TURKEY CAMP FOOD - CAMPECHE STYLE

I have grubbed out, chowed down and generally made a pig of myself at the best of turkey hunting camps. However, my February, 2012 trip to Campeche, Mexico proved to be the home of the best turkey camp grub in the world. Jorge and Roberto Sansores and staff provided their usual camp fare, which is the closest thing to heaven when it comes to food. Stone crab,shrimp shis-ka-bobs, king mackerel, salads and fresh fruits and vegetables almost convinced our hunting party that it would be more fun to stay in camp and eat rather than hunt the beautiful ocellated turkey. http://snookinnhunting.com.mx

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TURKEY HUNTERS NEEDED

The Yucatan is home to the almost threatened ocellated turkey. The beautifully colored birds have a range of only 50,000 square miles. Large flocks exist in a few agricultural areas where the food supply is plentiful, but most birds live and are hunted deep in the dense Yucatan jungles. Hunters are needed. The Mexican government does not have sufficient funds for conservation efforts. Hunters dollars will put a value on these birds and provide

for much needed conservation projects in the land of the Maya. To support the cause of helping with conseravtion efforts for the ocellated turkey, book your hunt by contacting Jorge Sansores at snookinnjorge@hotmail.com.

EXPLORING CAMPECHE, MEXICO

Campeche, Mexico is a Spanish colonial town of about 4000,000 people on the Gulf side of the Yucatan Peninsula, two hours from Cancun on the Caribbean side. Campeche is off the beaten path and is just now being discovered by tourists. There are few white sand beaches here. Campeche, known as the walled city has a rich culture and as is steeped in proud history. The 80 mile long Los Petenes Biosphere Reserve is found here. Statutes of past heroes and beautiful parks adorn the friendly, laid back city. A fort overlooking the bay still stands as it did hundred s of years ago. Remnants of the 8-foot thick rock wall, which once encircled the city to keep pirates out compliments the narrow streets and colorful store fronts. Deeply religious and heavily family oriented, the people of Campeche are wonderful. Nine Cathedrals adorn the city, each unique. Orchestras often play in Camepeche Square. Fabulous restaurants, open air markets, street vendors, a fish market, near Maya ruins, great hunting, fishing and exploring opportunities and a splendid, linear ocean front park make Campeche, Mexico one of my favorite places on earth.

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.