Big bucks often catch a break by veering away from a hunter.

The big buck appeared like a ghost from a bad dream. One minute there was nothing nearby, and the next found me looking at a 140-class whitetail buck.

He was 75 yards away, moving in my general direction through the fringe of a swampy wooded area. He moved slowly and cautiously, the way big bucks do once they've been shot at.

This big boy was an old buck, and I saw him once the year before but such thoughts often leave something to the imagination. My guess was that he was 5 1/2 years old, and had survived this long by being smarter than the average buck.

Instincts play a major role in keeping big bucks safe.

He tested the wind constantly, stood for long minutes checking things out before committing to a move, and I knew where he was heading. A nearby corn field had been half picked, and the owner hoped to get all of the field harvested before the predicted weekend rain fell.

The buck nosed the ground, following the track made by an unseen deer for 10 yards before turning back on his course toward the corn. At this pace, it would reach the dinner table just after dark.

The question was whether he would reach me or pass out of range through marsh grass and scrub brush before shooting time ended. A doe came squirting out of the marsh grass, moving away from the buck. The rut was in full-drive, but she was nervous but he didn't pursue her.

His intentions seemed quite clear: reach the corn field right at dark, feed, terrorize the younger bucks and young does, and be back bedded down before daylight broke across the land.

He kept coming, and was soon 60 yards away. I've shot many bucks over the years, but this one was too grand an animal to try such an unwarranted shot in fairly thick cover. I never shoot at a buck that I'm not 100 percent confident of killing.

My bow was in my hand, and this was the largest buck I'd seen lately, but he would either come close enough for a slam-dunk easy shot or he'd continue on about his business.

He eventually reached the edge of thick cover, and would move through more open upland woods ... if he stayed his course. He would move out of the heavy cover and into the open, and then duck back in the cover, zigzagging ever closer to me.

He minced along like he had sore feet, and stopped every few steps. He was now 35 yards away, but still in heavy cover when his heavy white antlers could be seen. In fact, it was one glimpse of white antlers going up and down as he rubbed a tree that first caught my attention.

The wind was swinging a bit from north to northwest, and then he turned and seemed to move closer toward me. That turned out to be an illusion as he walked around a wind-toppled tree.

Sometimes bucks offer shots but are too far away. I don't take them.

My watch showed there was but 10 minutes of shooting time left, and he was now at 30 yards but still five yards inside thick cover. The suspense continued to build with each step he took, and the big question was whether he would start sliding toward the more open part of the funnel or stay back where it was thick.

I'd shot a number of bucks from this spot before, and all of them had walked into the thin part of the cover. One spot offered a 20-yard open shot but he was still 25 yards from it.

The clock was ticking, and even though I've shot bucks at this distance over many years, each one is a new adventure. Honestly, the wait is an adrenalin-filled rush. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the thin cover, and I'm glancing at my watch.

There was five minutes left, and two more steps would put him into the opening where I'd have an easy broadside shot. He put his head down, rocked on his feet, but didn't move forward.

My bow was up, and I was ready to draw, but still he stood, rooted in one spot. And he was still standing there, two steps from a clean shot, when shooting time ran out.

Legal shooting time had ended without me shooting.

He was so close, and yet so far away, and he stood there for 10 more minutes before moving on toward the corn field. It was a wonderful hunt, filled with heart-pounding excitement right up until the end, and after he moved off, I headed home.

Knowing that buck is there is important. I may or may not shoot him, but I will hunt him again. He is too big to ignore but one wonders. Bucks in this area are like circuit-riding preachers from the Old West, and there is always the troubling thought of never seeing him again.

Time will tell. If I never see him again, I'll feel blessed to have seen him once on a snowy November day.

My late twin brother, George Richey, leads a big king to net.

Years ago we had an early cool snap, a cold rain fell, and suddenly the Betsie River was awash with fresh-run Chinook salmon. Everywhere one looked were fish moving upstream, their backs creasing the surface.

Brother George and I were fishing two small holes 30 yards apart, and he was casting a wet fly while I was pitching a copper No. 2 Mepps Anglia spinner. It was midweek, and we seemed to have the river to ourselves.

George hooked a fish on a pattern he devised for dark-water, and it was called The Crick. It was basically a black fly with a bit of color, and he was bouncing it along bottom when it stopped and the line switched sideways. There is nothing delicate about setting the hook on a big river salmon. It is a happening!

Hooking two big kings was a special treat for us.

I could hear him grunt as he muscled back to pound the hook home. I took two turns on the reel handle, and a king salmon tried mightily to wrench the rod out of my hands. I urged him into a fighting mood with a hard double hook-set, and there we stood, 20 yards apart, the Richey twins, each one tight to an angry king salmon.

My fish started downstream, and jumped almost into his back pocket, and George spun around, glared at the fish heading out into midstream as his fish ran upstream away from the splash. His fish jumped out in front of me, and we both had to get moving to avoid tangling our lines.

He shuffled upstream while I moved down, and we had the two fish separated by 20 yards when his big king swapped ends, and headed downstream behind me as I scrapped with my fish in the deep hole. I stepped backwards, stepping over his line, and then we stood there, our backs almost touching, as we tried to beat up on those fish.

"Having fun yet?" he asked, knowing I was.

"Nothing better than a 25-pound king trying to rip the rod from your hands," I replied. "Waited a year to do this again."

The silence of the moment was hushed by splashing fish, and then George's fish headed upstream, and our two fish were as close together as we were, and both were struggling upstream, fighting the river current and our heavy rod pressure.

Fighting both salmon, with each going its own way, was a hoot.

"Could get a bit tricky soon," he noted. "If both of them come down together, it will be interesting to see if we can get out of the way while keeping them separated."

The Chinook salmon apparently read his mind or heard his voice, and like two submarines heading for two troop ships, here they came. One fish stayed deep and mine was near the surface, and I pulled from one side to upset his travel pattern. George and I always seemed to read each other's mind, and he did the same except he pulled in the opposite direction.

The fish hit the air, both in half-hearted jumps, and it was as if we were in a ballet on water. We reacted in unison without discussing it, and his move and mine complemented the other. The kings, reacting in a somewhat predictable manner, responded in kind. This was a battle of two twin men, working on two adult Chinook salmon of equal size, and it couldn't have been choreographed any better.

My fish cut between me and shore, spinning me around as it charged downstream. George's fish peeled around him in midstream, and now both fish were wallowing on the surface.

My fish was just half-a-shade lighter in coloration than his but it played out faster on the spinning tackle. I led the fish to shore, grabbed it by the caudal peduncle (the wrist-like narrowing just ahead of the tail), lifted it out, reached for my long-nose pliers, and twisted the treble free and released the fish.

Tailing a big Chinook salmon is easy if you know how and hang on.

I grabbed my camera and began clicking photos of George as he landed his 25-pounder. There was a bit of color in the background, and he held his fish aloft for two or three photos.

He bent over, released the fish with the dignity it deserved after putting up a valiant fight, and we were off looking for another adventure.

Those were the days when George and I lived our lives to the fullest, guided fishermen, and traveled Michigan's rivers together as we did everything else ... together, and as a team.

Today I was on the Betsie River again, and my thoughts of George were wonderful as I looked for fish below the old Homestead Dam. I found a few fish but they weren't hitting. The river water is still warm, and oddly enough, there were no people where I was at.

I cast to several fish but the fish were really spooky. One cast, and they would head into a timber-lined hole. The last thing they seemed interested in was flies or spinner, but it was a good day for remembering my twin brother.

I still think of him daily after almost eight years since his premature death, and although we hunted together as well, it was on those early salmon and steelhead trips that we became almost welded together, inseparable as two peas in a pod. I miss him, and just remembered this story today as I tried to recreate that day, and it's one of my favorites.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Dave Richey plays a big Lake St. Clair muskie.

Muskies have been a preferred species of mine for many years, in many states and the Provinces of Ontario and Quebec, and it’s my sincere belief they are the most unpredictable, ornery and cantankerous and unpredictable fresh water game fish in North America.

They may hit well one day, but may go several days before they decide to hit again. Sometimes they will follow a lure to the boat, look it over and sink out of sight with total disdain.

The result can be something like a baseball game. No hits, no runs, no errors, and no fish either.

There is very little about muskie fishing that is easy. Most of it is hard work.

Muskies are finicky, and each day the angler fishes, he just knows this will be the one he has waited for all his life. Once the day ends without a muskie or a strike, most anglers become mildly dejected.

That soon passes as fishermen assume the philosophy: Well, maybe they will hit tomorrow. Sometimes they do but more often than not, they won’t.

Muskie Fever affects different people in oddly different ways. It’s difficult for non-fishermen to understand, and year after year, muskie fans return to their favorite waters with high expectations. All they want is one legal muskie, but unless one fishes Lake St. Clair, that can be as lofty a goal as hitting the Lotto jackpot.

Lake St. Clair is the lake of choice for many catch-and-release muskie anglers. Many of the fish are caught trolling, and that’s fine. However, some anglers will stand and cast crankbaits, jerkbaits and spinnerbaits until their arm wears out.

For this latter group, catching a legal muskellunge is one of fishing’s most difficult pursuits. It’s even more difficult to catch a legal fish, but Lake St. Clair is producing some 50-inch fish but anyone who has fished for muskies before knows that a fish that size doesn’t come along very often.

Stand-up casting has been my forte for many years, and I enjoy pitching a big plug or spinnerbait out, time after time, and noting a following fish can be as meaningful as catching one.

Trolling with in-line planer boards is the best bet for Lake St. Clair muskies; here's Al Stewart with a 30-pounder

Trolling is a terrific way to catch Lake St. Clair muskies, and I’ve had days with Captain Steve VanAssche of Harrison Township where our crew has landed over 20 muskellunge in one day. Some are smaller than legal size, some are just legal, and on occasion a fish weighing 30 or more pounds is caught.

The trick with trolling is using planer boards, and three lines are legal in Michigan waters while only one line per angler can be used in Ontario. Put six people aboard a boat, and you have six or 12 lines out, depending on where you fish, and it increases the odds of hooking fish.

The stand-up-and-cast angler is a glutton for punishment. He or she will stand, hour after hour, and make one cast after another. If a following fish is seen but doesn’t hit, they try a different lure or different color. No hits, they return every two hours in hopes of raising the fish again.

They do a Figure 8 or Letter J rod-tip movement with the lure at the side of the boat at the end of every cast, and once in a great while this method will produce a strike. It’s been my experience that most muskies that hit are never seen until they arrow up from bottom and slam the bucktail or other lure.

Michigan has many good muskie waters but Lake St. Clair is the nation’s best.

There are numerous good muskie lakes in this state for the angler that prefers to cast for them. Budd Lake at Harrison is a good bet, as is Skegemog Lake near Traverse City. Other lakes near Skegemog that produce the occasional muskie include Elk, Intermediate and Torch.

Lac Vieux Desert on the Michigan-Wisconsin border is a great lake and noted for its big fish. Iron Lake in Iron County produces some big fish, and Munuscong Bay in Chippewa County is another steady producer.

Indian between Burt and Mullett lakes produces some fish. Long Lake at Traverse City produces very few muskies but those that are landed often weigh 30 pounds or more.

Muskie fishing can be an addiction. What anglers become addicted to is not the fish as much as that heart-stopping strike, the feeling of power as a big fish strips heavy line off the reel, and the effort required to pump that hooked fish off bottom.

Sometimes that muskie will come to the boat, open his mouth, and the big lure will fall out. The fish slowly sinks from sight, and that hooks the angler again. We fish muskies, not just for the fish, but for the adrenalin rush that comes when we have a solid hook-up.

The only cure for this disease is to go fishing again. Muskie, slimy and ugly, grab hold of our emotions and only death or infirmity rids us of this malady.

Poachers often glass from a car & often shoot pheasants & rabbits for sale.

Bob was sitting pretty. He was making about $1,500 per week, and was able to set his own hours. No time-clock punching for him.

He owned a boat, motor and trailer, and fished or hunted every day. He was a laid-off factory worker, and was entitled to some rather sizable work benefits.

However,  Bob’s life was a little bent. He and his wife were divorced, and she was collecting Aid To Dependent Children (ADC) benefits, welfare and all other benefits available to women whose former spouse no longer made child support payments to the Friend of the Court. He knew his life was a can of worms, but this was a big game he played: it was a case of him against them.

“Them” was any government agency. Bob was fighting a losing battle because of his life style. You see, Bob was a full-time poacher. A hard-core lawbreaker.

Bob poached fish, fur and small game, and sold his swag for tax-free dollars.

He was 28 at the time, father of two children, and poaching was his lifestyle. The tax-free booty was a direct result of selling fish for cash. Bob was a great fisherman, and he easily caught his limit daily. He often caught three or four limits each day.

The large sums of money he made during May and June were from the illegal sale of walleyes caught from the St. Clair River between Port Huron and Algonac. His fish were sold to individuals or restaurants—whoever would pay his price.

His dream life suddenly fell apart. One customer was a Department of Natural Resources special investigator for the Report All Poaching (RAP) unit. After 60 days of intense investigation, the officer had gathered enough evidence against Bob to arrest him and another full-time poacher. Both men pleaded guilty to selling fish and have since served their prison sentences and paid their debts to society.

A conservation officer present at the arrest felt Bob would be lucky if he didn’t lose his boat, motor, trailer and all fishing tackle that was confiscated at the time of his arrest. He agreed to talk with me providing his proper name was not used.

Each man paid court costs, fines and restitution costs, and  it came to many thousands of dollars. The jail time was an added problem, and Bob (not his real name) begged me not to reveal his identity. He agreed to discuss the reasons why his life became a big lie, a matter of cheating the state government, and stealing fish that belong to every state resident. Sadly, his wheels  fell off the track early in life.

“I admit I’ve done wrong and deserve punishment,” he said during the interview. “My major concern is for my ex-wife and children. They will suffer because of my actions, and the family will probably face investigation by the Internal Revenue Service (it did) and some other state agencies because we never paid taxes on my poaching income nor did we report it to the IRS or state welfare agencies.”

Bob’s personality problems began as a youngster. He was a below-average student in high school, and had very few friends. He also suffered from low self-esteem.

“I needed recognition as a teenager and was able to get it by poaching,” he said. “Other kids thought I was crazy to break the law on a daily basis (he also hunted rabbits and squirrels, and took more than his legal limit of game), but for him, it was fun killing animals or catching fish for profit.”

He’d been profit poaching for many years, and had only been caught once before.

He decided, in 1977, to poach full time. He led the easy life for five years. He slept late, collected ADC benefits every two weeks, and food stamps once a month. He was slicking the state government out of a lot of money. For him, life was good.

It was during fishing season that he poached every night. And when hunting season rolled around, he poached rabbits at night using a spotlight and a .22-caliber rifle.

“I sold 150 to 200 rabbits in Detroit over a year, and the going rate was $3 per bunny, in season or out. I sold 40-50 rabbits every time I went to Detroit. There was a great market for cottontails down there.”

He also sold raccoons in Detroit, saying “It wasn’t uncommon to sell 20-30 raccoons every time I went to the city, and they paid up to $4 for skinned carcasses. The pelts were later sold to local fur buyers, and that created another lucrative sideline.”

Coon hunting led to Bob’s first and only ticket before his big bust. He and another man were driving through a field and shining for raccoon eyes in the trees after dark. They were stopped by a CO, and the officer found a loaded .22 rifle on the back seat. The firearm was confiscated, and both men paid a minor fine.

Law enforcement offices cite the too-low  fines as a chief reason poaching continues. Bob agreed, stating: “The fines were so low, and the courts so lenient with first-time offenders, that it didn’t keep poachers like me from repeating these crimes.

Catching and selling St. Clair River walleyes was Bob’s biggest money maker.

“I sold up to 1,500 pounds of illegally taken walleye fillets each year.  The going rate at that time was $3-4 per pound. Walleyes were the money fish, and I could catch 25-30 fish every night during the April-May spawning season. My best night was 37 trophy walleyes, and each fish weighed from five to 10 pounds. It was a lucrative night.”

On a good night Bob could net about $225 of tax-free money from the walleyes he caught. Such nights just fueled his desire to catch and sell even more fish.

The spawning run of big walleyes usually lasts two to three weeks although the smaller males will hang around the spawning areas for another month. It’s likely that Bob made a large amount of money during that period. He made it by catching fish that belong to everyone in the state and selling them for his personal gain.

Bob says he isn’t bitter about being arrested but claims other poachers sold more fish and that the big money was in whitetail deer, which he said he did not poach.

“Poaching is big business,” he said. “Some poachers are making in excess of $50,000 each year while drawing unemployment benefits. Some poachers also are dangerous individuals.

“Some of these people wouldn’t think twice about wasting (killing) a conservation officer or anyone who becomes suspicious of their activities or how they make their money,” he said.

He noted that many poachers regularly carry handguns and are willing to use them. Several Michigan conservation officers have been killed while protecting the state’s fish and game laws since 1926.

Although Bob claims otherwise, it’s obvious he felt poaching was a high-stakes game. He knew he could get away with his crimes for a period of time but sooner or later the odds would tip in the favor of state law enforcement.

Cracking down on profit poachers is a high-stakes job for the DNR.

“I knew sooner or later I’d get busted, and I’m convinced someone in my family turned me in,” he said. “If it were just me it wouldn’t matter as much, but the DNR knows of my outlets and other local poachers in the business. It doesn’t look good for me.”

It’s unknown whether a family member tipped off the authorities about Bob’s poaching activities or not. Family members often turn in someone else from the family, and often some of their best tips come from a disgruntled ex-wife. Tips are kept anonymous, and in some cases, a reward is possible for valuable information.

After a great deal of soul-searching, Bob said he has decided that his career as a poacher is over. He quickly learned that this was a dead-end street for him.

“I’ll go to jail,” he whispered sadly. “They just have too much evidence on me, but when all of this is over and done with, my poaching career will be a thing of the past. I deeply regret the animals I’ve killed, and the fish I caught for the market. They’ll probably haunt me the rest of my life.”

Maybe so, but one conservation officer isn’t too sure about that.

“Bob will be back,” he said. “It’s hard not to be skeptical of such people and their comments. If he poaches again, we’ll catch him again, and the penalties will be much stiffer the next time around. Hardcore  poachers are tough to put out of business unless the public cares enough to turn them in.”

Bob was trapped by his own greed. He has paid dearly for his many years of profit poaching, and claims he no longer poaches. It would be nice to believe him but, sad to say, DNR statistics indicate he will probably return to the poaching life.

Dave Richey with big Alaskan moose.

The truest form of respect  we can give to the animals and birds that sportsmen hunt is to make a clean, killing shot, whether with a bow, muzzleloader, pistol, rifle or shotgun.

The thing that many anti-hunters are against are wounded animals. I have people contact me, and some say they are ill-prepared for the shot. A bad hit is the result of jittery nerves, buck fever and/or an inability to shoot straight when an opportunity presents itself.

People who regularly hunt make killing shots. Most of them hunt with a bow, even during firearm seasons, but others also hunt with a muzzleloader or center-fire rifle. When they aim at a deer, and pull the trigger, the animal goes down and dies instantly.

True hunters help keep excess deer in line with livingng space and food supply.

There is no long, lingering chases to finish off the animal. There is no long hours spent blood-trailing a deer for miles. There are no cases of someone taking a hasty shot, and making a bad hit.

These hunters have one thing in common: they can shoot straight, and they don't miss. One man has shot eleven bucks, and he takes only one each year. Five were taken with a bow and none ran over 75 yards, and four died when the arrow sliced through both lungs.

The other two deer were taken with a flat-shooting rifle with a 140-grain pointed soft point. Both deer were hit low behind the front shoulder, and both deer died instantly where they stood.

Another man shot a big 10-point last fall after he had hunted the animal into December. The buck made a mistake, walked past the hunter, and one arrow killed the buck. It went just 50 yards and tipped over.

What do these men have that other sportsmen don't have? They have the patience to wait for a clear shot, and the ability to put an arrow or bullet in that spot.

They know they have more time to shoot, and are in no hurry to do so.

They practice shooting all year. The centerfire rifle usually doesn't come out of the gun safe until just a week before the Nov. 15 firearm opener. They may shoot the rifle a dozen times in one day before the season opener, and they are familiar with their bow or firearm. They know that when the rifle's cross-hairs center the heart-lung area that the deer is dead but doesn't know it just yet.

An old hunting question has been around for more years than I can remember, and it goes like this: People don't ask, can you? They ask, did you?

A big black bear from Ontario.

Good hunters know that when they put the bow sight behind the front shoulder of a buck, that animal will go down. They shoot regularly, never exceed their shooting abilities by taking long bow shots, and they know how and when to draw and shoot. The deer they shoot are unaware of danger because these hunters play the wind every day.

These men and women are not casual hunters. They work hard to learn as much about deer as possible. They know how and where deer travel, and soon learn when the animals will come near their stand.

They never take hurried shots, and never take a low-percentage shot. They know that tomorrow may offer a better opportunity, and are willing to wait until all conditions are in their favor. They never make a mistake when shooting game, and they respect those animals they hunt.

I once shot a 6X5 elk in New Mexico at 350 yards. Elk are very big critters, and when my Swarovski scope's crosshairs settled low behind the bull's front shoulder just as he finished bugling and he'd emptied his lung, the trigger was squeezed and the bull died instantly.

Another time I shot a very nice mule deer across a side canyon along the north rim of Arizona's Grand Canyon with a 7mm Magnum at 450 yards. One shot, and down he went. My guide said he'd never seen such a shot. There was nothing for me to say because I'm accustomed to long shots, know my firearm and know what it can do

Practice in aiming, handling and shooting a rifle is the key to making good shots.

Hunters must practice, and I don't pretend to specialize in long shotsm but I only shoot when I know from past experience that I can make that shot. Some of it isa result of  practice, and most of it is knowing that the shot can be made. Both of these shots, no brag, were instant kills.

Hunters who can do this on a regular basis have no need to brag about their prowess, never make the deer appear dumb or stupid, and they never show the animal any disrespect. Many have learned over time that hunting means more than just killing, and also know that the meat from these animals will grace their table all year 'round.

They know that hunting is something more, much more, than killing a small deer with tiny antlers. They are willing to pass up young bucks, knowing that two or three years on a buck will allow them to take a trophy buck of their dreams.

More so, they are hunters, 365 days per year, and that is why many are so deadly in the autumn woods. They have the patience, skill and practice to do everything right. They don't have to think about it but just react to the situation.

Thinking too hard on anything can make it more difficult than it should be. And that, my friends, is a direct quote.

This angler tries casting flies at sundown. Hex flies attract big trout.

It's time for the big brown trout to turn on after sundown. It happens this way almost every year once the Hex hatches begins.

The night turns hot and close, and silent daggers of heat lightning dance across the blackened sky. Everything is silent except the murmur of the river current tugging at your legs or gliding with a soft hiss under the riverboat.

If you are placed just right, and are tossing just the right fly, sometimes from out of nowhere comes the rapier-like strike of one of the river’s biggest brown trout. There are people who fish only after dark, and although I do fish during the day, there's something about casting a big streamer, large floating bass bug or even a more colorful streamer to these big fish. Some folks also enjoy working a hole or run with a four-inch Rapala or Rebel and fairly stout monofilament.

How you fish depends on the area, your temperament and why fish at night.

It's time for the big brown trout to turn on after sundown. It happens this way almost every year once the Hex hatches begins.

The night turns hot and close, and silent daggers of heat lightning dance across the blackened sky. Everything is silent except the murmur of the river current tugging at your legs or gliding with a soft hiss under the riverboat.

If you are placed just right, and are tossing just the right fly, sometimes from out of nowhere comes the rapier-like strike of one of the river’s biggest brown trout. There are people who fish only after dark, and although I do fish during the day, there's something about casting a big streamer, large floating bass bug or even a more colorful streamer to these big fish. Some folks also enjoy working a hole or run with a four-inch Rapala or Rebel and fairly stout monofilament.

What you use depends on your temperament, where you fish, and why you fish the midnight hours.

One of the most exciting methods is to use big streamers. Large Muddler Minnows, Buzzsaw and other big flies are cast quartering across and downstream, and ripping it through the water. You'd think this type of hard-and-fast streamer fishing would spook wary browns. Often, it's just the opposite. It can really turn them on.

Fishing in the dark or light of the moon is a pleasing time.

I've talked with several people who have stood under a full moon or a partial moon, made their cast, and began stripping line hard. They tell of large wakes that follow the streamer, and on occasion, those big trout will hit and nearly wrench the rod from your hands.

Four of us floated the AuSable River one evening, and one of the anglers hit a big fish. The take sounded like someone had thrown a big dog in the river, and the fish ripped off line, rolled on top several times, headed upstream and back down, and there was no controlling the fish. It slipped the fly after nearly 10 minutes of nonstop action.

This is no place for dainty rods and light tippets. Anglers who practice this method (it also works during the day) know just how much work it is. The constant casting, and rapid stripping of line, becomes very tiring but some people can do it all night. Not me! I want to enjoy fishing, and not have to wear myself out to do it.

I used to fish the Sturgeon River years ago when it held some good brown trout, and I liked a big, white, hairy deer-hair mouse. It stuck out like a big sore thumb on a dark night, and even I could see it. I'd cast across and downstream, mend the line to obtain the longest drag-free drift as possible, twitch it once or twice, and then cast again.

The neat thing about this method was the strikes were visible, and very few fish under four pounds were hooked. The largest that I recall was caught by the late George Yontz, who owned the old Hillside Cabins just north of Wolverine many years ago. His fish, if my memory holds true after all these years, weighed 13 1/2 pounds.

The Sturgeon River browns, back then, were either silvery fish that ran upstream from Burt Lake or the great golden-brown fish with big hooked jaws and a kype as big around as the smallest joint on your little finger. Some kypes were an inch to nearly two inches long.

One other method was practiced on these big fish. Casting a medium-sized Rapala or Rebel quartering across and downstream, and let it dive and wiggle on a tight line. Once the current carried the lure across stream until it hung directly below the angler on a tight line, the rod tip would be jiggled two or three times to give the lure a bit more action.

Night fishing can produce unexpected strike. Be ready for action.

Some walleyes were in the river at times, and it was easy to determine which fish was hitting the lure. A walleye would tap-tap-tap the lure as it swung in the current, and hit softly once it finished its drift. A big brown trout would hammer the lure hard, and a strike could come at the end of the drift or as soon as the lure hit the water. A few fish reminded me of an outfielder standing, glove on hand, catching a fly ball.

The trick, regardless of which method we used, was to wade down two or three stretches of river during ithe day to learn what was or was not wadable or had too much current. Wading the river helped prevent tripping over submerged logs and otherdebris. Such things could make a night fishing adventure far more interesting than most anglers need.

Hot, muggy nights were usually the best. The mosquitoes would be on the prowl, and any exposed skin would provide a meal. Now an angler could hang a ThermoCell insect repellent on a nearby tree branch, and most of the mosquitoes would go elsewhere.

But hooking a six-pound or larger brown trout after dark is just about as much fun as a fisherman can have while wearing waders. There were a few very special nights where two or three big fish were landed, but most people considered hooking one big fish a rare treat.

Put them back, and try for the same fish again next year. Those big ones aren't very good to eat, and deserve to be caught more than once. Fooling the fish, and enjoying the battle, is what brings us back year after year.

Casey Richey (left) and his son Shane, with his former state-record brown.

All things are relative. A trophy brown when I was a kid was the 11-pounder that George Yontz of Wolverine caught from the Sturgeon River in the late 1950s.

Frankly, over many years of trolling Lake Huron and Lake Michigan for brown trout, I've landed many that were big enough to put a hefty strain on my rod, and would tilt the scales to weights from 11 to 19 pounds.

The brown trout is a mystery fish to many anglers. A five-pound brown on the Holy Waters of the upper AuSable and Manistee rivers is a trophy fish. Fish one of those back-of-beyond jump-across creeks, and catch a brown trout measuring 12 inches, and it too is a trophy.

Brown trout numbers have dwindled somewhat in recent years around the Great Lakes. Previously, browns of 20 to 25 pounds were common catches, and the current state record fish was caught two years ago from the Manistee River below Tippy Dam. It weighed in at 41 pounds, 7.2 ounces.

Big brown trout are around but they are difficult to hook and harder to land.

Big browns are where you find them. Most harbors on Lakes Huron and Michigan produce some big fish. For many years, Thunder Bay at Alpena was home to some of the state's biggest browns and the area continue to produce some big fish.

Some very nice fish have been caught trolling in Hammond Bay north of Rogers City, and the area near AuGres off Whitestone Point has produced some very nice fish as well.

Huron Bay at Baraga and L'Anse on Lake Superior also produce good numbers of brown trout in the past. Another Upper Peninsula hotspot for years has been along the Michigan's shoreline from Escanaba and Little Bay de Noc south to Menominee. Ten-pound fish were common catches here, and I've caught some 11 and 12-pounders near Escanaba.

Lake Michigan's Grand Traverse Bay, including both arms of the bay, have produced some huge browns. My son David hooked a huge fish on a Rapala years ago, played it with a gentle hand, and lost it when the lure broke apart. Three of us saw that fish, and our closest estimate to its weight was 25 pounds. In higher waters of yesteryear, the Acme Reel along US-31 was a real hotspot.

Harbors at Frankfort, Onekama, Manistee and Ludington also produce big brown trout on occasion. Even some of the southerly ports such as Saugatuck and South Haven have delivered good numbers of browns.

Some key fishing methods for Great Lakes brown trout.

It's possible to cast spoons off breakwalls or piers at these harbors, and a blue-silver, green-silver, orange-silver, all silver, copper, brass, pearl or other color 1/4 or 1/3-oz. Devle Dog spoons work well. Experiment with sinking time, retrieval speeds and vary between casting straight out off the pier or casting parallel to the pier if no one is in the way.

Trolling produces very well, and the trick is to work in and out of shallow water during the spring months. Years ago, Jack Duffy pioneered this offshore fishery, brought me in on it, and between us, we pounded the big browns for many years. The methods that follow worked for us, and they continue to produce.

We always used 6-pound line, and trolled two types of lures: wobbling plugs (X-4, X-5 and U-20 FlatFish to be exact) or minnow-imitating plugs like the Rapala, Rebel, Long-A Bomber or FasTrac. Hot colors were silver, silver-black, chartreuse-orange and gold-black in the latter category. FlatFish colors were silver, silver with red spots or pearl.

FlatFish required a very slow trolling speed, and we'd test lures next to the boat to see if they tracked straight. If so, slowly release line until the lures at least 100 yards behind the boat, and put them into rodholders. Some anglers prefer trolling off in-line planer boards.

Minnow-imitating lures can be trolled faster than FlatFish, but tie a loop knot to the lure's line tie to open up its wiggle. Again, let two lures out at the same time and speed for about 100 yards, and put the rods in rod holders. Adjust reel drags so a brown can take line on the strike.

Big browns almost always rip off an additional 50-75 yards of line on the strike. Reel the other line in to get them out of the way, and play the fish gently. Often, browns will strike and run toward the boat. Reel fast and hard, and you may be pleasantly surprised when you catch up to the fish when it is about 25 yards behind the boat.

Great Lakes browns grow to be the largest but some big ones come from rivers.

Browns occasionally jump, and most often will roll on the surface. Once they get close to the boat, be prepared for one or more last-ditch efforts by the fish. Watch its head, and if the head cocks to one side or the other, he is planning another run. Let the fish go, and don't try to pressure them on 6-pound line. A big fish will break the line like sewing thread.

Try trolling near the edges and tips of piers, along the mud line where river water meets lake water, and off a river mouth. Gravel or rocky bars in six to 15 feet of water can be good spots, and the key to good brown trout fishing is an abundance of alewives or smelt.

Catching big browns these days is not easy but my nephew, Casey Richey of Frankfort, set a new state record a few years ago. His record was broken last year with a massive fish from the Manistee River. The big fish are around, but scoring means putting in a lot of time.

Fish smart, play big fish with a soft hand and good luck!

Cathy Beutler with a dandy gobbler she shot while hunting with me.

"Keep your powder dry" was the motto in the 1700 and 1800s when muzzleloading hunters and frontiersmen roamed parts of North America. Those who failed to follow that sage advice often went hungry or had their hair lifted and cut off below the roots.

My list of hunting mistakes with game, especially turkeys, is endless. Years ago, while hunting in a heavy rain with a muzzleloader, I forgot to cover the muzzle. I set my front-loader against a tree with the powder and shot charge in the barrel but the shotgun wasn't primed.

I set out my decoy, retreated to my chosen spot, and primed the muzzleloading shotgun. A large number of gobblers and hens came, and milled around in a tight circle near the decoy, and I couldn't shoot. They eventually left, and I called again.

Good thing a desperado wasn’t trying to take my money.

A lone gobbler a half-mile away answered, and I sweet talked him with a soft yelp and some hen jabber with a push-pull call. He came running up. I saw him first at 30 yards, and then he dropped into a little dip in the ground, and popped up again at 20 yards and stopped. The shotgun was up, and when I pulled the trigger, the primer went off with a pop. The powder did not.

I'd forgotten to put a balloon or anything else over the muzzle to keep the powder dry. The Pyrodex was a black semi-liquid. It was a lesson well learned and never forgotten.

I took a guy out one day, late in the season, and spotted a jake 150 yards away. This guy wanted to shoot a gobbler, and beard length didn't matter. It took 30 minutes to bring the jake within 80 yards, and the guy was aiming at the bird.

"He's too far away," I whispered. "Don't shoot yet. Let him get to within 35 yards." He said the bird was only 35 yards away, aimed and shot.

The young gobbler hauled tail feathers into the woods. The man maintained the bird was only 35 yards away until I asked him to give me a prominent landmark where the bird had been standing. He said the bird was right near that little bush that stood three feet high.

That bush was much farther away than he thought. He shouldn’t have shot.

He was urged to pace it off in approximately 36-inch steps as I walked beside him counting the paces. I got 80 steps and he got 77 steps, and then he realized the mistake he had made. It was the last gobbler we saw that day.

This didn't happen to me but to a friend. He knew, within 50 yards of where a gobbler had roosted the night before. He snuck in the next morning, and stopped well short of the roosting area to wait for the first gobbles of the morning. The sun came up and all was silent.

He gave a very soft tree yelp or two but nothing responded. He stuck with it, and finally with a great deal of impatience, he uncorked a loud yelp on his box call and something happened. A big gobbler bailed out of the tree he was sitting under, and it flew 75 yards, hit the ground a'runnin', and that was it. He had set up directly under the gobbler and missed his big chance.

The author carries a nice longbeard out od the woods to his car.

Two friends, on their first gobbler hunt, went looking before dusk and spotted several dark birds on the ground. Just before dark they flew up into a tree. These guys knew about roosting birds and were happy.

They returned the next morning well before dawn, set up about 100 yards away, and waited for the day to wake up. Tweety birds tweeted, crows cawed, and they yelped on box calls. They could see several dark forms in the trees, and called again and again.

A big surprise was in store for those two turkey hunters.

Eventually the birds flew down, and went to where the hunters had seen them the previous night. No amount of calling seemed to work, so one of them slowly eased his binoculars from his backpack, and with infinite slowness, eased them up to his face and studied the birds.

The birds they had roosted the night before were not real turkeys. They were turkey vultures, and they were feeding on carrion on the ground. They admitted it, and took their share of ribbing.

There is only one sure thing when turkey hunting. Murphy's Law always applies, and simply stated: If anything can go wrong, it will. Keep Mr. Murphy in mind, try to outguess him, and sometimes the gobblers react as you plan and the hunt is a success.

Of course, when we mess up, it's still good for a laugh even when we don't feel much like laughing at our silly mistakes. Trust me on this: if you hunt wild turkeys long enough, you too will make a blunder or two.

This is a perfect quartering-away shot. Aim to put the arrow into the off-side shoulder. Hold halfway between belly and back.

Tunnel vision occurs when a person is in a high-stress situation. The buck is approaching, and ever so slowly it moves your way and you want to shoot that buck. You have a strong desire to take the animal with a clean shot.

It stops, rubs a tree briefly with its antlers, then stands back to admire his handiwork, hits another lick on the bark, checks it out again, and continues your way. He stops, and can't smell you or any danger, but he is in no rush.

The anxiety level builds after the third or fourth stop to putter around doing big-buck things, and then he moved forward again. He is now 50 yards away and will soon have a date with destiny. Your breath is labored and ragged, and you feel a bit light headed as your heart thunders in your ears and chest.

Total concentration is needed to shoot a big buck.

His antlers are big, possibly the largest whitetail buck you've seen in the wild. He stands, out of bow range, and surveys the area. He doesn't smell or see any danger, but he didn't grow a rack with 10 good long points and a 20-inch inside spread by being dumb.

He stands, motionless, head up and looking around. He's not spooky, just careful.

Satisfied, he moves to within 40 yards. The rack seems to grow even larger the closer he gets. Now you are sucking air, and begging for a 20-yard broadside side. The thought of shooting this buck makes you dizzy with excitement, and your heart is racing.

A full load of adrenalin is streaming through your system, and the buck closes to 35 yards and then to 30, where he stands behind a thin screen of brush. Jolt after jolt of adrenalin has you as wired as drinking 10 cans of Mountain Dew.

He offers a brief 25-yard shot but your eyes are riveted on that rack, and you don't want to make a mistake. He's coming, just let him move into the 20-yard range and then wait for a broadside or quartering-away shot at this huge buck.

It’s an easy shot, you think. It’s time to refine your aiming point.

Finally, he steps into range, turns to offer a quartering-away shot at 20 yards. The buck stares off toward other deer 100 yards away in the field, and you raise your bow, stare at the antlers again, come to full draw, aim and turn loose an arrow.

There is a large whack noise, and the buck races off while the arrow and broadhead sail off into the brush. Excited, knowing you made a killing shot, you climb down and follow the Game Tracker string to the arrow. There isn't a drop of blood anywhere on the arrow and none on the ground.

Tunnel vision had set in and when the hunter aimed and shot. He aimed at the major focal point on that buck -- the antlers. He forgot to force himself to pick a spot behind the front shoulder. His continuous focus on the buck and his majestic rack was his undoing because that is where he aimed.

Total concentration is paramount during the aiming process. Once I know a buck has antlers, and decide to shoot him, I never look at the antlers again. I focus on the heart-lung area, shoot and the deer dies.

Take time to relive your shot. Study it, and learn what went wrong.

A buddy of mine went on a wild boar hunt down to Tennessee, and I warned him against studying the length of the boar's tushes. These big curved teeth are fascinating, and my friend looked at the tusks, aimed and hit the boar in the top of the head. It wasn't an immediate killing shot. Realizing his mistake, he shot at the heart-lung area. The boar died a quick death.

Tunnel vision doesn't just happen to police officers in a fire-fight with some criminal. It happens to hunters all the time, and most often to sportsmen with very little hunting experience.

It can ruin a hunt, but there is no need for it. The trick is to determine whether the buck has antlers, and if it is what you want. Once that has been determined, forget about them, and intently focus on the vital area.

Once you draw back the arrow, and aim, do not look at the antlers. Pick a tiny spot, concentrate on that spot, make a smooth release, and do not drop your bow until the arrow makes contact with the deer.

Big bucks come often to the television hunters, but for most bow hunters like you and me, it can be a once-in-a-lifetime deal. The timing is too important to waste time missing an easy shot.

Concentration, and not tunnel vision, is the key to hunting success.

This buck is at a high lope in pursuit of a doe as it passes a hunting shack.

Sometimes those bucks that get away are remembered long after other bucks have been forgotten.

A few such deer come to mind during the winter months as I think back over this last and other seasons. There was that great huge buck that put the fatal hurt on two trophy bucks, a few years ago, and he's one  I doubt I ever saw him. When spring broke that year. both dead bucks had been gored repeatedly. Each year two, three or four big buck skeletons show up around the state each year.

Many of these bucks are killed by larger and meaner animals during the rut Some of these rut-crazed deer are never seen unless they show up on a trail camera.

Some of these so-called “killer” bucks are never seen and die of old age.

Another buck that comes to mind was probably a 12-pointer with massive beams, long points, wide inside spread, and weighing somewhere close to 200 pounds. I saw this buck just once at about 45 yards through the wood, and he spooked when a neighbor started his tractor. That buck completely disappeared without a trace.

One of my friends saw a different buck in November that he felt would score about 220 points, and he should know. He has shot some massive bucks, and this animal was one that Ihe’d never seen in the past, and he’s never been seen again. Some of these bucks died during the rigors of winter without ever regaining weight lost during the rut..

Spotting bucks is, to some degree, a matter of luck. A buck may stay in one spot regularly, and is as regular as a dish of prunes. However, many things can cause a buck to change his travel routes to a temporary or permanent new residence.

I've watched bucks put in a daily appearance for two weeks, and then on the 15th day they drop out of sight as if the ground had swallowed them up. Patterning bucks is easy early in the season, but once the rut is underway, they become much more difficult to figure out. A doe may lead them on a merry chase, and it may be two or three days or as much as a week or two before that animal returns, which explains why some bucks seem to disappear..

Some bucks, because they are so predictable, are easy to shoot. A big buck can be extremely easy to pattern and can be shot on the first day. Bucks that have been shot at, or spotted a human movement or winded a hunter in a particular spot, can be most difficult to hunt.

Each trophy buck has his own peculiarities. Learn them and score.

Shooting a big buck can be difficult. A friend of mine took a photo of a very nice 11-point buck, and his antlers seemed a bit offset. The rack was slightly higher on one side than the other, and he saw that buck on two occasions while hunting only 300 yards from my stand. I've yet to see that critter.

I walked in to one of my stands, and was skirting some tag alders, when a big buck stepped out 75 yards away. He was upwind, and hadn't seen me, and began walking in my direction. I eased down to one knee, knocked an arrow, and watched him walk a direct line toward me.

He stopped at 45 yards, turned broadside and then put his tail toward me, and stood. He turned again to face me, started walking my way again, and at 25 yards he stepped into the tag alders and turned to go out the other side. He was a 150-class buck, and animals like him get my heart pumping.

The most fascinating thing about deer hunting, and going after big bucks, is that some animals are easy and others are most difficult to hunt. Some big-racked bucks seem to possess a high degree of suspicion that keeps them out of harm's way. They always seem to stand the wrong way for a high-percentage bow shot.

Others always seem to stop with their vitals behind some brush pr ;pw tree limbs. Some, like the buck noted above, seem to come directly at a hunter only to turn at the last moment. Often, they don't know the hunter is there; they just seem to travel widely and trust to their instincts.

Other bucks, and this happened to me once this past year, just seem to avoid any and all tree stands or ground blinds, and they often seem to build in a buffer zone of 75 yards between them and a bow stand. They have moved a quarter-mile across a field, and headed straight to me, and about 75-80 yards away, they turn and veer away from my stand.

One thing: bucks do not tolerate hunter mistake. They just bolt.

It's not because they saw or smelled me. It's just a built-in warning system that some animals seem to have developed.

It's why I find deer hunting so exciting. Each and every buck is just a little bit different than the one before. For me, not knowing what a buck will do excites me. When they turn, and come within bow range, I'm a happy camper.

I'm also happy when they turn 70 yards away, for whatever reason, and move away. Trying to figure them out is difficult, and that is what makes big-buck hunting so exciting. Hunters earn every big buck they ever shoot.