Wednesday, August 20, 2008

FISHING - ALASKA'S ANCHOR RIVER




SILVER SALMON OF THE ANCHOR
By Jim Foster

The Anchor is one of Alaska’s shortest rivers but one with the charm and quality deserving split bamboo rods and hand tied salmon flies.

This is where the locals go to unfurl their fly line across a clear swift river. And, in September this is where the silver salmon and steelhead trout go to find their way back to the places of their births four or five years past.

Located 60 miles south of Soldotna and just north of Homer, the Anchor River is usually the least-fished of any river by visitors to the Kenai Peninsula.

The Anchor has many crossing points only calf deep making it easy to wade. This river is best known for the strong runs of steelhead trout returning to its clear waters in the fall. Many entering the river after most of the salmon have passed.

The September salmon fishing is excellent with the Anchor also having runs of king, pink and silver salmon on an grand scale.

The Anchor offers king salmon anglers the longest season of the three southern Kenai Peninsula streams ... with the season open Memorial Day weekend and the following four weekends.

King fishing is usually the best on the last two weekends of the season. There is also a king salmon derby on the Anchor sponsored by the Anchor Point Chamber of Commerce.

Dolly Vardens, pink, and silver salmon all return later in the season with the best silver fishing in August and early September leading into the steelhead fishery that is a fly angler’s dream. After the first of September, the Anchor like most other rivers and streams, become purely artificial and single hook water. Fly fishermen abound here.

Most steelhead fishing is done using a fly rod although an ultra-light spinning or casting rig can make for some very exciting rock dancing. Returning steelhead love flashy spinners or Mepp’s type lures.

Oh yes, one other thing about the Anchor River, The Anchor Angler Tackle Shop.

It’s not only one of the best fly shops in many miles but it’s the best people shops in Alaska. The coffee pot is usually full and the owner is never too busy to give good information on just what has been happening on the river. He should know; you can hit the river with a rock from his shop door.

My visits to the Anchor River have been numerous with varying results. On one trip I never uncased a rod. Run off from a hard rain in the mountains the night before had still not found its way into Cook’s Inlet. The river was muddy and swift. So, it was coffee and conversation at the fly shop.

Several days later the river ran clear. The sound of the river was urging me on as my fly gear was assembled on rivers edge. Although I didn't know it at the time but this would be the day when my quest for a trophy Anchor River silver salmon would be accomplished.

A slight wind from the south awarded the air with a slight chill. A light misty rain fell off and on most of the morning. The short hike down stream to near the mouth of the river was uneventful. Several other anglers were already on the river. The river ran quiet and was lightly pock marked by the small raindrops.

My first cast looped into the current - the purple fly was swept along and into a cut along the opposite bank - then drifted into a small pool and across another shallow ripple. This cast was repeated several times before a flash of silver straightened the line and the rod was raised setting the hook.

Before the salmon could make its first jump it became clear the fish was already into the backing. The 5-weight rod was bending nearly double. Easing off the drag and following the fish down river was the only remedy. Wearing hip boots today instead of chest waders made remembering where the deeper holes were very important.

Just when it was becoming clear the angler was to be the runner-up in this battle, the silver turned into a calmer pool and line was added to the reel. The steady pressure of rod, line, drag, and her jumps had taken their toll. A few minutes later the fish was led into a nearby shallow and to net.

The damp weather caused a mild chill as the bright female was reflected in the diffused light. She was a pre-spawn female and had just entered the Anchor River less than a mile away from Cook’s Inlet.

Removing the fly from the corner of her mouth she slipped gently back into the cold clear current and eased away. Stopping for a brief moment in a small eddy she rested, then with one quick move of her tail entered the faster water and was gone. Once again she was on her way to the place where she was spawned many years before. There in that place to lay her eggs - then slowly die.

Considering the light fishing pressure upstream, the weather, and the time of year there was a good chance she finished her trip and deposited her many thousand eggs in the river.

It is a pleasant thought to think in a few years perhaps my grandson and I will have the thrill of casting a fly to her returning off-spring in the clear and bubbling water of the Anchor River.

A river does run through the town of Anchor Point, Alaska.

If you have comments or news for Jim Foster please Email him at: jim@jimfosteroutdoors.com

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

HUNTING - UP A TREE



HUNTING? GO CLIMB A TREE
By Jim Foster

Once upon a time many, many years ago a young man went hunting in the piney woods of his state.

Despite the opening the story is true, but I have always wanted to begin a story that way, “Once upon a time”.

The young man walking along that morning in the dark was me. The small beam of my old Boy Scout L shaped flashlight did keep me from tripping over a few things and crashing into the guy I was following. We were walking to my stand. I hadn’t ever seen this stand, but from the stories told the preceding evening, old Bill Hunterguy had killed a big one out of that stand several years ago.

A few minutes later I was shining my light into what looked like a tangle of twisted boards held on by rusty nails driven into dead limbs.

“It was alright the last time I was here”, came a meek voice from the dark. Even at my young age, or maybe because of my age I bit my tongue and didn’t ask how many years ago it had been.

My flashlight was dimming so before the batteries died and I was in the dark I started the climb. The steps creaked and the tree groaned, but soon I was sitting on the horizontal board with limbs sticking in my back.

“Get a big one,” said by buddies as they walked off their lights vanishing into the trees. It took me several minutes to break off enough limbs to lean back against the tree. I hadn’t been told to but I did take a length of rope and tie myself snuggly to the tree so I could relax and wonder what is was I had forgotten to do.

Well, for one thing wear more cloths. My thin Sears and Roebuck long Johns were not doing the job and my old coat was leaking frosty air at every seam. It was cold.

After what seems like hours the woods started to take on shape and form as the sun thought about getting on with the day – now the sounds started. It could have been deer but my best guess it was squirrels and birds that made those noises. A mockingbird was chasing grasshoppers in a dry creek bed 50 yards away while someone in the distance started a chain saw. I just sat and watched and watched and watched some more.

I watched right up until the eight-point buck appeared in the creek bed. Where did he come from?

It was then I remembered what I had forgotten to do.

You guessed it - my rifle and daypack were still at the bottom of the tree. Oh yes, I had tied a rope to them so they could be pulled up but in my desire for comfort I had not accomplished the task. The old Marlin 336 .35 Remington was of no use where it was.

I wondered if that buck had ever seen a rifle climb a tree as I started hoisting the fire stick. The rifle was doing fine until the barrel bumped a dead limb, this tree was loaded with them, breaking off the stick. Now the little buck was on full alert and took several steps. As I eased the rifle into the stand another thought crossed my mind. My ammunition was in my day pack.

Being recently discharged from the service I did have plenty of descriptive words to fit the occasion.

Lifting the pack went a bit quicker because I felt I was running out of time. It now was full light. Quietly I found my ammo and tried to load the lever action as quietly as I could.

The buck reacted to each click and metallic mini-sound but at last I was loaded. Easing back the hammer the buck was looking right at me. Taking a deep breath then letting half out I started to squeeze the trigger. At that very second the buck’s head snapped around and a split second later he was gone.

Before I could utter further expletives someone said, “Did you see anything? Its cold out here, come on down and let’s get some coffee.”

Will power is a wonderful thing.

If you have comments or news for Jim Foster please Email him at: jim@jimfosteroutdoors.com

Saturday, August 16, 2008

HUNTING - TEXAS WHITEWING



ALMOST A LONESOME DOVE
By Jim Foster

What’s up in Austin at Texas Parks and Wildlife? In past years dove seasons were set weeks ago, printed in the TPW Outdoor Annual, and hunters from across the country were making plans. Not this year.

For some unknown reason, I didn’t call to find out, TPW has had to print an Early Season Migratory Game Bird Digest supplement they say was available August 15 from license vendors and on the TPW web site. Now if the computer in Austin that runs license sales works we may get to hunt.

Don’t forget all Texas hunting licenses expire August 31.

In spite of all the red tape and delays all of my sources are predicting and excellent hunting season. Habitat conditions are in great shape and Dolly hit after the chicks were about grown and added enough moisture to get the environment back in shape.

The special whitewing season has become more of a social event than what might be called a hard-core hunt. Don’t get me wrong these hunters want to take a limit of birds home for the skillet but in the field the appearance is a different matter.

If you are hunting one of the many planted sunflower patches just look around. You will see families and groups of hunters with their hunting chairs, ice chests, and some will be cooking on charcoal cookers.

Many decades ago when I first hunted along the border I was amazed at the hunters who would even bring their young goats to the hunt. I learned that lesion quickly and now enjoy a young goat from time to time.

Special White-winged Dove Area (which encompasses all of the Rio Grande Valley, as always, and now stretches west of I-35 and south of U. S. Highway 90): white-winged dove afternoon-only (noon to sunset) hunting September 6-7 and 13-14;

Mourning dove season then will open September 20-Nov. 9 and again from December 26-January 9.

The daily bag limit during the first two weekends is 12 birds, not more than four (4) mourning dove and two (2) white-tipped dove.

The daily bag limit during the remainder of the Special White-winged Dove Area is 12 birds, not more than two (2) white-tipped dove. Possession limit is twice the daily bag.

For the 2008-2009 mourning dove seasons the South Zone: September 20-November 9, and again opening December 26-January 13. There will be a 12-bird bag and not more than two white-tipped dove during this hunt. Possession limit is twice the daily bag limit.

In the North Zone: September 1-October 30, with a 15-bird bag including not more than two white-tipped dove.

The Central Zone opens September 1-October 30 and will reopen on December 26-January 4. The limit here is 12-birds including not more than two white-tipped dove. Possession limit is twice the daily bag.

Good hunting!

If you have comments or news for Jim Foster please Email him at: jim@jimfosteroutdoors.com

NATURE - THE MOSQUITO HAWK




THE COMMON NIGHTHAWK
By Jim Foster

In traveling the around the country watching, photographing, and writing about our feathered friends one species has seemed to have gained favor with the birdhouse building masses - the Purple Martin. Their houses are seen in a multitude of states. In some areas of the country these man made accommodations are their main nesting sites.

However, this article is not about the purple martin it’s about a bird no one builds houses for – that’s OK because these birds wouldn’t use a birdhouse even if someone built one. The Common Nighthawk.

Many years ago I remember seeing red eyes shining in the road from the cars headlights. The names “bullbat”, “goatsucker”, nighthawk, as well as other less attractive names come to mind. What we were seeing was the light reflecting in the eyes of the common nighthawk (Chordeiles mino).

The common nighthawk is not a hawk at all but a member of the nightjar family. The nightjar family includes the whip-poor-will and the common poorwill.

The common nighthawk is a jay-sized bird of about 10 inches in length with mottled grayish-brown feathers; a long forked tail and long pointed wings with a broad white wing bar. The common nighthawk has a large mouth with bristles that help it catch insects. Males have a white throat patch and a white tail bar. Females have light brown or cinnamon colored throat patch and no tail bar.

While in flight, the common nighthawk catches flying insects like flying ants, mosquitoes, moths and grasshoppers. It feeds at dawn, dusk and at night. It will sometimes feed during the day, especially if it is overcast. It is sometimes called the mosquito hawk.

The common nighthawk breeds from the Yukon east to Nova Scotia and south through most of the United States except Hawaii and spends its winters in South America.

Mating season runs from April through July. The nighthawk doesn't build a nest. The female lays from 1-3 eggs on the ground in an open gravely or lightly vegetated area. In cities and towns she will often lay her eggs on a flat gravel-covered roof. The female incubates the eggs for about 19 days. The chicks can move about on their own shortly after birth but will be fed by both their parents for about a month. They will start to fly when they are around 23 days old.

The common nighthawk has adapted to city life. Flat roofs make good nesting spots. Baseball fields and other open areas that have artificial lights attract insects, making them good hunting spots for the common nighthawk.

The common nighthawk is a bird that doesn’t generate a great deal of interest such as the purple martin and has been mostly misunderstood and subject of folk tales.

Actually the common nighthawk catches more mosquitoes in one night than a purple martin does in a lifetime.

Maybe if they lived in fancy houses the common nighthawk would be better understood but as it is, we should be grateful for these bug eating night hunters.

Friday, August 8, 2008

FISHING - BRITISH STYLE FAREWELL

BAIT = ANGLER = BAIT
By Jim Foster

In pasts years my newspaper columns have been articles concerning the value of live bait vs. the artificial variety. Yes, there are pros and cons on each side. To be honest, bait has been the topic of much discussion between my longtime friend Herb Bode and myself during our expeditions on the Lower Laguna Madre.

Another truth – Herbert and I love fishing! It shows in the way Herbert works for his customers and that carries over to trips with friends. With me – it is told in that I rarely turn down and invite to fish. At times the fine Captain will try his best to work me to death. Excuse me if I find a need for a small sip of water.

However, no matter how my friends may be devoted to fishing I have just read about a fellow who has devoted his life – no make that his after-life to the sport. The man’s name was, yes he has passed, Pete Hodge, and he lived and fished in and around Puriton, England. Last month at the age of 61 Pete passed on to his final reward. Just to show his devotion to fishing he was cremated in a coffin made from wicker to resemble a fishing basket.

A little strange yes, but what follows should land his name in the very weird fishing hall of fame, or something like that.

Pete’s request was for Justin Hooper, who runs a fishing shop in Bridgwater, to mix his ashes with maize, hemp and soya to create 30 pounds of “groundbait”. It was then rolled into balls so it could be catapulted into the Huntspill River as chum. This was to be done at Peg #158 on the river. This was the place Pete had fished for more than 40 years. It was also the site of an upcoming fishing contest.

After all the bait/chum was in the river contestants were all hoping to draw peg number 158. Pete always said when he died he wanted the fish to gobble him up so he could swim up and down the river.

As he mixed the bait Justin’s words were, “Enjoy your last ride, mate". A rather British send off for the jolly angler.

So, no matter how we may argue about using Ballyhoo or Gulps, topwater or soft plastic, live shrimp or cut mullet, and spoons or live croakers - nobody is going to walk up to one of our bait stands and ask for a pound of Pete’s “groundbait”. Never, no way, it just won’t happen.

I would like to close by adding a Texas Yank’s wish to Justin’s.

Pete, I do hope you had a great ride.

If you have comments or news for Jim Foster please Email him at: jim@jimfosteroutdoors.com

Good fishing!