A mellow day on Lake Michigan suits me to a T

Our house is structurally sound but some work needed to be done to make it look nicer on the inside and out.

Walls to be painted, carpet pulled up, all of this stuff leaves me cold. Some things got dinged up when my father was alive, and some things have just worn out.

Some changes were needed. I am living proof of a man who likes his home looking nice, but who gets a bit peeved when he can't sit at the table to eat and must sleep in a different bed because new paint is stinking up our bedroom.

Such things I find very annoying. Change doesn't come easy

It's easy to get a bit peckish under such situations, but I go into my office and work. It keeps me out of the way, and I don't have to look at the mess.

Watching people strip walls of old wallpaper leaves me cold. A new sink and other things are coming for the half-bath off our bedroom but only a toilet sets there now.

An old bed that belonged to my grandparents has been my bed for 30 years. Now there will be a new bed. I can accept the change because things will be nice when the job is done.

The question is when will it be done? Things move at a snail's pace, and slow doesn't match my mood. Order this or that, and wait two or three weeks. No one stocks inventory.

Things progress at the speed of maple syrup on a cold day

Some old carpeting has been pulled up, but the new carpeting won't be laid until the rooms are painted, the new doors hung, and the trim work has been completed.

We schedule things, and it always takes longer than planned. We order things and it costs more than we planned. Bathroom sinks and toilets must be ordered, and once everything is done, we'll have to order new carpeting. Who knows what color. We'll know later.

My wife understands this stuff, and I do not. Want a story, call me up and you'll have it tomorrow. Need a photo, it can be scanned and on your computer in 30 minutes. Want a shower pan for the shower, and it's a three-week wait.

I don't do well with house chores;  Never have, never will

I've never been a handyman. My knowledge of tools is pretty much confined to screw drivers and hammers. The more hammers and the larger, the better. I don't understand home improvements, and the cost and work involved in making such wholesale changes is almost unacceptable.

My recliner served me well. It felt great, worked just fine, and is gone along with a sofa, end-tables, another recliner and some carpeting in a trade-off with the builder for doing some work. Cool.

The builder is a good friend, and we both think highly of him. I'd rather he take the stuff in exchange for saving us some labor fees. However, we'll still have to buy a new sofa and some new chairs. I get confused about such things.

Steaming off wallpaper. Now there is a fine mess. It takes time, doesn't smell very good, and steaming means shreds of wallpaper everywhere. One small piece was found sticking to the bottom of my shoe. At least it didn't stink.

We're replacing 13 inside doors. Is that a lucky number or what? We called to donate them to a local charitable organization. They would be out in a week. A week to come to pick up 13 free doors? They didn't show up. Another appointment made for them to get them today. You got it, they didn't show. We're on again for tomorrow morning. I'm willing to take bets that they won't come.

My wife, her sister and a grand-daughter are ram-rodding this project. Guess how many votes I get? There's no place for me but away.

So I'm a bit tight-jawed. I try to keep my mouth shut to avoid hassles. I'm still not at the driving stage after eye surgery so I seek safe refuge in my office.

Don't know how many consecutive days of office-sitting I can take, but I think we may be a third of the way done on this interior rejuvenation. I keep waiting for that silly television program to show up, and within 30 minutes they turn a house into something grand and wonderful.

I used to sit and wait for John Baresford Tipton from the 1960s to arrive from the television show The Millionaire, announce his presence and give me a million bucks. John hasn't showed up in 40-some years, and it's doubtful the home redecorating show will do a 30-minute job either.

So ... it's time to gut it up, tough it out, stay out of the way and keep my mouth shut. This may be a democratic nation, but when refurbishing the house rolls around, all facets of democracy and freedom of speech fly out the window.

If you need me, try my office. Knock three times on the door if you love me.

My apologies to one and all. This book review feature was scheduled for two weeks ago, which would have provided readers with more time to order books as a Christmas gift. Sadly, computers being what they are, they often choose to take a vacation when we least expect. So my computer crashed and we just got it fixed.

TITLE: The American Rowboat Motor

AUTHOR: Arlan Carter
PUBLISHER: Fall Creek Publishing Company
DISTRIBUTOR: Fall Creek Publishing Company

CONTACT: Fall Creek Publishing Company, PO Box 107, Fall Creek. WI 54742
PHONE: (800) 695-6017
COST $39.90
COMMENT Hardcover. 400 pages, 8 ½ X 11-inch format, patent drawings, period advertising, 80 pages on the Evinrude Company, and more than 40 manufacturers represented book description

This book by renowned author Arlan Carter covers the gamut of early outdoor motors from the beginning of gas-powered motors. Many photos and advertisements are in color, The first outboard motor isn’t one that is easily recognized today.

The  information says, the first outboard motor manufactured in the United States was patented in Nov. 22, 1902, originally from Chicago. It had a motor that was independent of the rudder. The complete outfit  weighed 35 pounds and ran off a battery. It was known as an engine that could be started by pushing a button.

The first internal combustion gasoline outboard was made by American Motor Company. This engine was produced from 1862 through April 2, 1924, and it’s believed that the company is thought to have produced 25 engines, and was capable of making speeds "six or eight miles per hour".

The book thoroughly covers such early outboard engines as

• Arrow
• Caille
• Evinrude
• Motorow
• No-Ro-Imperial
• Cammpbell
• Cyclone
• Elto
• Gilmore
• A. L. Kriderm Lockwood-Ash
• Racine Burroughs
• St. Lawrence
• Viking
• Wright and many others

This is the most in-depth look at the early days of the outboard motor. This is a fascinating history of the outboard engine, and would serve any outboard motor collector well. It offers a wonderful look at the background of our marine engines.

TITLE: Billy Barnstorm: The Birch Lake Bomber & Other Tales of Youthful Disaster

AUTHOR: Joel M. Vance
PUBLISHER: Cedar Glade Press
DISTRIBUTOR: Cedar Glade Press

CONTACT:  Cedar Glade Press, PO Bix 1664, Jefferson City, MO 65102. $18.99 postpaid.
WEBSITE: http://www.joelvance.com
COST $18.99 postpaid

The author is one of my favorite people. He can be funny without trying, and in this paperback book, his outlandish and sometimes weird sense of comedy comes jumping to the surface like one of the largemouth he caught as a lad.. This book speaks to Vance’s youth and the various mischief he and his collaborators got into while spending time near Birch Lake, Wisconsin, more than a half-century ago.

I dislike making comparisons because it’s usually not fair to one or both of those being compared, but reading Joel Vance’s newest book reminds me of reading early humor books written by Patrick McManus. ‘Course, being as I know both authors, I feel a fine and honest comparison can be made.

Vance’s humor could make a wooden cigar store Indian laugh. In this unique collection of humor about he and his youthful friends, you’ll meet some of his zany friends. There are 14 chapters, excellent b/w drawings by Bruce Cochran. This is guaranteed to please anyone jaded by holiday shopping, and makes a perfect Christmas gift.

TITLE: The Windward Shore: A Winter On The Great Lakes

AUTHOR: Jerry Dennis
PUBLISHER: University of Michigan Press,
DISTRIBUTOR: University of Michigan Press

CONTACT: University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, MI
WEBSITE: http://www.press.umich.edu
COST $22.95 plus postage from the publisher
COMMENT: This hardcover book with dust jacket, also features the delightful work of artist Glenn Wolff, also of Traverse City, Michigan, whose drawings have graced the pages of other of Dennis’ work.

Jerry Dennis  is a natural treasure, and he keeps writing new and more wonderful books. Fitting him into a specific category can be a bit difficult because he is at once, an outdoor writer, a conservationist, a nature lover, a dreamer, who develops words of magic that capture the soul and spirit of those of us lucky enough to live near the Great Lakes.

A knee injury slowed him down, and in so doing, allowed him the time to “present a true picture of a complex region, part of my continuing project to learn one place on earth reasonably well ,” and this is what he’s accomplished with this book.

Winter around Lake Michigan may hardly seem a great topic for a book, but once Dennis sank his teeth into this tasty morsel that he and I both call home, and the result is the magic of this book about the area, the lives of nearby inhabitants, and stories painted by word pictures about this snow and ice-bound area. He teaches us about living in a log cabin along Lake Superior, more about desolate and wind-swept beaches, the power and the magnetic pull a winter storm has on those of us who stay here all winter rather than heading south with other snowbirds.

Dennis gracefully takes us along with him as we plod along frozen shorelines, listen as the surf pounds at shelves of ice, and we hear and feel the moan of an angry wind as it lashes the North County. We see, feel, hear, taste and touch winter along the Great Lakes, and we rejoice with the author as he examines everything about winter in this area.

It’s a book to be read, laid aside, and go back to read certain passages that stick in our mind as we indulge in becoming one with the winter wind, watch snow and ice in a swirl of sensory perceptions. A truly wonderful read by a favorite author.

TITLE: Deer Hunting 4th edition

AUTHOR: Richard P. Smith
PUBLISHER: Stackpole Books
DISTRIBUTOR: Stackpole Books

CONTACT: Stackpole Books
WEBSITE: http://www.stackpolebooks.com
eMAIL: sales@stackpolebooks.com 
PHONE: (800) 732-3669
COST: $29.95
COMMENT: Paperbound, 448 pages, 297 color photos and 40 years of deer hunting experience from this writer

Richard P. Smith’s name is well known in Michigan and other states and Canadian provinces for his knowledge about bear and deer hunting. His books on deer hunting are many, and all are different. They give readers who own them all, everything the author knows about deer hunting.

Read closely and you’ll see that Smith acknowledges me, but not because I taught him anything mystical about bear and deer hunting. I helped him land his first book (also by Stackpole Books) many years ago and helped with a gentle shove into getting into outdoor writing. He deserves all the praise for this and his 20-odd books.

Smith's ability to shoot quality photos has kept him very busy for the 30-some years he has been working at this trade. He is more knowledgable about many things that deer do, and many of his secrets are shared in this book.

It is chockfull of tips that can spell the difference between success and failure on a deer hunt, whether here in Michigan or across North America. On the ground, up a tree, stalking, still-hunting, or however you choose to hunt, Smith has most of the answers outlined in great detail in this book.

This is a heavy book, and rightfully so because it is filled to the gunwales with the superb color photos Smith uses to illustrate his books and magazine articles. This book is a keeper, and make no mistake about that. Read and learn. Smith makes it easy.

TITLE: Brook Trout & The Writing Life

AUTHOR: Craig Nova
PUBLISHER: Eno Publishers
DISTRIBUTOR: Eno Publishers

CONTACT: Eno Publishers, Hillsborough, NC
WEBSITE: http://www.enopublishers.com
COST: $15.95

I’m a sucker for anything written about brook trout. I consider them the most beautiful and precious of all the trout, and I often wax poetic when writing about them. They make it easy because brookies and I share certain commonalities: we love cold water, wild places, and occasionally difficult places to fish. There are places where big brook trout live, but they are seldom common catches once they grow to lunker size.

I’ve caught brook trout throughout the East, Midwest, in some high mountain western lakes, and across much of Canada. They are found in three primary sizes: midgets, legal size and lunker. Regardless of size, the terrain and geography of where they are caught is part of the allure of this beaufitully spotted game fish.

Nova is a wonderful writer, one seemingly destined to write about these fish. The book tells of the intermingling of fishing and writing in a novelist’s life. This book is well written by a writer who knows brook trout, is excited by any opportunity angle for then, and truly knows brook trout and writing..

This memoir speaks to the uncertainty of writing for a living, which most writers experience early in the game, and writing with the singular notion of writing about just one fish species. He transitions well from fishing to writing about other matters in his life, and he makes it work with a bright and lively well-paced book that is filled with the beauty of the written word. An autobiography I found spellbinding.

TITLE: Young Beginners Guide To Shooting & Archery: Tips For Gun & Bow

AUTHOR: W. H. (Chip) Gross
PUBLISHER: Creative Publishing International
DISTRIBUTOR: Creative Publishing International

CONTACT: Creative Publishing International, Minneapolis, MN
WEBSITE: http://www.creativepub.com
PHONE: (800) 328-3895
COST: $15.99

Most books written for children talk down to the kids, which can build resentment. The author worked for the Ohio Department of Natural Resources, and is responsible for having taught many children how to fish and hunt. Gross has a particular interest in safe hunting because he lost an eye in a hunting accident.

This book covers all the bases when it comes to hunting with a bow or firearm, and it is covered adequately and in sufficient depth to make it meaningful to children. It is liberally sprinkled with color photos.

I spent 20 years as the outdoor writer for The Detroit News, and one of my primary duties each fall was to put on Michigan’s largest Hunter Education program. Gross has done the same for the  Ohio DNR, and it’s impossible to work with a large number of kids without learning how to get along with them and to make their training something they will remember the rest of their lives.

Gross takes us step by step through the process of safely learning how to hunt with bow and firearm, how to achieve better accuracy, and most important of all, how to enjoy a safe hunting trip.

THE CROSSBRED FISHES, by Bob Jennings. Available from Bob Jennings, 3302 N 190 W., Switz City, IN 47465. (812)798-0783

FOR MUSKIE (MUSKY) FISHERMEN – THE CROSSBRED FISHES

Muskie fishermen went through a 10-year revival of interest in these great fish, and in the past year, very few books have been published about them and how to fish for them.

Well, welcome to the latest muskie title. Or, if you've an active imagination like Bob Jenning has, you're bound to be interested in Jennings' new book. He has always been interested in the “what-if,” and he began wondering  what if a big muskie cross-bred with with a striped bass or rockfish. The what-ifs of the unlikely chance of crossbred fish, such as the RO-OX,, OX-RO or the STR-IKE seem unlikely.

However, Jennings wonders if such pairing could happen. Perhaps the RO-OX might come to be. It would be a crossbred fish. This near mythical fish comes from the merging of two words – ROckfish-esOX. This imaginary fish has the body of a striped bass and the head of a big muskie.

The OX-RO (esOX-ROckfish) has a muskie body but the head of a striped bass. The STR-IKE is a pike's head and the body of a striped bass.

The author feels that he and some of his friends have hooked and lost each of these three crossbred fish while fishing some southern lakes where muskie, pike and stripers have been planted. Who knows, but the possibility could happen I suppose, and artist Ken Bucklew did the drawings in this book.

The Crossbred Fishes is a spiral bound paperback book with 21 pages, and unlike most books, it is printed only on the right-hand pages. This book was published in 2011, and is limited to only 100 copies. Anglers working to build a muskie-book collection would be smart to order  a copy from the above address. Such small print runs usually sell out quickly.

Men like Ben East & Gordie Charles worked to build deer herds.

Studying the history and high points of a person's lengthy literary career can be an informing and a somewhat behind-the-scenes look into that person's life.

It has been my great good fortune to obtain a great and wonderful gift from my longtime friend, Gordie Charles, of Traverse City after his death. This gentle and kind man was a rare breed; he gave more than he took from his outdoor life, and I've tried to emulate him.

A few years ago he told his wife, Dorothy, that he wanted me to have his files and papers from over 55 years of outdoor writing in Michigan and South Dakota. Years ago, my late friend Ben East of Holly, Michigan, made the same gracious gift to me after his death. The late Mark Dilts, also an outdoor writer, gave me some things.

Many years ago, my  good friend Russ Bengel of Jackson, honored me with a library of fine books. He knew I loved good fishing and hunting books, and he left me his sizable library. None of these people owed me anything, but knew I loved the history of fishing and hunting in this state.

Russ Bengel was a giant when it came to improve duck habitat.

Each man left behind a treasure trove of Michigan history concerning fishing and hunting in this state. After having sifted through it, and gathered what seemed important from a writer's standpoint, it is my task to make a contribution of the remaining material to the Bentley Historical Library in Ann Arbor in their respective names.

Ben East kept voluminous files, notes and published book manuscripts and newspaper articles. Gordie Charles did much the same. All but three file drawers of East's material has been donated, and much of Gordie's files have been donated to the same research library.

Gordie's files covered the gamut of fishing and hunting, as well as resources management, in this state. Reading through his notes, and his newspaper columns, adds still another dimension to this multi-talented man.

He was well known for his head-slapping puns and corny jokes, but he also was a man deeply in love with the outdoors. In fact, he was so captivated by the beauty of nature that he vowed as a teenager to write a future column for the Traverse City Record-Eagle newspaper.

Ben East and Gordie Charles fought for resource protection.

That he not only did that, and did a wonderfully fine job of it for many years, he also syndicated a newspaper column to 50-some state weekly newspapers, wrote magazine articles and still had time to research and write six books.

How does one measure value? If going through these old files of men like Charles and East, there is nothing of a monetary value to be found. What is valuable, though it is not tangible, is a close-up look at the history both men helped record for the enjoyment and protection of Michigan's natural resources.

I found numerous things in Gordie's files that have been returned to the Charles family such as family photos that had been lost or misplaced. What isn't needed by the family, or by me at the moment, was donated to the Bentley Historical Library.

Some files, from a historical viewpoint, are rather important to me at this time. I have permission from both families to keep these files until my death at which time all of my files (and theirs) may be donated to the same research facility.

There they will join the files of Charles, East, Harold (Opie) Titus, of Traverse City, an editor for Field and Stream magazine; Jack VanCoevering, past outdoor writer for the Detroit Free Press; and Corey Ford, an U of M alumnus and well known outdoor writer and the author of many books.

These files now give me a look at what has gone before. It allows me to determine the thinking of the Department of Conservation, the forerunner of today's Department of Natural Resources & Environment, about topics that affect our resource management and the fish and game we  seek.

It allows me to learn about different fish plantings that were tried but failed, such as the grayling and kokanee salmon. They let me know what the collective thinking of sportsmen were in earlier generations, and let me compare them to what the current thoughts are. I even found the deed and abstract for Ben East's home and property, and promptly returned it to Ben's late wife, Helen, so she could sell the family home. That was an unexpected find.

My passion is historical papers from top conservationists.

It also enables me to determine the effectiveness of biologists from an earlier period against those of today. The differences, in most cases but with some rare exceptions, indicate that earlier fisheries and wildlife biologists were in much closer contact with sportsmen than they are now.

I sifted slowly through Gordie Charles' files for nearly a month with the blessings of his late wife, Dorothy and their children, and some files have gone on to Ann Arbor. Others will go after I've spent more time examining them.

Gordie Charles was, as all outdoor writers should be: a man with an inquisitive mind, a willingness to dig deep for a story, and to put our resources ahead of everything else, especially politics. The stacks of correspondence lauding his work far outweighed the few crank letters sent by people with some imaginary axe to grind.

I see Gordie as a man who was born at the right time to do what had to be done to help protect our resources. I, for one, appreciate his hard work and the unique genius of this man who spent his adult life writing so that others could enjoy and better understand the outdoors.

Going through old files, and studying such history, must make me an historian. Hopefully, it also will make me a better writer ... even after plying my trade for 45 years.

It's when we stop learning that we stop being effective outdoor communicators. I am still learning, thanks to these gifts from other outdoor writers who helped to pave the way of today's outdoor communicators.

Walleyes and brook trout make good eating for the elderly.

Fishing seems to be one of those pastimes where some people need a reason to go fishing. They need a jump-start, and oddly, since the birth of salmon fishing in this state, the reason many go is to catch big fish.

I've nothing against catching big fish that can stretch my line on 100-yard runs, but it's not necessary to catch a big fish every time.

There were a few days during my 10-year guiding career chasing browns, Chinook and coho salmon, and steelhead, that things just didn't work out right. I remember taking two gents out for spring steelhead, and both men limited out the first day and wanted a new challenge.

The river was full of suckers. Fish to six pounds, and these guys had never caught one so I asked if they thought these fish could be caught on flies.

They didn't think so, so a friendly little wager ensued, and I caught the first sucker on a fly. It was landed, and I taught both men how to roll an orange fly along bottom. The suckers were protecting their spawning bed, and they hooked one sucker after another.

One man tossed a sucker 20 feet up the bank where it flopped around. I asked if he planned to keep that fish, and he said no. I sent him scurrying up the bank to retrieve the fish and put it back in the river. He sulked a bit, and I got him aside, and explained that his behavior only encourages others to do the same thing.

I told him those suckers hatch, grow, and get eaten by game fish such as bass, perch, muskies, northern pike, walleyes and all species of salmon and trout. I also said that spring suckers from clean water make great eating when canned and made into fish patties.

He got right into that program, and although I probably cleaned two-dozen of them for him, I was happy to do it. I didn't mind him keeping them if they would be properly used. He also apologized for his earlier actions.

Need an excuse to go fishing? Here is one that will help the environment.

Walk some of the streams and try for stream trout. Perhaps you'll bump into one of the Skamania steelhead that continue to pop up on rare occasions, but use the fishing trip to wade the river and fill your landing net with worm boxes, discarded line, beer cans, juice bottles and other stuff left behind by slobs.

Want another reason to go fishing? Take a kid with you. He can be young or old, a neophyte or an older and experienced angler. Choose what you both wish to fish for, and go out and enjoy the day and the outdoors. Any fish caught would be a bonus.

I have a couple of elderly ladies I share my catch with. If I know they want fish, and I hadn't planned on keeping any, I will keep one for each of them. A channel catfish I caught last week went to a neighbor, and she was delighted with fresh fish.

I never give them more than one fish each, and sometimes I take turns giving them a fish. They know that many days I put all the fish back or keep an occasional fish for Kay and I, but this they accept because no one else they know is giving away fish.

It's something I do that makes me feel good and makes the women feel good. Both have sons who seldom fish, and they eat what they catch, so the Good Samaritan strikes again. One lady can still clean her fish but the other cannot so I fillet, bone and skin her fish.

Some days, like yesterday or today, are wonderful days to hit the river. No need to worry about big fish or other anglers because most of the stream fishermen are now waiting for the water to cool  that will trigger other fall salmon and trout runs.

I like not having to share the water with others although I readily do so if I encounter another loner like myself. We chat, and invariably he is like me -- a person happy to be able to wade a river, cast a fly or spend a few happy hours alone with the whisper of the wind, a just-right  breeze and the quiet gurgle of water washing around a sweeper and sending soft and lovely river sounds in my direction.

That is a good enough reason for me to go fishing ... anytime.

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 (left) and George Richey with big Chinook salmon.

Those people who just got started steelhead fishing in the last few years really missed out on the best fishing ever in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Superb numbers of steelhead were being planted all around the state, natural reproduction was fairly good and the Betsie, Little Manistee and Platte rivers offered sport that was as good as it gets.

There was some natural steelhead reproduction 35-40 years ago, and the DNR was planting fish as well. The number of anglers who knew how to catch steelhead were few, and the numbers of fish available in spring and fall were very high.

My guiding career began in 1967, and brother George joined me in guiding fly fishermen to salmon, steelhead and broad-shouldered brown trout. John McKenzie, my late twin brother George Richey and I became the Tres Amigos, and we cut a wide swath through the spring and fall spawning brown trout, salmon and steelhead runs.

Reliving a time that salmon and trout fishermen will never see again.

We were three angler-guides who helped teach anglers that snagging fish was both stupid and wrong. Snagging of salmon began because the DNR told people that spawning salmon don’t feed once the hit river water. They may not feed but will attack anything that approaches their spawning redd.

Snagging became rampant back then, but we fished with No. 4, 6 and 8 single-hook nymphs and wet flies, and it may sound like bragging but it's not: we were good guides, and there was no need to snag fish. We fair-hooked fish on a regular basis. The sheer numbers of fish available meant if we spooked them in one spot, a short distance away would be another batch of willing fish.

The spring steelhead runs were huge in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and I can remember days on the Little Manistee River when we could hook 30 steelies in a single day. Not all fish were landed, but George and John experimented with and tied various flies while I handled the bookings for three of  us.

We were a busy bunch, and were on the river every day. We knew where the salmon, steelhead or browns would be from one day to the next, and we seldom had any competition. We came and went, and sometimes Tres Amigos were all on the same stream, and at times we would be spread out across three different rivers. We'd compare notes at night over dinner, and decide who would fish where the next day.

We were matched to small groups of anglers by age and type.

John, 13 years younger than George and I, was a good-looking guy. I often paired him with husband-and-wife teams or father-and-daughters, and his great talent -- besides catching fish -- was being able to teach people how to fish. He was patient, and clients easily learned from him.

George and I were older, and by nature, seemed to attract the older anglers or the chief person who brought a crew up fishing. We treated everyone the same; we'd fish from sun-up to sundown every day if clients wanted, and then clean fish at night and be up early the next day.

Guiding fishermen was a way of life for Tres Amigos, and we were very good at what we did. We could spot fish, coax anglers into putting the fly in exactly the right spot so it would be scratching gravel when it passed the fish. Often the fish would take, and we'd have a big fight on our hands.

One thing captivated us: putting people into big fish for the first time. The smiles that crossed their faces when they fought a 15-pound steelhead for the first time; got hooked into a 30-pound Chinook salmon; or was trying to land a big hook-jawed male brown trout weighing 12 to 18 pounds. It's been many years since those faces broke out into a smile, but I vividly remember most of them.

John McKenzie (above) was a popular young guide and part of Tres Amigos.

There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for each other. John was known to tie flies by hand on the river bank when we ran out. George was always there to coax anxious anglers into following a big fish downstream, and I was the guy that made it all work with the precision of a Swiss watch. All of us had a job to do, and we greeted each peach-colored dawn with a smile on our face and a jump in our step.

We reigned supreme for 10 consecutive years as a fly-fishing trio.

For 10 years we were Tres Amigos -- three friends -- who made a living in the best possible way -- being outdoors, on the river, and with a client holding tight to a big fish jumping in the river.

We often went without eating, found ourselves upside down in the river current trying to net a client's fish for them, and we looked out for each other. We also paid attention to our clients, catered to their every wish that was ethical and legal, and we coaxed more out of our client's skill levels than they knew they had.

We put people into fall-spawning rainbows that had tiny tails, fat waists, and 23-inch fish that weighed 13 pounds. The browns, especially the big males, were a golden-bronze with big spots; the steelhead were mint-silver and high jumping; the Chinook salmon were tackle busters of the highest degree, and some mighty battles would cover a half-mile of river. The coho salmon were seldom finicky about a fly: put it to them at their level, and they would hit.

It was a magical 10 years, and now brother George has been gone for eight years, and is dearly missed. John McKenzie phoned some time ago, and we took a trip down memory lane. We were there for the finest salmon and trout fishing this state has ever seen, and we pride ourselves on being the first fly-fishing guides on the rivers back when big salmon and trout ruled the state.

And that, my friends, is something we'll never forget.

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.

This was the moment of truth with this big steelhead.

My net was pulled from under my belt behind my back. The fish was 10 feet upstream as my net went into the river, and George leaned back to get the fish up on the surface, and at just the right time, he dropped the tip and the fish dove into the net. My sole job was to lift it out of the water.

"Good dip," he said, as we waded ashore. The steelhead, a red-slashed male with bright cheeks and gill covers, was 16 pounds of broad-beamed raw power. George worked the No. 4 wiggler fly out, eased the big guy into the river, and with a splash he was gone. Our trips came and went like that fish.

Several years before George died in 2003, I took him caribou hunting in northern Quebec. From home to Montreal, I told him there were two things you don't do: never shoot the first caribou bull seen, and never shoot a cow caribou. They do have very small antlers.

We hunted together, and I ran him down the sprawling lake in a square-stern canoe with a small outboard motor, pointed to the top of a tall and open "baldie," a treeless hill-top where long-range visibility was superb.

He would use binoculars, and study any caribou seen. My plan was to scout the lake's south end. I found an area where caribou had traveled, and the trail looked like a cattle path. I was looking for a good downwind spot to sit when a shot rang out.

It could only be George. The others in our party were far to the north. I returned to the canoe, motored over to where I'd dropped him off, and saw him trudging down the hill, carrying something. The closer he got, the more it looked like a cow caribou head.

"Didn't I say not to shoot a cow?" I asked. He bowed his head in mock shame, and said: "But I'll have the biggest cow caribou rack in camp."

George admitted shooting a cow caribou and took the razzing.

The other hunters teased him about it, and he made up for it by shooting a very nice bull two days later. The razzing didn't bother him, and he had fun.

Another time we hunted Le Chateau Montebello, a famous Quebec resort. We were there to hunt whitetails, and our guide said we'd be lucky to see a deer. If we did, he said, it would be a shooter.

The guy put on one-man drives, and I've worked deer drives for many years. I can tell good drives from bad, and this guy was an expert. He walked softly, yipped like a beagle puppy occasionally, and never hurried the deer. They just moved slowly ahead of him.

Far off, on the third day, I heard him yip softly to let us know he was coming. It was a large area to watch, but 10 minutes later a white-antlered 8-pointer eased from the woods and stood, side-lit by the sun against a pine tree. It was a beautiful sight.

The buck came out, turned away from me, and I took the close shot.

He turned to look the opposite way, and I slowly raised the rifle and shot. He went down, and George almost beat me to the buck. It was the only deer we saw, but he wasn't disappointed. He loved listening to the wolves howl at night, and was happy that one of us took a good buck.

"Good shot, good buck, and where's the guide?" He asked. "This buck weighs well over 200 pounds, and we will need help moving it."

The guide showed up, we boiled a kettle for tea with our sandwiches, and walked four miles to his truck. It is the only whitetail I've taken in Quebec, but it's important because we shared the hunt in a unique Canadian location.

Neither of us have ever been competitive, but years ago before I wrote the first story about pink salmon runs in Upper Peninsula streams, George was with me to share what might be an adventure. We didn't know if we'd find the humpback salmon or not.

We fished pink salmon in the morning and hunted bears in the afternoon, and soon found fish in the Big Huron River. They usually spawn on odd-numbered years and we found hordes of them on the first gravel bar above the river-mouth.

We'd guided river fishermen for 10 years, and began catching pinkies on flies. An orange fly tied on a No 6 hook produced best, and they were some of George's tried-and-true original steelhead and salmon patterns. The fish weren't big but were aggressive.

Dueling it out for a Michigan state pink-salmon record.

Here's another one," he said. "I'm taking it to the store to weigh it. I figure he'll be just over two pounds. There's no state record for pink salmon so let's set one."

Back he came, and it weighed 2 lbs., 3 oz., and so I tried to beat him. Mine weighed 2 lbs., 4 oz. The next day we caught fish of 2 lbs., 5 oz, and then 2 lbs., six oz. On the last day George caught one that weighed 2 lbs., 7 oz. and it became a state record that stood for several years.

I was tickled for him, and he got a Master Angler award, and the mounted fish hung in the DNR offices in Lansing for years before his record was broken. He didn't care. He'd had his "15 minutes of fame."

And that was the neat thing about brother George. He could go with the flow, be happy doing anything outdoors, and greeted each day with a smile on his face. He had the capacity to make others feel good and feel as if they were the most important person in his life on that day.

He was game for almost anything. I set up a bear hunt in the Upper Peninsula one year, and although he had hunted bruins near St. Helens, he wanted an Upper Peninsula bruin.

We hunted near Marquette and near the Laughing Whitefish River, and it was there on a nice September day that he took a good animal.

It walked in, stopped near the edge of the swamp, stood up to survey the bait site, and slowly dropped to all fours. The bear was cagey and moved slowly to circle the bait. There was no wind, and scenting conditions were bad, but the bruin was cautious.

After catching pink salmon, George shot a nice black bear.

George could see the animal at times, watched the bracken ferns move as it walked through them, but could never see enough for an accurate shot. Finally, apparently satisfied that all was well, the bear strolled slowly into the bait site and stood facing him.

He waited until it turned and offered a broadside shot, and one shot from his 30-06 took out the heart and lungs, and broke the off-side shoulder. His bear weighed a bit over 200 pounds, and it was a wonderful animal for him.

George and I shared 64 years of great fishing and hunting adventures, and I made sure he could accompany me on some of these fishing and hunting trips. Summer is a great time to remember, and these fond memories of the Richey twins on the outdoor trail will always stick with me.

Perhaps one day soon, I'll tell of many other fishing and hunting trips where he and I had wonderful times outdoors, together and sharing our common love for the outdoors. He was a great companion, and I certainly miss him.