GIANT SMALLMOUTH OF THE QUETICO WILDERNESS

written by Bill Cooper

Over 1,000,000 acres of pristine wilderness, filled with hundreds of lakes full of giant smallmouth bass, await the adventurous angler in Canada's Quetico Provincial Park, just across the US border from the Superior National Forest.

Paddling at least one day away from the entry point puts anglers into the best fishing in Quetico. The scenery along the way is spectacular.
In fishing circles, the very mention of Canada conjures up images of vast reaches of wild country where people are few and fish are plentiful. Many anglers have the notion that one must venture to the far reaches of Canada to enjoy world class fishing. Not so for smallmouth. Some of the best smallmouth bass fishing on the planet exists in the Quetico Provincial Park on the northern US border.

Created in 1913 by the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources, Quetico is a world class preserve. One legend says the word "Quetico" was borrowed from a Cree term describing a benevolent spirit, whose presence was felt strongly in places of great beauty. The meaning is a perfect fit for Quetico.

The Quetico Wilderness remained roadless until 1954, when one road was built into Dawson Trail Campground. All other entry points into the Quetico area are by water routes. The only travel routes in the interior of the park are portage trails established long ago by Native Americans.

Several species of fish may be caught in the Quetico region, including walleye, lake trout, Northern pike, crappie, perch, largemouth bass and smallmouth bass. Smallmouth bass have become the center of attention among anglers since the introduction of the species in the 1960's.


Giant Quetico smallmouth fall to a variety of lures including Flukes, spinnerbaits, Chompers, jerkbaits and crankbaits. This behemoth took a Woodchopper.
Friends Justin and Greg Richardson joined me for a five-day smallmouth fishing adventure into the bowels of Quetico. Both are avid smallmouth fishermen and canoers, but neither could realize what lay ahead.

Williams and Hall Outfitters (www.williamsandhall.com) hauled our gear and canoes from their lodge on Moose Lake, by boat, to the Prairie Portage entry point, where we cleared Canadian Customs. Williams and Hall have almost 30 years of outfitting experience. Blayne Hall mapped our route and wrote notes on our maps where the best smallmouth fishing could be found.

The magic of wild Canada enveloped us immediately. The remote Ranger Station at Prairie Portage quickly faded away to the strokes of our paddles as our party headed northwest out of Inlet Bay. We could have spent a day paddling up Moose Lake to the border crossing, but our anxieties to begin catching big smallmouth overruled excess paddling.

Clear, blue skies and hefty waves met us as we entered Bayley Bay on the eastern end of Basswood Lake. Determined to put miles between us and the entry point, we resisted the temptation to stop and fish. The broad expanse of Bayley Bay fell quickly to our paddles. Soon we approached our first portage at Burke Lake. We had selected this northern route to quickly remove us from Basswood Lake, one of the busiest in the entire Quetico Area. Having done our homework, we knew that only two parties per day were allowed to travel the route we had selected.

We held our rods until we reached the upper, narrow passage of Burke Lake. We soon began landing smallmouth bass in the 3-pound range. "This is incredible fishing; the best smallmouth I have ever caught" Greg Richardson said. I casually informed him that much better fish lay ahead.

Resisting the urge to linger, I began paddling towards the next portage, which would put us into North Bay of Basswood Lake. Our planned goal was to reach Lost Bay, a small lake off the northwest corner of Basswood.


Portages are an ever present part of canoeing and fishing the Quetico Wilderness. Some portages are over a mile in length.
Rocky shorelines became more than I could stand. I had to start fishing. I tossed spinnerbaits and skirted grubs to likely looking spots. The bite started slow. The wind picked up sharply making it difficult to hold the canoe. I switched to a pearl-colored Fluke and tossed it as the canoe drifted. Smallmouth attacked it with a vengeance. I marked the spot on my map.

Greg and Justin had paddled ahead, anxious to get a comfortable camp established. Greg served as camp boss. A division of labor paid off handsomely. Camp set-up proved a cinch.

The Richardson duo elected to explore Lost Bay. I paddled back two miles to pick up where I had left off, in spite of the wind blowing down North Bay.

I worked the leeward side of two islands to avoid the wind as much as possible. Strikes came at every cast of the Fluke. Smallmouth hid in the crevices between boulders, darting upwards to inhale the foundering Fluke. A slight twitch to make the bait dart and dive like a wounded minnow was all it took to entice strikes.

Clouds rolled in and dusk approached. I had to hug the western bank to paddle into a strong headwind. I lost ground every time I paused to cast. However, the extra paddling proved worth the effort. Smallmouth in the 3-to-4-pound range raced to the top of the whitecaps to snatch the Fluke.

A welcome break from the wind came when I turned the canoe into the western passage leading to Lost Bay. My partners had a cozy campfire going when I pulled ashore. Their excited voices crackled as they began telling their stories of the big smallmouth they had landed.

Rain began falling by the time we finished dinner. A steady downpour greeted us at dawn the next morning as well. We spent the next day and a half rushing out to fish during breaks in the weather. We were never disappointed in our catch, however.


Justin Richardson poses with a pair of Quetico smallmouth: a five- and six-pounder.
The third day out produced the largest fish of the trip. All three of us kept our two biggest fish of the afternoon for photos. The legal limit is two fish per person per day to be used for meals. After photos, we released our smallmouth to fight another day. Of the six fish, none went under four pounds. Justin caught the largest smallmouth, a behemoth 27-inch fish. We estimated the brusier to weigh between 7 and 8 pounds.

"I never knew smallmouth got that big," Justin said of his once in a lifetime trophy. "The Quetico area is an amazing fishery. Every smallmouth fisherman needs to make at least one trip here," he added.

We kept thinking the fishing would slow, but smallmouth clobbered our baits everywhere we traveled. Flukes produced the majority of our fish, but other productive baits included Chompers, spinnerbaits, Rattlin' Rogues, Sammy's, Pop-R's, Wood Choppers, Spit'n Images, Wiggle Warts and spoons.

Blayne Hall recommends planning a fishing trip to Quetico during the spawn. "That can occur anytime between the last week of May to the second week of June," he said. "It all depends on water temperature, with 60 degrees being the magical number.

I have fished Quetico twice during the second week of June and experienced tremendous success. One advantage of fishing the spawn is being able to sight fish. I like using a fly rod during this time. Muddler Minnows, Clouser Minnows and streamers all produce fish.

Paddling out of Quetico on the last day of our trip cast a melancholy mood over our trio. We all wanted the adventure to last forever. "I will remember this trip for the rest of my life," Greg stated, "especially the bear scare."

"Ah, get over it, Greg," I remarked. "It was only a charred, black stump."

Planning a trip to Quetico Provincial Park may prove daunting to first timers. Utilizing the services of an outfitter is wise. Contact the Ely, Minnesota Chamber of Commerce for a list of outfitters. Or, if you want to begin planning your own trip, contact the permit reservation office at 888-668-7275. Permits may be acquired up to five months in advance. To acquire the route you want into Quetico, plan early. Only a limited number of people are allowed into the area each day.

If solitude, the rigors of wilderness canoe travel, incredible scenic beauty and big smallmouth bass appeal to you, the Quetico Provincial Park is a must for your destination list. Your paddle whispers. Your canoe glides.

TEAL HUNTING THE YUCATAN

Teal Hunting the Yucatan
Bill Cooper for ADVENTURE SPORTS OUTDOORS

“Patos, Patos, Patos,” my Mayan Indian guide whispered in my ear. I had seen the streaking blue-winged teal. They darted and screamed through the mangrove swamps from every direction. The only reason I wasn’t shooting was because two other Mayan guides were still tossing out decoys.
I’ve had a lifelong dream of duck hunting in the Yucatan of Mexico. Stories of bountiful ducks and fabulous shooting opportunities graced the pages of major outdoor magazines and teased my adventurous senses for decades.
After surfing the internet for weeks, I settled on Yucatan’s Adventour Sisal Lodge. Owner Pedro Peon quickly invited me down to sample the teal hunting action. Every few days he e-mailed photos of his hunting adventures, tempting me to come down. I quickly made reservations.
Aramando Perez, the Public Relations Director, and Pedro met me at the airport in Merida, Mexico at 9 p.m. We had hearty introductions and Aramando whisked me off in the lodge van to the fishing village of Sisal an hour away. Aramando proved to be an encyclopedia of information filling me in on the history and culture of the area as well as providing up-to-date duck hunting information.
We bounced through the tiny village of Sisal, broke out of the edge of town and turned down a dirt lane lined with palm trees. A quarter mile down the lane we broke into the open. There sat the charming Sisal lodge among the trees and flowering shrubs. I could hear the ocean waves crashing on the beach just behind the lodge.
Aramando helped me with my bags. I immediately fell in love with a charming bedroom. Just outside the window lay an inviting pool with jungles just beyond it. Out my back door an inviting veranda complete with a hammock framed a beautiful view of the ocean. Sisal lodge had to be a piece of heaven.
My bags had no more than hit the floor when a tall, dark, handsome gentleman in a white coat came out of the kitchen with a martini and a fresh platter of prepared seafood. Aramando and I feasted and made plans for the next morning’s teal hunt.
Voices softly called my name. The big red numbers on the clock read 3:30 a. m. I immediately thought everyone was anxious to talk some more. Indeed, we chatted, laughed and became closer friends over a quick breakfast of fresh fruits and coffee.
Aramando and two local Mayan guides hustled around a mountain of duck hunting equipment. The trio had the gear stashed in a four wheel drive pickup in short order. They chattered in Spanish and seemed to be discussing which spot we would hunt that morning. A wildlife area, much like our conservation areas lay just outside the edge of town. It consisted of many thousands of acres of vast mangrove swamps and lagoons. My trio of guides finally settled on a very good hunting spot 27 miles down the beach and through the jungles. The ride to the area became an adventure in and of itself. Four wheeling enthusiasts would love the fast drive down the beach and over the sand dunes and out through the jungles.
On arrival to our destination the guides unloaded two 10-foot john boats. No motors are allowed in the wildlife area. I immediately thought we would be hunting very close to the truck. However, the guides sported long mangrove poles which they used to propel the boats. The experienced boatmen poled the small boats about two miles into the jungle. The ride was incredible. Bird life abounded and I truly felt that I was on a great adventure.
My guide and I quickly shoved our boat into a clump of mangroves while the other two tossed out decoys. Teal were already flying. “Patos, patos, patos,” my guide kept repeating. “Twelve or twenty?” he asked. I nodded and he handed me a 12-gauge camouflaged Benelli, every duck hunters dream.
As I stuffed shells into the magazine, the order came, “Senor, shoot the patos!” And the fun began.
I have hunted waterfowl for 40 years and I have never witnessed anything like what I experienced that morning. Thousands of teal buzzed and darted and dived through the lagoons. Shots came too quickly to respond to most of them. But, there was no shortage of shooting opportunities.
“Tuk,tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk”, the guide called on a wooden call. The calls sounded very different from the whistles we use in the U.S. for teal, but worked very well as teal continued to steam into our decoy set. The shooting continued to be phenomenal, satisfying my grandest dreams about duck hunting in the Yucatan.
Thousands of flamingos coursed their way across the lagoons headed to feeding grounds. One of the guides indicated he knew where many of the flamingos liked to feed just a few hundred yards away. He generously poled the boat near that location to allow me to photograph the gorgeous birds. Watching the bird life in the jungles provided as much enjoyment as the duck hunting.
We returned to the lodge for a sumptuous lunch and a much needed siesta. Aramando and I toured the fishing village and surrounding area during the afternoon and returned to the lodge for dinner. The cook had prepared our teal by taking the marinated breasts, placing a hot pepper and cream cheese inside, wrapping them in bacon and grilling them slowly over an open fire. That teal recipe is the finest I have ever eaten.
I spent the next morning hunting with Pedro Peon and his two sons. We laughed and enjoyed one another’s company. Duck hunters seem to be the same everywhere.
Pedro had mad arrangement s for me to present a duck hunting seminar for the Mexican government during my visit to Sisal. They were hosting their first ever “Fins and Feathers Fair” to raise awareness about conservation issues among the general public. Pedro served as my interpreter. The program was very well received with lots of questions after the presentation.
The Mayan people are very warm and friendly and my duck hunting adventure to the Yucatan far exceeded my expectations. Pedro Peon and his staff at Sisal Lodge are superb. And they know how to get the ducks. You can find them on the web at www.yucatanadventour.com
Teal hunting across the Yucatan is at its best in March as the birds are migrating back north. I hunted in February and had more shooting opportunity than at any other time in my life.
A light set of camo heavy with green colors works well in the mangrove jungles. An extra shirt or light jacket will keep you comfortable in the early morning hours. Temperatures feel to the low sixties during my hunt. It felt great to me, but the locals were freezing.
The guides worked hard to keep me dry, pushing the boat all the way to the shore each time we landed. They stripped to their bare feet for the process. I wore a pair of RedHead, waterproof, calf-height work boots, which worked perfectly for the shallow water areas.
Some type of insect repellant is necessary to keep mosquitoes at bay. Your guide may provide spray, but bringing your own is a sure preventative.
Lodges will provide guns and ammo. You may bring your own shotgun into Mexico for a $150 fee. And you are only allowed to bring two boxes of shotgun shells across the border. Do not break that rule. It can be very expensive.
If you are a fanatic teal hunter in the United States, you owe it to yourself to visit the Yucatan during teal season. It is a teal hunter’s dream come true.
There are several duck hunting lodges in the Yucatan. Simply Google “teal hunting in the Yucatan” and you will find several listed.
Last tip – shoot a lot of sporting clays before you to the Yucatan!

A SONG AND A DANCE

Bill Cooper

-Singing ocellated turkeys and baby tarpon dancing on their tails in the land of the Mayas-

Today’s adventures begin in the soul, an enigma inspired by recollections of the travels of bold characters of the past. Caught in a lane too fast for my liking, the words of John le Carre`, “The desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world,” kept running through my mind.
Saltwater spray stung my nostrils as Cpt. Miquel Encalada (campecheflyfishing@hotmail.com) brought the Mako flats boat up onto plane and sped across the placid blue waters of Campeche Bay, Mexico. “Welcome to my world,” Cpt. Encalada yelled above the boat engine’s roar. His tanned smile echoed heart stirring emotions, “Our adventure begins.”
I felt the swell moving up my throat. I had waited a lifetime for such an adventure. My break came at the invitation of Luis Augusto Garcia Rosado, the Director of Tourism for Campeche State, Mexico. Over the next twelve days I would dive into the charming cultural, natural and historic world of the land of the Mayas on theYucatan Peninsula of Mexico.
The Los Petenes Biosphere Reserve stretches for 80 miles near Campeche City. Mangrove estuaries, turtle grass flats, innumerable channels throughout the jungles, freshwater creeks and spring upwellings all contribute to the idyllic hides for baby tarpon.
A swelling sun burst red and orange stripes onto towering clouds to the East. Daybreak approached as Cpt. Encalada completed the 30 mile run and swung the boat towards a lagoon encircled by dense jungle.
“We are on a falling tide,” Encalada said. “The water will be flowing from the mangroves. We will intercept tarpon as they leave the mangroves to return to the bay.”
With stripped line piled at my feet and a chartreuse Tarpon Toad in my hand, I stood ready for the first cast. “Watch for the bubbles,” Encalda instructed. “Cast five feet in front of them and begin stripping the line as fast as you can.”
“There, there, 50 feet ahead. See them?” Enclada excitedly queried. Mikey turned the boat to offer me the best cast.
I whipped the 9 weight Temple Fork Outfitters rod into action and shot a line towards the cruising fish. Flyline burned across my fingers before I’d had time to make my first strip. A 5-pound Silver King danced across the dark waters of the lagoon. My Tarpon Toad landed next to the boat.
“That happened too fast,” I exclaimed. I had just learned rule number one when flyfishing for tarpon: Be ready. Encalada kindly suggested that I keep my rod tip touching the water while stripping and to use a series of hard yanks, with the rod pointed at the fish, when a strike came.
“More tarpon ahead,” Encalada whispered. I took a deep breath and began my casting routine, attempting to get enough line out to reach the pod of fish 70 feet away. One, two , three false casts and I let the fly fall on the fourth and final haul. “Perfect,” the Captain complimented.

“They are chasing the fly, strip, strip, strip!” The commotion of a striking tarpon will unnerve the most experienced fisherman, but I kept my composure and set the hook. A 12 pound beauty flung its silvery body straight up out of the water slashing its massive head side to side attempting to eliminate the sting in its jaw. I bowed slightly as the fish crashed back into the water, hoping to keep my tippet in tact.
Three jumps later the tarpon tired and slid to hand. Mikey boated the splendid fish. I marveled at the rugged beauty of this ancient species. Such moments should last forever. On the other hand, the morning had just begun. More tarpon adventures lay in the mangroves ahead.
Campeche is a laid back Spanish Colonial town of about 400,000. Well off the beaten tourist path, it offers a peaceful, tranquil ambiance sought by man travelers. A diverse history is well documented in the many parks, sculptures, museums and ancient churches which dot the city. Mayan ruins are nearby as well. Cobblestone streets, built from the great wall which once completely surrounded the city to deter pirates, compliments the colorful buildings.
With my first tarpon under my belt, I turned my attention to the ocellated turkey which inhabits the jungles in a 50,000 square mile region of the Yucatan Peninsula in the states of Quintana Roo, Campeche and Yucatan as well as southern Tabasco and Chiapas. Small populations also exist in northern Belize and Guatemala.
Outfitter Jorge Sansores (snookinnjorge@hotmail.com) joined me at the beautiful Campeche Plaza Hotel for a late dinner. March and April are the prime months according to Sansores. Although it was May, Sansores agreed to take me and my hunting companion, well known turkey hunter Ray Eye, to the field the following morning near teh farming village of Carlos Cano Cruz.
I had been intrigued the evening before by Sansores’ description of vast corn, milo and soybean fields surrounded by thick jungles. All of the research I had done indicated that hunters pursued ocellated turkeys in the dense jungles and shot them out of trees. As the tourism van bumped down the last of the rough roads before reaching the hunt headquarters, I silently wondered what my first day of ocellated turkey hunting would bring.
Across the dirt road from the main lodge stood an old open air shed. It would serve as our hunting headquarters, since the main lodge had already been closed since it was so late in teh seasson.. There in the predawn Eye and I met Sansores, his son,xxxxx and two Mayan Indians, Aurelio Sanches Hernandez and Margarito Campos, who would serve as our guides.
Laughter filled the archaic hut as introductions were made and we as hunters from two vastly different cultures sized one another up and began to understand that we were all of a kindred spirit. Eyes twinkled as we each took turns pantomiming some past personal adventure of turkey hunting. Ray Eye charmed everyone with his owl hoots, loud yelping and thunderous gobbles.
“El pavos sings instead of gobbling,” Sansores laughed.Eye, a big man, responded by pirouetting like a strutting gobbler while simultaneously singing a bouncy tune. Any concerns about the ensuing hunt faded with the uproarious laughter.
Roadblockers flitted in the headlights ahead. The whip-poor-will, the same bird we listen to in the Ozarks, earned its monicker because of its incessant habit of perching in the middle of the dirt roads of Mexico. Seven miles from the village, the driver pulled over.
Our hunting party trekked a mile down the edge of a plowed cornfield surrounded by jungle. “We’re going to hunt these birds just like we do back home,” Eye quipped.
Aureilo dropped his gear in the red dirt and hacked his way into the jungle with an oversized machete. Within minutes he had a space perhaps 10 x 20 feet opened. He motioned for us to bring our camp chairs.
Thirty minutes prior to daylight, Aureilo pointed to his ears and then pointed across the corn field to the jungle on the far side. I heard it distinctly, the singing of an ocellated gobbler.
Bongo-like bass tunes continued steadily. The cadence of the singing gobbler quickened and increased in volume until it reached a crescendo where upon the bird issued a high-pitched, but melodious series of chops. I quickly fell in love with this new found sound to me, the song of el pavo.
“Pavo, pavo,” Aureilo whispered. I borrowed his Nikon binoculars and laid eyes on my first ocellated turkey. My heart pounded with excitement.
The majestic bird strutted and sang for the next two hours. “These turkeys act just like ours back home,” Eye said. “We will have calls when we return next year. I’ll call el pavo to the gun.”
Aureilo indicated that the singing bird sported perhaps two inch spurs, one of the trade marks of ocellated turkeys. The peacock colored birds lack beards, but make up the difference with charm and beauty.
The giant bird, perhaps 15 pounds, strolled across the corn field and into the jungle 200 yards away. Aureilo signaled that the time had arrived to call it quits for the morning.
Sandwiches, cool drinks and hammocks for a siesta awaited us at the shed. Only the sounds of crowing roosters interrupted the snores that echoed from the hammocks.
At 3 p.m. we headed back to a blind further down the field. He had not been in position long when Aureilo ducked down while while indicating a turkey approached from the left. Eye turned slowly towards me and said, “It’s 25 yards out. Stand up and shoot it!”
Before I spotted the bird, it stuck its head inside the jungle 5 feet away. We held steady. At 7 yards, I pulled the trigger on the ancient xxxx shotgun, fulfilling a pair of lifelong dreams to enjoy the song of the ocellated turkey and see the dance of the Silver King in the land of the Maya.

BOOTHEEL DUCK HUNTING HOTSPOT

The voice of a sweet sounding Southern Belle rang through the phone. The lady on the other end of the line turned out to be a high school friend, now Mrs. Silvey Barker. He had not seen one another in over 40 years. Silvey’s father, the late Sam Jones, had been instrumental in keeping me in college in my younger days. “Miss Silvey”, as she is fondly referred to, had called about duck hunting.
As it turned out Ms. Silvey worked as the Director of Tourism for East Prairie, where I had attended high school so long ago. East Prairie is home to the Missouri Department of Conservation’s Ten Mile Pond Conservation Area, which is a duck hunting Mecca. Ms. Silvey is a tireless promoter of the region and quickly explained that the success of the Ten Mile Area had spilled over on to private properties.Ten Mile can only accommodate so many hunters and the excess gunners looked to area farmers for hunting opportunities. Ms. Silvey helps the two parties connect.
I quickly accepted her invitation to Dian and me to duck hunt at two of the finest duck clubs in the area and also spend a day with her husband Sam hunting green timber on one of his farms.
Ms. Silvey also took care of accommodations for us providing a variety of charming places for us to stay during our duck hunting adventure.
The 1,000-acre Pinhook Hunting Club joins Ten Mile Pond CA. The whole area has attracted ducks by the tens of thousands for hundreds of years. I grew up on the borders of Ten Mile before it became a conservation area. I watched untold numbers of ducks and geese pour into the area each season. Pinhook offers hunts in flooded green timber, natural sloughs, corn, soybeans and rice fields. And their guides and highly trained dogs are top notch and an absolute pleasure to watch.
Our guide tossed out a hundred decoys next to a small patch of flooded timber. A 75-yard square area of open water lay before us, surrounded by standing corn. We had landed in duck hunting heaven. And our guide worked his magic on his calls as flight after large flight of mallards poured into the area.
To book a hunting trip with Pinhook Hunting Club call as far ahead as possible. Manager Rick Schuerenberg can be reached at 573-380-0249 or check their Website at www.phchuntingclub.com.
After our hunt ended at Pinhook Hunting Club we traveled a short distance to Second Chance outfitters, owned and operated by Steve and Angie Jones. The Jones are area farmers and have responded positively to the requests of duck hunters looking for places to hunt if they were not successful at the morning draw at Ten Mile Pond CA. Jones converted a tractor shed into a beautiful hunting lodge and now houses hunters for the entire waterfowl season.
Scott Downing, the principal of East Prairie High School, and an avid waterfowl hunter served as our guide. Downing and his retriever, Avery, provided a duck hunting expedition which will always remain in our hunting memories. Downing hauled us by ATV to a strategically located pit blind in the middle of a flooded rice field. We climbed out of the pit hourly to break ice to keep a hole open for approaching ducks. It worked beautifully as birds circled into the brisk north wind and hovered over the hole in the ice directly in front of our pit blind.
Large flocks of mallards circled overhead, seeming to be flying in all directions. Bunch after bunch went down just off the corner of a woodlot to our northwest. Downing’s calling began to work and soon a pair of greenheads drifted towards our set. When his order “shoot” came, I stood, pushed the blind cover forward and found a plump mallard drake in my sight picture. The duck folded and tumbled to the icy water below at the report of my Stoeger 12-gauge. “Wow, that extended range Winchester load killed that duck stone dead,” I laughed.
Downing nailed the second duck and had Avery on the way for the retrieve a soon as the second duck splashed down. I thrilled at the sight of dog and master working together in such a harsh environment.
It didn’t take long to get another trio of mallards to head for the hole. As I kicked the blind cover back, Dian had already zeroed in on a drake climbing for the sky. When we followed Avery out of the blind to retrieve another pair of mallards, Dian said, “I think I just killed my first mallard drake.” The smile on her face told the whole story.
Our hearts raced when two dozen Pintail Sprigs began losing altitude and circled our decoy set several times. Our hearts sank, as the most beautiful birds in the world of waterfowling flared and headed west. “Those guys are hard to fool,” Downing offered in consolation.
Our day sped by as we continued to watch hundreds of ducks fly into surrounding rice fields. The twenties temperatures began to sink in as the afternoon progressed. Dian required a new set of waders for the afternoon. Her trout fishing waders weren’t thick enough to keep the intense cold out. But, she toughed it out and became a veteran duck hunter in her own right
“That was absolutely awesome to see so many ducks flying and coming to the rice fields,” she stated. “And I will never forget seeing Avery make retrieves so far out. I never knew a dog could locate game that had fallen so far away. He was truly amazing and entertaining to watch.”
After the hunt we retired to Second Chance Lodge for a hot meal and showers. The comfort of the couches and soon the beds added that perfect touch to a long, cold and productive duck hunting day. Dreams of more ducks filled our heads.
Extreme cold and freeze- up conditions prevented us from hunting with Sam Barker the following morning, but we are scheduled for a rain check in January 2010. Can’t wait.
For further information about duck hunting around East Prairie, go to www.eastprairiemo.net/waterfowl.htm.

THE RED RIVER VALLEY GOBBLER

Bill Cooper
Jan 2010

A tall, lean Texan thrust his hand into the fading early morning darkness and said, “Mornin’, Bill. Welcome to Texas. I’m Sherman Wyman.”
I felt at home already. Wyman planned to take me hunting for a Rio Grande gobbler on his 1,900 acre Clay County, Texas ranch. Daybreak approached rapidly as we spoke.
“I think you are in for a grand turkey hunt this morning, Wyman said with a Texas-sized grin on his tanned face. “I roosted a bunch of birds down on the river last night.”
I could not have heard sweeter words. Wyman knew his stuff as well as the lay of the land. There is nothing comparable to roosting birds the night before the hunt. It offers a great advantage when approaching the birds for the first calling setup the next morning.
“I have already been down there this morning,” Wyman whispered. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. This guy is my kind of turkey hunter. “I jerked an immediate response from a gobbler with my owl hooter,” Wyman continued. “We need to get going, but I think we will arrive just about right.”
Wyman hopped on his ATV. I followed in my pickup. We wound our way down a curvy ranch road through rolling hills of lush, green grass, a testament of Wyman’s dedication to this piece of land he had restored through his conservation efforts.
We paused briefly to watch a wild hog scramble over the crest of a hill to the east. We continued forward, flushing a pair of Bobwhite quail from lane side cover.
As my pickup topped the last hill, which lay cloaked in Indian paintbrush, a panoramic view of the Red River Valley appeared. Tall oaks, cottonwood and locust trees formed a riparian corridor which resembled a giant serpent stretched across the landscape in the fading darkness.
Wyman stopped 75-yards short of the heavily wooded river bottom. I scrambled for my gear while the cameraman shouldered the camera gear. We hoped to film the entire hunt for my first Rio Grande gobbler.
Wyman’s long legs covered ground quickly. Forty yards inside the wood line, he paused. Our surroundings looked very similar to a river bottom back home in the Missouri Ozarks.
Rumblings of distant gobblers echoed down the river valley from both directions. “Let’s set up right here,” Wyman said. We staked out a couple of decoys while the cameraman nestled into the abundant cover.
I unfolded my Cabela’s stadium seat turkey vest and made myself comfortable against a small hackberry tree. Being very comfortable, including back support, helps the toughest of turkey hunters to hang with the hunt a little bit longer. The lush bluestem grass made the perfect blind cover.
I stroked a soft tree yelp on my Quaker Boy slate call. Seconds later I increased the volume to a throaty yelp, then a short cackle. Multiple gobbles boomed back from 150-yards away, immediately. I shuffled 90-degrees to my right and reset. I cackled again. Surprise! The group of gobblers had already covered half the distance. They were coming fast.
I cackled non-stop for 15 seconds. The birds bellowed their approval of my serenade. They were closing in.
Sudden silence can unnerve even the wariest of old gobblers. I held my call. The first red head bobbled behind an old locust deadfall. Then another and another and another. Seven jakes scurried for position to arrive first.
I purred softly on my slate call. The youngsters thundered back at me, their combined gobbles creating a heavy rumble from twenty yards. I combined my mouth and slate call into a cackling duo. The jakes boiled into a gobbling frenzy like I had never heard.
Wyman’s ranch held lots of mature gobblers. The jakes presented an easy target, but it was only twenty minutes past shooting time. We elected to watch and listen as the jakes headed to a sandbar on the banks of the Red River, that thin line which separates Texas from Oklahoma. There they gobbled and danced like so many drunken ballerinas, an incredible show that I will long remember.
Rowdy gobblers from both the east and west of our location had begun to answer my calls. I suspected things were about to get very interesting.
Wyman and I estimated that the closest mature gobbler sounded off 300 yards away. We closed the distance by 75 yards and setup again. I waited five minutes to let thing settle down. My heart hit my throat so hard it gave me a headache when I made my first call from our new location. That old boss gobbler had closed to within 80 yards.
I have harvested over 80 turkeys in my lifetime, but I will never forget the tail fan of my first Rio Grande Gobbler as it appeared above the bluestem grass in that Red River valley hardwood forest.
The grand old gobbler bellowed once again as it broke into the open in full strut. I settled the bead of my shotgun at the base of its neck as it waltzed ever closer to our hide. The magnificent tom broke strut and periscoped its head looking for the lusty hen in the brush. The perfect shot opportunity – but I held my fire. The bird appeared perfectly comfortable and I didn’t want to rush the moment. I wanted to see the tom strut once more. Feathers glistened like diamonds in the morning sun. A palette of iridescent colors flashed as the tom edged closer.
As always seems to be the case with wild turkey gobblers, the grand old Rio gobbler finally smelled a rat. He folded from the strut position and nervously began to walk away.
My 30 years of experience hunting gobblers in several states did not help my steadiness. My heart pounded and I detected a slight shake of my hands. When the tom reached an open spot, 30 yards out, I slowly squeezed the trigger. The load of 3-inch, 12-gauge Hevi-Shot number 6’s put my first Rio gobbler down for good.
Wyman and I raced to the flopping gobbler. My short legs kept up with his much longer legs. “Look at those spurs.” Wyman gasped. “They are a good 1 3/8-inches long. This is the best gobbler ever taken on my place.”
After all congrats and photos, I sat for a while on a flower covered hilltop above the Red River Valley. I captured the memory of my first Rio Grande gobbler and the grand country which provided it.

A STAB IN THE DARK - FROG GIGGING MADE EASY

Bill Cooper 7/11



When the sun goes down, the dark world of a flowing river comes to life. Wildlife abounds along water courses and many critters wait until nightfall to begin their secretive explorations of the watery world for food. There is no better way to see and hear the animals that prowl, howl, hoot, swim, fly and croak than to go on a night time frog gigging trip. It is an adventure like none other.
Jason Parsons, Pat Ybarra and his two sons, x and Y, joined me for a fun filled evening of frog gigging on the Meramec River recently. The boys were especially excited as I pulled into Yabbara’s place to pick everyone up.We stowed everyone’s gear and packed ourselves into my pickup truck for the drive to the river.
The boys asked a thousand questions as we drove down the highway. They wanted to know everything from how many frogs we would get to who would trying gigging first. It promised to be an interesting evening.
Everyone helped get the boat into the water and all of the lifejackets and other gear transferred from the truck to the boat. All five of us loaded up to take a little boat ride until darkness neared. The ride gave everyone chance to become comfortable with the boat before we began our night’s work.
We drifted slowly downriver taking in all of the sights and recalled the places where, several years previously, all the girls in the family had gigged their first frogs. J.P. and and I relived some laughs from that night so long ago.
I had a particular slough in mind to begin searching for frogs. We motored slowly downstream about a half mile to the entrance to the backwater slough. We had to climb out of the boat and drag it through the narrow, shallow entrance to the shallow water area which was surrounded by fallen trees and willows.
Soon after we entered the slough the first frog bellowed at the far end of the waterway. Thirty minutes of daylight remained. The Ybarra boys began building sand castles on a spit of sand they had discovered. Pat Ybarra and Jason Parsons decided to do a little daylight stalking on shore. they had each heard frogs in different locations and decided to test their skills. I watched.
I heard Parsons mumbling, then he jabbed with his gig. More mumbling followed. It seemed the frog heard him coming and hightailed it through the weeds to higher ground. Parsons vowed to return for revenge.
Soon bats began to fly. We made our last preparations before shoving off into the oncoming darkness.
I poled the boat slowly down the shoreline while Ybarra shined a big light along the banks. Parsons manned the front of the boat as the first gigger.
Only minutes into the trip, Ybarra spotted the first frog of the evening. I cocked the boat just slightly so that I could see the frog illuminated by the powerful light.
The boys whispered and pointed at the frog as I maneuvered the long, narrow boat into position. Ten feet, five feet and moving. Parsons readied his gig as I closed the distance to two feet. A quick jab and Parsons had his first bullfrog of the evening.
The Ybarra boys entertained themselves by checking out the frog while we continued the hunt. Within minutes we were on the second frog. Everyone had their job down pat. Ybarra held the light steadily on the frog while I maneuvered the boat. Parsons, poised for to strike with his gig, leaned far forward to make the kill. He struck the frog with a great deal of force. However, when he started to raise the frog up out of the mud and moss it managed to wriggle off the gig and get away. All of us in the boat razzed Parsons about letting a little frog outdo him.
He reached the far end of the slough. Ybarra’s light picked up a couple of frogs in very shallow water ahead of us. He and Parsons stepped out of the boat and slowly crept towards the frogs. Ten minutes later they returned to the boat with the pair of bullfrogs in hand.
Ybarra and Parsons switched places in the boat. Ybarra had become the gigger and Parsons the spot lighter.Frogs groaned up and down the slough. the evening promised to provide several more frogs.
It didn’t take long for Ybarra to find and spear the next frog. We could another frog about 20 yards down the bank. As we neared the location, we discovered that the frog was well hid back up under the foliage of a fallen tree. Ybarra, determined to get to the frog, slid over the gunwale into the dark water and black mud on the bottom. He quickly sunk to his thighs in the slough mud, but insisted on pursuing the treetop frog.
The situation looked doubtful. Ybarra would have to wade through limbs and mud and logs to get near the frog. Then he would have to reach up over a high log and gig downwards to stick the frog which had perched on another log.
I expected the frog to win as Ybarra made his final step and tiptoed to get over . log in front of him. He took long seconds to steady himself. He eased the gig slowly downwards and made a swift jab. Everybody in the boat began quizzing him about the results. “Of course I got it,” came his reply.
Ybarra managed to nail a couple more respectable frogs. As we neared the river end of the slough, where we had entered, Parson’s light caught a frog sitting on a mud flat. Lance, the youngest of the Ybarra boys asked if he could try to get that frog.
Lance’s dad, Pat, slid over the side of the boat together. They quickly sank into the black, stinky, swamp mud. However, Lance was determined and continued his approach. When he reached the bank, he sank so deep into the mud he could not pull his feet out. When he finally pulled one foot free, it was without a boot. Lance slogged onward. When his stealthy, muddy approach had brought him to within 8 feet of the frog, the frog had had enough and hopped into the slough. Everyone heaved a big sigh for Lance and congratulated him for a grand effort.
Midnight neared. Everyone, tired and muddy, agreed to head for home.

HOT DAYS BRING HOTTER SMALLMOUTH FISHING

Bill Cooper

8/11



Heavy rains the night before left me in doubt about the possible success of a smallmouth trip fishing buddy Dale Goff and I had planned. Experience has taught me that fishing is far better before a weather front moves through the area than afterwards. However, Goff is one of the best smallmouth bass fishermen I know. I folded to his insistence that we make the trip.
Heavy fog hung over the river and droplets of water spilled from riverside trees as we slid the canoe into the water. Goff took the front and I manned the stern, more intent on photographing the big smallmouth Goff expected to catch.
Daily temperatures had pushed the 100 degree mark for over a week. This day would be no different. Coupled with my my notions about weather fronts, I fully expected our float and fish trip to be a hot, miserable affair with few fish to show for our efforts. Seldom am I a pessimist about fishing, but this day just did not bode well in my opinion.
Less than yards into the float, Goff hooked his first smallmouth bass, a scrappy 12-incher. “Whoa,” Goff laughed. “He hit that Fluke like a torpedo!”
Goff is a fanatic about the Fluke, a minnow looking, 5-inch piece of soft plastic. “Smallmouth hate these things,” he lauded. “They seem to hit them out of a deep aggressive reaction.”
A few casts later Goff hooked another smallmouth. It promptly threw the hook. “Dang it,” he yelled.
“You can’t catch ‘em all,” I needled as I picked up my rod for the first time. “I don’t know why not,” Goff needled back.
The cool morning air refreshed our spirits after each of us had spent over a week working out tin the 100 degree temperatures. Too, we had the river to ourselves. Our cares drifted away with the current. We were out to have a good time. It had been years since we had been on the river together. We fully intended to catch up on fishing and enjoy one another’s company. No better place to accomplish that than on the river.
Goff’s rod arched as another smallmouth hit is Fluke and jumped out of the water sending the Fluke back at the canoe. “They aren’t eating it,” Goff mused. “But they hate these things and strike them anyway either to kill this intruder or run it off.”
I finally hooked my first fish and enjoyed the short fight. A dozen fish later, we had not seen any of the really big smallmouth that Goff had been catching over the last few weeks.
The action slowed and I concern showed on Goff’s face. He had invited me on this trip so that I get get photos of some big, Ozarks smallmouth bass. Thus far, that plan had not panned out. Regardless, I kept paddling and he kept fishing.
I reminded Goff about my theory concerning weather fronts. “Could be,” he said. “But, I have caught big smallmouth here in all kinds of weather.”

The next couple of miles produced few small fish, but nothing photo worthy. I intended to jab Goff again when he yelled,”Oooooh, this is a big one.”
I didn’t doubt his word because of the bend in his rod. I caught a glimpse of the fish in the clear water. Its broad, brown side flashed in the sunlight like gold. “Hang on to this one,” I coaxed. “I think I may have to break out the camera, if you get this one to the boat.”
I promptly snapped a dozen frames of the 17-inch smallmouth, a good fish in anyone’s book. “Now that fish ate the bait,” Goff quipped as he released the fish to fight another day.
Minutes later he repeated the process. “We should catch several nice fish from this hole,” Goff said. “They are turned on now. We just need to watch for big rocks about eight feet from the bank with a good current running by them. That seems to be where they are holding.”
I watched closely as Goff made his next few casts. The Fluke sank slowly out of sight as he twitched it slightly on the retrieve. I saw a bronze flash dash from the rocks. Goff boated another nice smallie.

“Bill, how about paddling us across the river to those big, downed trees while I tie on a spinnerbait? I think I can jerk largemouth out of there.”

He did just that on his very first cast to the big logs. A scrappy three pound largemouth inhaled the white spinnerbait. It made for a good photo.
“Now can you paddle back to the other side?” Goff quizzed. “There is a really good hole over there and I want to tie my Fluke back on.”
He proved himself right again. It didn’t take long for him to hook and land a 19-inch smallmouth. Several smaller fish fell to Goff’s tactics on the first float through the hole.
We had just reached the tail out of the hole when Goff sheepishly asked me to paddle back to the head of the hole. He caught another big bass on the trip back up river and another on the way back down. Three more times I paddled back upriver to float the whole one more time. He caught big fish every trip down, one we estimated at 22 inches. It hung over both ends of the 18-inch ruler. By now, I had taken well over 200 photos. My smallmouth bass file had graduated to the plump state.
During the last two miles of the trip we stopped to wade, fish and cool off a few times. The cool river water felt grand in the sweltering heat. And I caught a few fish.

A day on the river with a good pal is one thing, but to witness a fisherman who knows how and where to fish for big smallmouth bass is something altogether different. I had never seen so many quality smallmouth bass caught in one float trip. I can’t wait to go again.
Oh, did I mention where we were? I forget!