Wilson Post Blogs

It is a crapshoot. Who knew if we will even have enough to shoot last Saturday? They humble you in that way, too. Uncertainty.  They come out of the sun, pretending to be Japanese Zeros. They twirl, dart, and hit the afterburners when the wind is right.

We are expected to hit them?

We got our shad below the dam with a cast net. About 15, was all we could keep alive and we carried them up the hill in 5-gallon buckets

That is comparable to running three marathons back to back.  We were young and strong then. The ideal shad was about five inches long and we hooked them through the lips.  The rig was a ½-ounce egg sinker above a swivel. The shad was on 18-inches of line below that.

“It turned white overnight.”

Those were the first words I heard that early September morning. I lay back on my cot in the tent and pondered just what Paul Brown meant. Then I studied the sagging roof of the tent and knew exactly what he meant. It had snowed. We had scouted hard yesterday and found plenty of elk sign. Now, I knew it did not mean a thing.

I swung my aching, aging legs over the side of the cot and sat up. At 58, the climbing we had done yesterday had reminded me I was no longer 25 and bulletproof. Even though we had been able to drive the truck to the tent camp, yesterday involved plenty of up and down walking. Snow was not good, aching legs or not. Snow would move the elk down and we were up. Our tent camp was at 10,500 feet and smack in the middle of elk country. But that was yesterday and yesterday was gone.

The storm had blown in overnight, dropping about four inches of the lovely (cussed) white stuff. Today we would have to hunt down and across a wide valley to get into the no snow country where the elk had surely gone.  First, we had to make sure that was what happened.

Breakfast over, such as it was, we slung packs and bows and started out in the dark. At daylight, we cast bugles in all directions. Not a sound. Yesterday, the Colorado Rockies had been golden and green with the just changing aspen leaves and elk had been on ever knob and in every meadow. Today, we figured they were below and across from us, feeding in the patches of oak brush and browsing on the open side hills. No way to drive to them. No horses to ride to them. Time to go footback, down, across and up. Sheesh!

In an hour, we were still in the snow but it was not as deep, mostly just a heavy dusting. We had not shed much clothing. It was still in the 20’s even down that far. We stopped on a rocky out cropping and Paul set up the spotting scope. I get nauseous when I use one, so I just started working open areas with my 10X Binoculars. We picked the open slopes to pieces where we had expected to find elk. No elk. None.

From far below us but on the same mountain, a bugle floated in on the rising thermals. Faint, just a whisper but definitely a bugle. We quickly got back in the snow-covered aspens. I pointed where I thought it came from and we discussed strategy. We both thought the elk would move up and stop short of the snow. How far up we did not know. Then it came again, closer and followed by a lot of chuckles. Time to pick up the pace and get under the snow.

Thirty minutes later panting like a dog in hot weather, we broke out above a beautiful lake. It was a mirror in the mountains with aspens standing snow free on the far side. It was time to take another break and see if we could coax another bugle. Paul bugled and I cow called and broke some branches. When you are elk hunting, sometimes you have to make noise. Elk are not quiet animals. Bang! Pow! A bull bugled behind us and another fired off in front of us. We were between two bulls. It does not get any better than that.

I took the bull in front of us and began trotting and sliding around the lake. There was a fresh trail muddied with dozens of tracks. Once on the far side of the lake, I set up. In a grove of aspens on a sight rise, I picked my spot and went to work. With each cow call, the bulls answered and challenged each other. The air was ringing with bugles.

Mine was coming in and coming fast. Then, I heard an elk running on the far side of the lake and he was tearing up anything in his way. My first thought was that Paul had stuck him.

Then, I did not have time to think. I had a bull 25-yards to my left, coming at a trot. When he hit a small opening, he ran right into my sight pin and I let the arrow go. Time to rendezvous.

I had blood, plenty of it on the ground and on the trees. Paul had hit a branch and the arrow slid over his bull’s back, just smacking him with the shaft. We started trailing my bull. I felt sure the shot was good but the trail kept going. An hour later and a whole lot closer to camp, we found him, piled up in the aspens. The shot was perfect. He was just a tough animal.

Time to go to work. We shed another layer of clothing and went at it. With two of us skinning and quartering, it didn’t take long to get him naked and on the pack frames. The snow was gone but for some reason, the mountain seemed a lot steeper than it had yesterday. Two trips and we had everything back at camp.

Dinner that night was elk fillet mignon with macaroni and cheese and green beans. Under the front seat of the truck, Paul found a nearly full bottle of Wild Turkey and we toasted our success. The next day, as I cut and wrapped elk meat, Paul killed a fat cow and the hunt was over.

Back at the main camp, Carl, the owner, asked us where we found the bulls. The answer was short. “Under the snow”.

Contact JOHN L. SLOAN / This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

We were a little late getting to the dock because we had to stop in Hendersonville for donuts and chocolate milk. It didn’t matter. The fish were waiting.

I can still hear her first squeal, “I got one daddy, I got one.” Her blonde ponytail bobbed and she almost reeled the fish right through the end of the rod.

There was a lump of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and turnip greens sitting in the bottom of my stomach. It felt as though it weighed more than the bass on the end of my line. I had eaten less than 30 minutes ago. It was just exactly 100 degrees in the front of Bubba Chandler’s, deep breathing boat. Unfortunately, that is where I was standing.

It leaves the plateau. Not in a rush or even a long, slow glide as the interstate highway does. It leaves in little jerks, jumps, and twitches, as a deer would leave the plateau. Later it begins to glide as it winds through the hills.

On sunny days, as the sun tops the rim and tendrils of smoky sunlight filter through the hardwood leaves and glance off the water, it winks and smiles. It seems as though it is always looking back at you and watching as you sight it through the trees. It talks to you.

I promised I wouldn’t put this in a column. But I’m going to anyway because I need a column for this week and I stay way away from water on holidays. I believe you will agree this beats a wrap up of some fishing tournament or one of the TWRA canned releases. This sounds like something I would do back when I was drinking.

Usually about this time of year, I am asked, if I have ever killed a buck still in velvet. Of course, that refers to the soft covering on the antlers now readily visible. In fact, I have killed two, both quite small. That question is usually followed by, “Where is the best place to kill one?”

To answer that, you have to break it down into two categories. Do you want to kill a big one in relative comfort or do you want to just kill any buck and endure the biting insects. Let us go with big ones in relative comfort first.

Hot weather, cold weather, clear water, stained water, I don’t care. The fluke can produce when other baits do not and they will catch an amazing variety of fish species. The fluke is a specially designed type of soft plastic worm. There is a variety of ways to fish it. I prefer just a four or five-ought hook and no weight.

The fluke can be used in shallow or deep water and when properly rigged is about as weedless as you can get a lure. It is primarily a bass and stripers (rockfish) lure. The fluke is simple to fish. Just cast, let settle, twitch and let settle again. Being so weedless, they are superb for fishing in heavy cover. My favorite tactic is to cast into shallow water and let settle until out of sight, then twitch it and bring it back to the surface and repeat. Most of the strikes come just as it settles out of sight. Often in shallow water, when fish are feeding tight on the bank, the strike comes the minute the fluke hits the water.

It is cold and the jack pine fire in the small stove is finally heating the tent/cabin. The structure is composed of a tent top on a plywood frame.

Six of us sleep here. Some of them snore. However, it is almost dawn and cold or not, I have to get up. I heard the generator start 30-minutes ago so I know there is hot water for a shower. Shivering in the dawn, I half-run the 30-feet to the hot shower. It is late August and I am back on the Taiga.

The fog lays close on the water. You can barely see the far bank. The temperature is at the edge between cool and cold…55-degrees. To fill time while I wait for Mark Campbell to park the truck, I make a cast.

Two turns of the reel handle and the lure is smashed. I put five on the bank before Big Bird gets back. They are all stocker browns about 10-inches long. What happened to the rainbows? The Caney Fork changes.

It winds down the draws and hollers and through the fields for 99 miles. One more mile and it would be a river, so they tell me. I have no idea if that is true. I do know it is full of fish and some big smallmouth. It is floated, camped on, waded and at one time, so they tell me, it was famous for spearing suckers. Before that, the Indians used it as a highway. I have no idea if that is true.

The Smith Fork.

It was coming.

Smothering, roasting, oppressive heat and humidity. But not just yet.

Rose streaks just beginning to show in the east. It is cool now, less than 90 but not much. Birds are starting to lift off the rookery. I have no idea where they are going. The fish are probably sweating. I know I am and I am sure Alan Clemmons is, too. Alan use to do something with some major bass tournaments. Now he is an editor for a big, deer-hunting magazine. He knows how to fish, too. He takes it too seriously but that is his business. He fishes a lot with heavy jigs and crankbaits. That too, is his business. I’m just here to fish.

Where did it go, the sun?

All week it has been sunny and beautiful, perfect for bear hunting and running baits and hanging stands. When we took the boat into Bear Lake fishing, it was sunny and 70. When we chopped the ATV trail through the brush, it was Sunny and 65. When we set the barrel and spread the grease, it was hot and the bears hit immediately and ravaged the bait site. I have never seen a bait site hit that hard, that quickly. When we hung the camera stand, it was fantastic and when Gary climbed into the stand it, it was perfect.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
They had many names when I was growing up. We called them specs, short for speckled perch. Bream perch and chinquapins and shell crackers were bluegill in some areas. The names just varied depending on what variety of perch we were catching. What I am referring to are fish we call crappie and bluegills here. Over most of the South, they are just referred to as perch.

Now you talk about fun to catch, mister, I mean to tell you they are. Dave Thornhill called me a few days ago and the talk reminded me of how much fun I use to have catching bluegill on Center Hill. The method I used was dissimilar to the way he catches bluegill.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
A few  weeks ago, I was asked to write another column of nostalgic fiction. The person commented on how much “Sharp as a Memory”, jogged his memory. It has taken until this week to get the story “sitiated” in my head and transmitted to my fingers. This is partially fiction, partially fact. You may decide which is which.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
We have had several of them, those hot spring days when things are all green and the sun gets hot about 10:30. The bass, you figure, should have moved up from the deep water. So you start in tight with a white fluke and a Pop-R. Not much. The sun is just filtering through the trees in the back of the first creek. Somewhere, a turkey gobbles. Where was he yesterday when we had a gun in hand?

We change to a GitZit on a 1/8 ounce head. Nothing. They do not want the spinner bait or worm.

Frustration is starting to set in and you tell Big Bird maybe we should have gone turkey hunting. Only one option left. I hate it. I hate throwing them and I really hate retrieving one. However, they do catch fish, crankbaits. They catch fish when nothing else works.

I have not killed a turkey, only went for a few minutes one time. So, I will tell you this story.

Haunted? -- I guess just about anything can be haunted. Usually, when you think of haunted, you think of a house. But I know a lake that is haunted. I can’t tell you where it is, I am sworn to secrecy. However, it is haunted. I can tell you the story just way it came about. See, the thing is, for some reason, I seem to be attracted to places that have, I guess you say, strange occurrences-lakes, houses, canyons etc. Maybe I attract the unusual. This is about a lake, perhaps a haunted lake. Some call it Nock-e-nut. I have never known why.

It is full of crappie and bream and bass, this haunted lake stuck on an island in the middle of a swamp. It is hard to get to, as are most lakes with large fish populations. The island is several hundred acres in size, the lake in the middle, maybe 100-acres. I have fished the lake several times. It is a favorite spring lake for crappie or specs as they are called down there. I went some years ago, went just for the bass fishing. It was planned we would fish Mound Bayou, Saline and maybe Little Larto. Instead, we went to the haunted lake. Here is how it came about.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Don’t be misled. I can if I want to. Some, upon hearing of my lack of burning desire to turkey hunt may think I don’t know how. In fact, I do. I’m no expert like Wade Bourne or my good friends Alex Rutledge or Eddie Salter. I’m certainly not as good as Carroll, “Big Daddy” Whitener but I know how to kill a gobbler if I want to. The season opened four days ago.

It is hard to get a lot of passion up when you can’t get in your driveway because it is blocked by wild turkeys. When your backyard is full of birds with beards, sitting in the dark waiting for one gobble while still in the tree doesn’t hold much allure. As your truck gets white highlights from the hen sitting on the branch over your driveway, the urge to kill may be high but the desire to hunt is not.

But I can kill a turkey if I want to.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Jack Taylor knows where it was. Russ Jackson knew it well. Joyce Jackson hated it because it was “spooky”. I spent a lot of time there, caught many fish, and killed many deer, made many memories. It is gone now, crowded with houses. Probably the UFO’s are gone.

This is the story of two of us, camped back in the hardwoods of Humphries County in a clearing we created with constant use over a few years. We camped this time for four days, Uncle Lester and me and we had great meals and the best campfires ever. Oh, we caught a lot of fish, too.

Next week we have to start chasing gobblers. For now, let us think about old men camped on hidden lakes. Let us think about just enjoying nature and not worrying about full stringers and such.