicker cover on the creek bends.
But it was the deer that caught my attention. They were thick as flies, emerging out of nowhere and racing across the flats only to disappear in an instant into a hidden draw.
And now I was set up in the sage, watching antlers flash in the sun. I caught movement off to the side and saw a doe trotting my direction, a young buck, head down, following closely behind. She stopped 20 feet away and stared hard at me until the buck bumped her and she ran off.
The glinting antlers began moving and I watched through the scope as one, two, three bucks walked out of the sage and onto the flat. They were young and fat and not yet in their prime. One by one they dropped out of sight.
I stood, shouldered the rifle and turned toward the truck. It had been a good first date but I didn’t want to press my luck. I walked into the landscape and likewise disappeared.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Wilderness in name only
By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
I’m a big fan of wilderness.
I like huge expanses of wild, undeveloped land into which I can disappear or just imagine doing so.
Until recently I didn’t think you could have enough wilderness. After all, it’s not something that can be manufactured, it can only be preserved.
Then I heard a rancher ask officials from the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge not to designate any more land on the refuge as wilderness.
He said doing so would increase elk depredation on his land and make managing the problem even more difficult than it is now.
He was angry. You could hear it in his voice and see it on his face.
During hunting season, he said, the elk seek refuge on those portions of the CMR already designated wilderness. There they remain out of reach to all but the most hardcore of hunters. Game retrieval is extremely difficult in wilderness areas where even wheeled carts are off-limits.
Hunters looking to fill a cow tag are seldom up to the challenge of packing the meat out on their backs and few have ready access to pack horses. Consequently, the elk hiding in the CMR’s wilderness and wilderness study areas are relatively safe during the hunting season.
And once the season ends they move back to the agricultural lands to feed.
In other parts of Montana, landowners suffer similar problems. Elk seek refuge on private land where no hunting is allowed and ravage farmland once the hunting season ends.
Elk become more difficult to manage as more folks move into their habitat.
In southern Phillips County, however, the problem isn’t development, but rather the lack thereof. It’s wild, rugged, beautiful country, but it’s been grazed and cut with roads for more than a century.
It’s also very small in scope compared to the more traditional wilderness areas in Montana. About the time you realize you’ve entered it, you’re already out the other side.
I suspect whoever suggested designating wilderness areas on the CMR has never disappeared into the Beartooths, hiked the Bob Marshall or gotten lost in the Scapegoat.
Perhaps wilderness designation on the CMR is the result of some federal bureaucrat’s feelings of guilt over running the refuge more for livestock than for wildlife.
Whatever the reason, designating more wilderness on the CMR will only create further hardship for those folks who eke out a living in this spare land.
I’m all for wilderness and all that it implies. Just don’t try to tell me what’s wilderness when it’s not. I know the difference.
Outdoors columnist
I’m a big fan of wilderness.
I like huge expanses of wild, undeveloped land into which I can disappear or just imagine doing so.
Until recently I didn’t think you could have enough wilderness. After all, it’s not something that can be manufactured, it can only be preserved.
Then I heard a rancher ask officials from the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge not to designate any more land on the refuge as wilderness.
He said doing so would increase elk depredation on his land and make managing the problem even more difficult than it is now.
He was angry. You could hear it in his voice and see it on his face.
During hunting season, he said, the elk seek refuge on those portions of the CMR already designated wilderness. There they remain out of reach to all but the most hardcore of hunters. Game retrieval is extremely difficult in wilderness areas where even wheeled carts are off-limits.
Hunters looking to fill a cow tag are seldom up to the challenge of packing the meat out on their backs and few have ready access to pack horses. Consequently, the elk hiding in the CMR’s wilderness and wilderness study areas are relatively safe during the hunting season.
And once the season ends they move back to the agricultural lands to feed.
In other parts of Montana, landowners suffer similar problems. Elk seek refuge on private land where no hunting is allowed and ravage farmland once the hunting season ends.
Elk become more difficult to manage as more folks move into their habitat.
In southern Phillips County, however, the problem isn’t development, but rather the lack thereof. It’s wild, rugged, beautiful country, but it’s been grazed and cut with roads for more than a century.
It’s also very small in scope compared to the more traditional wilderness areas in Montana. About the time you realize you’ve entered it, you’re already out the other side.
I suspect whoever suggested designating wilderness areas on the CMR has never disappeared into the Beartooths, hiked the Bob Marshall or gotten lost in the Scapegoat.
Perhaps wilderness designation on the CMR is the result of some federal bureaucrat’s feelings of guilt over running the refuge more for livestock than for wildlife.
Whatever the reason, designating more wilderness on the CMR will only create further hardship for those folks who eke out a living in this spare land.
I’m all for wilderness and all that it implies. Just don’t try to tell me what’s wilderness when it’s not. I know the difference.
A winter to remember
By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
I’m beginning to suspect that the Yahoo who said, “If you don’t like the weather wait 15 minutes,” froze to death a couple of weeks ago and is buried in a snowdrift.
The weather up here has changed little in the last month. Snow still covers most everything and while the temperatures have moderated a bit, the mercury continues to have a hard time getting out of the single digits.
Apparently I now live either too far north or east to benefit from the Chinook winds that clear the snow from the ground across much of Montana.
This has the look of one of those winters that children will hear about for the rest of their lives, just like the ones I heard about growing up.
“We had to walk 14 miles through knee-deep snow just to get to school,” my father used to tell me. “It was so cold when we milked the cows we got ice cream.”
A couple of 30-below spells combined with more snow than usual has given the landscape a decidedly Siberian flavor.
At least the roads have begun to clear. A couple of weeks ago there was so much ice on the highway north to Canada I cut short a trip to visit friends and turned around after just a few miles.
A large gathering of antelope – hundreds, maybe more – grazed in the snow on each side of the highway and I stopped the truck as a group of about 40 began to cross the icy pavement ahead of me. At least half of them lost their footing before they reached the other side of the road, and the last goat in line – a fawn – flipped upside down and landed on its back on the ice.
I eventually reached the relative safety of the snow-covered streets in town, parked the truck and took refuge in the warm house where I could forget about winter for awhile.
But the howling wind is hard to ignore, even with the volume cranked up while I watch “Spring Breakers Gone Wild.” Cabin Fever, I fear, may become harder to deal with this winter than the weather.
And even if I spend most of my time inside until spring, I’m sure I’ll forget that detail when regaling my great-grandchildren with stories of how I survived the winter of ’09.
But instead of waiting 15 minutes and expecting the weather to change, which apparently isn’t working this winter, I’m doing the next best thing: writing about it.
I have hopes that this column will have lost all relevancy by the time it’s published.
Perhaps the snowbanks will even have melted and that Yahoo will once again be spouting his refrain.
I just don’t know what else to do.
Outdoors columnist
I’m beginning to suspect that the Yahoo who said, “If you don’t like the weather wait 15 minutes,” froze to death a couple of weeks ago and is buried in a snowdrift.
The weather up here has changed little in the last month. Snow still covers most everything and while the temperatures have moderated a bit, the mercury continues to have a hard time getting out of the single digits.
Apparently I now live either too far north or east to benefit from the Chinook winds that clear the snow from the ground across much of Montana.
This has the look of one of those winters that children will hear about for the rest of their lives, just like the ones I heard about growing up.
“We had to walk 14 miles through knee-deep snow just to get to school,” my father used to tell me. “It was so cold when we milked the cows we got ice cream.”
A couple of 30-below spells combined with more snow than usual has given the landscape a decidedly Siberian flavor.
At least the roads have begun to clear. A couple of weeks ago there was so much ice on the highway north to Canada I cut short a trip to visit friends and turned around after just a few miles.
A large gathering of antelope – hundreds, maybe more – grazed in the snow on each side of the highway and I stopped the truck as a group of about 40 began to cross the icy pavement ahead of me. At least half of them lost their footing before they reached the other side of the road, and the last goat in line – a fawn – flipped upside down and landed on its back on the ice.
I eventually reached the relative safety of the snow-covered streets in town, parked the truck and took refuge in the warm house where I could forget about winter for awhile.
But the howling wind is hard to ignore, even with the volume cranked up while I watch “Spring Breakers Gone Wild.” Cabin Fever, I fear, may become harder to deal with this winter than the weather.
And even if I spend most of my time inside until spring, I’m sure I’ll forget that detail when regaling my great-grandchildren with stories of how I survived the winter of ’09.
But instead of waiting 15 minutes and expecting the weather to change, which apparently isn’t working this winter, I’m doing the next best thing: writing about it.
I have hopes that this column will have lost all relevancy by the time it’s published.
Perhaps the snowbanks will even have melted and that Yahoo will once again be spouting his refrain.
I just don’t know what else to do.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Wolves are eating well it seems
No wonder people are mad.
Fifteen years ago the recovery goal for gray wolves in the greater Yellowstone area was 300 wolves in three states.
Today there are nearly 1,500 wolves in Montana, Wyoming and Idaho yet the critters still aren’t considered recovered enough to hunt.
A reporter friend of mine who has written about the reintroduction of wolves since its inception, says the feds keep moving the goalposts.
Montana’s first public wolf hunt was to begin this year before a federal judge pulled the plug pending resolution of a lawsuit by a coalition of environmental groups.
Now those same groups, who have enjoyed the anonymity of simply being called environmentalists, are refusing to fund a program that compensates ranchers for livestock killed by wolves. And the Livestock Loss Reduction and Mitigation Program, which is attached to the State Department of Livestock, is running out of money. Paying for the 91 sheep killed by wolves near Dillon will reduce the remaining funds by nearly half.
But times are tough on environmental groups, too. Wine and cheese fundraisers cost more to put on than they used to and the fewer dollars coming in sure aren’t going to pay for some redneck rancher’s slaughtered livestock.
The estimated 1,455 wolves that roam portions of the three states, however, are eating well. In 2007, wolves killed 183 cattle, 213 sheep, 14 goats and llamas and 10 dogs. So far this year a registered quarterhorse was killed near Kalispell and a border collie was killed north of Helena.
And that’s just livestock. No one’s keeping track of the wild game gobbled up by wolves except hunters who have seen elk hunting around Yellowstone National Park change dramatically following the introduction of the gray wolf.
But that’s apparently OK. Elk and deer, not livestock, were the intended fodder and remain so today.
“To ensure the survival of wolves, these magnificent animals need to expand their range throughout the western states,” says John Marvel of the Western Watersheds Project. “There are many public lands across the West with abundant deer and elk populations that can and should sustain wolves.”
And if they don’t, there’s always livestock to eat.
Here are the groups no longer putting their money where their mouths are that have sued to stop the wolf hunt: Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, Sierra Club, Center for Biological Diversity, The Humane Society of the United States, Jackson Hole Conservation Alliance, Friends of the Clearwater, Alliance for the Wild Rockies, Oregon Wild, Cascadia Wildlands Project, Western Watersheds Project and Wildlands Project.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Fifteen years ago the recovery goal for gray wolves in the greater Yellowstone area was 300 wolves in three states.
Today there are nearly 1,500 wolves in Montana, Wyoming and Idaho yet the critters still aren’t considered recovered enough to hunt.
A reporter friend of mine who has written about the reintroduction of wolves since its inception, says the feds keep moving the goalposts.
Montana’s first public wolf hunt was to begin this year before a federal judge pulled the plug pending resolution of a lawsuit by a coalition of environmental groups.
Now those same groups, who have enjoyed the anonymity of simply being called environmentalists, are refusing to fund a program that compensates ranchers for livestock killed by wolves. And the Livestock Loss Reduction and Mitigation Program, which is attached to the State Department of Livestock, is running out of money. Paying for the 91 sheep killed by wolves near Dillon will reduce the remaining funds by nearly half.
But times are tough on environmental groups, too. Wine and cheese fundraisers cost more to put on than they used to and the fewer dollars coming in sure aren’t going to pay for some redneck rancher’s slaughtered livestock.
The estimated 1,455 wolves that roam portions of the three states, however, are eating well. In 2007, wolves killed 183 cattle, 213 sheep, 14 goats and llamas and 10 dogs. So far this year a registered quarterhorse was killed near Kalispell and a border collie was killed north of Helena.
And that’s just livestock. No one’s keeping track of the wild game gobbled up by wolves except hunters who have seen elk hunting around Yellowstone National Park change dramatically following the introduction of the gray wolf.
But that’s apparently OK. Elk and deer, not livestock, were the intended fodder and remain so today.
“To ensure the survival of wolves, these magnificent animals need to expand their range throughout the western states,” says John Marvel of the Western Watersheds Project. “There are many public lands across the West with abundant deer and elk populations that can and should sustain wolves.”
And if they don’t, there’s always livestock to eat.
Here are the groups no longer putting their money where their mouths are that have sued to stop the wolf hunt: Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, Sierra Club, Center for Biological Diversity, The Humane Society of the United States, Jackson Hole Conservation Alliance, Friends of the Clearwater, Alliance for the Wild Rockies, Oregon Wild, Cascadia Wildlands Project, Western Watersheds Project and Wildlands Project.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, October 2, 2008
There's enough old farts in town
I’ve reached an age where it appears I’d be better off living somewhere else.
For decades now, every time some magazine published a list of the most liveable places in the United States, Montana towns figured prominently. Whether it was in Outside Magazine, Fly Fishing, Men’s Health or Popular Mechanics, Bozeman, Livingston or Missoula always seemed to make the list.
Consequently, people who believe what they read chose to move here for the fishing, skiing, small-town atmosphere, convenience store casinos, whatever. Montana, according to the periodicals, was the place to be.
So here I stayed, my choice of where to live affirmed nearly every time I opened a magazine that included a list of the top ten places for almost anything.
Then my latest copy of AARP The Magazine arrived in the mail and my world was shattered. Not a single Montana town was included on the magazine’s list of America’s 10 healthiest cities.
Apparently now that I’ve eclipsed the half century mark it’s time to move to Ann Arbor, Mich., the No. 1 city on the list, which offers fencing and Pilates classes at the local YMCA and touts its efficient bus system.
What more could an old guy want?
Fargo, N.D., fifth on the list, is as close to my now outdated home as it gets. Fargo, says the magazine, ranks ninth in the nation for regular flossing and brushing, and the rolling prairie outside town provides “plenty of outdoor escapes,” perhaps from the sound of all that flossing and brushing.
Montana didn’t disappear from the radar completely. Missoula was mentioned for the 8.91 percent of its residents who bike or walk to work, and the lean body mass (25.97) of the Garden City’s populace.
Like a lot of other places in Montana, the town I now call home is small enough to escape anybody’s top ten list although the hunting and fishing out here is unrivaled, the folks are friendly, and most everyone appears to brush and floss. The outdoor escapes are endless and most of the ranchers in the area are actively involved in fencing.
Our mass transit system consists of a single bus, but considering our population of less than 2,000, that’s plenty.
I don’t begrudge AARP for leaving us off the list. As a matter of fact I’m grateful. We already have enough old farts in town. Including me.
So let them lust for Ann Arbor and flock to Fargo. I’ll enjoy the peace and solitude anonymity offers. At least until next month’s magazines arrive.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
For decades now, every time some magazine published a list of the most liveable places in the United States, Montana towns figured prominently. Whether it was in Outside Magazine, Fly Fishing, Men’s Health or Popular Mechanics, Bozeman, Livingston or Missoula always seemed to make the list.
Consequently, people who believe what they read chose to move here for the fishing, skiing, small-town atmosphere, convenience store casinos, whatever. Montana, according to the periodicals, was the place to be.
So here I stayed, my choice of where to live affirmed nearly every time I opened a magazine that included a list of the top ten places for almost anything.
Then my latest copy of AARP The Magazine arrived in the mail and my world was shattered. Not a single Montana town was included on the magazine’s list of America’s 10 healthiest cities.
Apparently now that I’ve eclipsed the half century mark it’s time to move to Ann Arbor, Mich., the No. 1 city on the list, which offers fencing and Pilates classes at the local YMCA and touts its efficient bus system.
What more could an old guy want?
Fargo, N.D., fifth on the list, is as close to my now outdated home as it gets. Fargo, says the magazine, ranks ninth in the nation for regular flossing and brushing, and the rolling prairie outside town provides “plenty of outdoor escapes,” perhaps from the sound of all that flossing and brushing.
Montana didn’t disappear from the radar completely. Missoula was mentioned for the 8.91 percent of its residents who bike or walk to work, and the lean body mass (25.97) of the Garden City’s populace.
Like a lot of other places in Montana, the town I now call home is small enough to escape anybody’s top ten list although the hunting and fishing out here is unrivaled, the folks are friendly, and most everyone appears to brush and floss. The outdoor escapes are endless and most of the ranchers in the area are actively involved in fencing.
Our mass transit system consists of a single bus, but considering our population of less than 2,000, that’s plenty.
I don’t begrudge AARP for leaving us off the list. As a matter of fact I’m grateful. We already have enough old farts in town. Including me.
So let them lust for Ann Arbor and flock to Fargo. I’ll enjoy the peace and solitude anonymity offers. At least until next month’s magazines arrive.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Shut up!
I woke at first light one morning last week to the barking of a dog.
My dog.
Even half asleep, I could recognize his voice.
He was raising a ruckus at the far end of our property, upset over some early morning walker or the paper boy. Next to me my wife still slumbered, or at least pretended to, so instead of my usual “Shut up!” I whistled and soon heard Jem race past the bedroom window.
Had Barb been awake I probably wouldn’t have yelled “Shut up” either. She prefers “No bark!” and in her presence that’s what I try to use or I’ll hear about it.
Mom and Dad would be proud. “Shut up” wasn’t allowed in our house when I was a kid especially if directed toward my sister. I think we used “Quiet!” when the dogs began to bark.
But somewhere in my sordid past, I made the switch to “Shut up,” and as is the case with a number of descriptive profanities I picked up along the way, I have a hard time making the switch to a more acceptable command like “No bark.”
“Dilly darn” it all anyway, I’m no Ned Flanders.
My younger daughter also has an affinity for the phrase. But her “Shut up” in no way calls for quiet. Leslie uses it to mean “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Which is often how my dogs react.
Especially Spot who barks with enthusiasm when fed, let out of the kennel or taken on a walk. She howls with delight when I’m readying my hunting gear and barks non-stop when I load the shotgun.
“No bark,” has no effect at all in those instances and reminds me a bit too much of a New Age parent asking an ill-behaved child if he needs a “time out.”
“Shut up!” at least gives Spot pause and still works magic on two-year-old Jem who remains a teeny bit afraid of me.
The whistle that morning only worked because he thought he was going to be fed. By the time he realized he wasn’t and returned to the far end of the yard, the ogre that had raised his ire was gone.
I’ll put up with the occasional bark. I enjoy hearing different canine voices. It’s incessant, non-stop barking I can’t tolerate. And I can’t believe “No bark!” is the rememdy.
But I’ll try, especially in the presence of my wife, to be more genteel in disciplining my hounds. She may just tell me to “Shut up!” if I don’t.
And she won’t mean “you’ve got to be kidding.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net.
My dog.
Even half asleep, I could recognize his voice.
He was raising a ruckus at the far end of our property, upset over some early morning walker or the paper boy. Next to me my wife still slumbered, or at least pretended to, so instead of my usual “Shut up!” I whistled and soon heard Jem race past the bedroom window.
Had Barb been awake I probably wouldn’t have yelled “Shut up” either. She prefers “No bark!” and in her presence that’s what I try to use or I’ll hear about it.
Mom and Dad would be proud. “Shut up” wasn’t allowed in our house when I was a kid especially if directed toward my sister. I think we used “Quiet!” when the dogs began to bark.
But somewhere in my sordid past, I made the switch to “Shut up,” and as is the case with a number of descriptive profanities I picked up along the way, I have a hard time making the switch to a more acceptable command like “No bark.”
“Dilly darn” it all anyway, I’m no Ned Flanders.
My younger daughter also has an affinity for the phrase. But her “Shut up” in no way calls for quiet. Leslie uses it to mean “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Which is often how my dogs react.
Especially Spot who barks with enthusiasm when fed, let out of the kennel or taken on a walk. She howls with delight when I’m readying my hunting gear and barks non-stop when I load the shotgun.
“No bark,” has no effect at all in those instances and reminds me a bit too much of a New Age parent asking an ill-behaved child if he needs a “time out.”
“Shut up!” at least gives Spot pause and still works magic on two-year-old Jem who remains a teeny bit afraid of me.
The whistle that morning only worked because he thought he was going to be fed. By the time he realized he wasn’t and returned to the far end of the yard, the ogre that had raised his ire was gone.
I’ll put up with the occasional bark. I enjoy hearing different canine voices. It’s incessant, non-stop barking I can’t tolerate. And I can’t believe “No bark!” is the rememdy.
But I’ll try, especially in the presence of my wife, to be more genteel in disciplining my hounds. She may just tell me to “Shut up!” if I don’t.
And she won’t mean “you’ve got to be kidding.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting kids hooked on fishing
Getting a kid hooked on fishing isn’t always easy.
Sometimes the fish just aren‘t biting, the weather’s inclement, the tackle’s too complicated. Sometimes the kid would rather be doing something else.
But every once in a while it works and you can see it in their eyes, and even if they wanted to, they can’t throw that hook.
My two oldest granddaughters came up for a visit the last week in July. It was their first trip away from home by themselves.
Barb and I weren’t sure what to expect. We planned to take them out in the boat, but didn’t know how they would take to trolling, which was how we had been catching fish lately.
Teagan, at 7, is already an experienced angler. Her dad has taken her fishing at the lagoon near their home in Livingston since she was tiny. Her little sister Hayden, 5, fishes too, but still prefers dolls and stuffed toys to spinning rods and crankbaits.
Following a short run down the lake, we slowed to trolling speed, dropped the lures in the water and I handed Teagan a rod.
Hayden crawled up on the foredeck and started playing with her dolls.
I half expected Teagan to join her after a half hour or so, but it wasn’t a minute later and she was into a fish.
“I’ve got one,” she announced calmly, then proceeded to start cranking on the reel, the rod bowed with the weight of the walleye.
I was tempted to help her reel, but instead just watched and soon she had the fish alongside the boat where I netted it and pulled it aboard.
“Wow,” said a breathless Teagan. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”
We put the 2-pound walleye in the cooler turned the boat around and resumed trolling. She caught a few more before her sister said it was time to quit fishing and ride the tube.
We fished the next morning and Teagan got skunked. But it took nearly two hours of fishless trolling for her to lose interest.
She was hooked.
Teagan caught five walleye and a whitefish on the third morning, delighting in the struggle to land them.
Barb entertained the girls that afternoon while their exhausted grandfather took a nap. They each made badges from construction paper, Teagan’s declaring her the “Champion of Walleye.”
She wore it home the next day after vowing to come back and fish every summer, “Even when I’m in college,” she told us.
Whether or not her siblings will become fishermen or not is yet to be seen. I’m sure their father will give them the opportunity.
And I certainly hope they take the hook.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Sometimes the fish just aren‘t biting, the weather’s inclement, the tackle’s too complicated. Sometimes the kid would rather be doing something else.
But every once in a while it works and you can see it in their eyes, and even if they wanted to, they can’t throw that hook.
My two oldest granddaughters came up for a visit the last week in July. It was their first trip away from home by themselves.
Barb and I weren’t sure what to expect. We planned to take them out in the boat, but didn’t know how they would take to trolling, which was how we had been catching fish lately.
Teagan, at 7, is already an experienced angler. Her dad has taken her fishing at the lagoon near their home in Livingston since she was tiny. Her little sister Hayden, 5, fishes too, but still prefers dolls and stuffed toys to spinning rods and crankbaits.
Following a short run down the lake, we slowed to trolling speed, dropped the lures in the water and I handed Teagan a rod.
Hayden crawled up on the foredeck and started playing with her dolls.
I half expected Teagan to join her after a half hour or so, but it wasn’t a minute later and she was into a fish.
“I’ve got one,” she announced calmly, then proceeded to start cranking on the reel, the rod bowed with the weight of the walleye.
I was tempted to help her reel, but instead just watched and soon she had the fish alongside the boat where I netted it and pulled it aboard.
“Wow,” said a breathless Teagan. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”
We put the 2-pound walleye in the cooler turned the boat around and resumed trolling. She caught a few more before her sister said it was time to quit fishing and ride the tube.
We fished the next morning and Teagan got skunked. But it took nearly two hours of fishless trolling for her to lose interest.
She was hooked.
Teagan caught five walleye and a whitefish on the third morning, delighting in the struggle to land them.
Barb entertained the girls that afternoon while their exhausted grandfather took a nap. They each made badges from construction paper, Teagan’s declaring her the “Champion of Walleye.”
She wore it home the next day after vowing to come back and fish every summer, “Even when I’m in college,” she told us.
Whether or not her siblings will become fishermen or not is yet to be seen. I’m sure their father will give them the opportunity.
And I certainly hope they take the hook.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
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