Tag Archives: Colorado

Those Were the Days…For Fishing On The Fryingpan River

There was a time when the now world famous Fryingpan River near Basalt, Colorado, was known mostly by a more local group of fisherman. I was lucky enough to be one of those, and we had things pretty much to ourselves, back in the day.

Anyone who has fished there more recently may find that hard to believe, but it is true.

Here are a couple of images on black and white film, circa 1982, of some more normal looking trout that proceed the introduction of mysis shrimp to Reudi Reservoir and the appearance of the monster, football-shaped trout that soon followed.

But then, that’s another story…

Photographs by Michael Patrick McCarty

Active Member Outdoor Writers Association of America

 

Photograph of a rainbow trout next to a flyrod, taken on the banks of the Fryingpan River ear Basalt,, colorado in the early 1980's. Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty

A Close-up Photograph of a Rainbow Trout with a Wooley Bugger Fly in it's Mouth, Taken on the Banks of the Fryingpan River Near Basalt,, Colorado in the Early 1980's. Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty

Master flyfisherman Pat Hayes, with a Rainbow Trout Caught on a Flyrod on The Fryingpan River, Near Basalt, Colorado in the Early 1980's

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Recommended Reading:

Front cover of Book Fifty Places To Fly Fish Before You Die by Chris Santella

The Fryingpan River is definitely one of those places that you should fish before you die. We generally have a copy of this title in our bookstore stock, if so interested.

Forever Humbled – An Elk Hunter’s Journey

“For the wild animal there is no such thing as a gentle decline in peaceful old age. Its life is spent at the front, in line of battle, and as soon as its powers begin to wane, in the least, its enemies become too strong for it; it falls.”– Ernest Thompson Seton, Lives Of The Hunted, 1901

“Death will come, always out of season.” Big Elk, Omaha Chief

Two Bull Elk Fighting in an Open Meadow, with One Bull Goring the Other as Cow Elk Look on. Painting by Walter A. Weber
A Most Serious Battle

 

There is a place I have been that many elk hunters must eventually visit. The mountains may shine amidst spectacular landscapes and it may look like typical elk country, but somehow things are different there. It is a land of mystery and natural forces inaccessible by horseback, jeep or other conventional means. Inward rather than outward, it is a journey of the heart on a path unique to each individual. It is a place you only know once you get there.

I found myself in such a place some years ago, while archery hunting in the high desert country of northwestern Colorado. Elk hunting had been my passion for a couple of decades, more often than not with bow and arrow as the weapon of choice. I’d hunted more than a few of Colorado’s limited-entry units with a fair amount of success. And my overwhelming concern had always been the pursuit of the big bull – the bigger the better.

He filled my dreams and consciousness and became part of my daily motivation for living and working in Colorado. I would find him, and I would launch a broadhead deep into his chest. Of course, with that event, fame and fortune would soon follow.

I have always paid attention to “The Book”, and to who shot what where. I wanted very badly to be one of those fellows with the 27 record-book entries, who had just returned from Montana or Mongolia, or that private ranch many hunters drool over. You know the ranch of which I speak, the one with a Boone and Crockett bull on every other ridge. I wanted all of it, the recognition from my peers and the life that would come with my great success. The more entries the better and as fast as possible. I ran for the goal and rarely looked back. I can’t say nothing else mattered, but by god it was close.

Then, one long-awaited day, I found myself hunting a special-permit area in Colorado. It was indeed the land of the big bull, a trophy area of epic proportions and about as fine a spot as one could hunt without paying the big money. The animals were there. I had a tag, and I would fill it. I would take what was mine and move on.

I hunted a grueling 10 days. The terrain was rocky and mostly open, with occasional brush patches and stunted cedars. It looked like a moonscape compared to the timbered high country I was used to hunting. Getting close enough for a shot was tough, yet I was able to pass up smaller bulls and often found myself within arrow range of elk that would make most hunters light-headed. They made me light-headed. They were the biggest-bodied elk I have ever seen, with towering, gleaming branches of bone. They looked like tractors with horns.

As so often happens in bowhunting, however, something always seemed to go wrong. I made so many stalks and had so many close calls, the events are just a blur. I eventually missed not one but two record-book animals. Each time a shaft went astray, I screamed and wailed with self-pity, cursing my rotten luck and the useless stick and string in my hand. The prize was so close, yet always so far away.

Toward the end of the season, I glassed a small herd a couple of miles below me. Two were big bulls. One had cows, and the other wanted them. They were bugling back and forth and generally sizing each other up. I hurriedly planned a stalk and rushed downhill toward my dream.

I stalked and weaved and became enmeshed in a moving, mile-long skirmish line. More than once I slipped between the two animals as they worked their way through the brush and cedars. I saw flashes and patches of hide but was never able to loose an arrow. I knew that within  few minutes a monstrous set of headgear would be laying at my feet. I felt I had been waiting for this moment all my life.

Soon the largest bull swung into the open sagebrush a couple of hundred yards below me, followed closely by a small herd of cows. Words cannot describe his magnificence. He was one of the finest specimens of elkness I have ever seen, with muscles that bulged and rippled under his skin. He was a bull of unique and exceptional genetics with a massive and perfect rack that appeared to stretch behind forever as he laid his head back to bugle. He was certainly at his absolute prime and, if the truth were known, perhaps a bit passed it and didn’t know it. He took my breath away. Then I remembered why I had come.

Meanwhile, the smaller and closer of the two bulls had become even more vocal, and soon it became obvious he would pass very close to me on his way down the hill. He was not quite as large as the old bull, but he was big enough all the same. My bow was up and my muscles taut as I began my draw – and suddenly he was running and he was gone. I watched spellbound as he broke into the open and headed for the elk below us.

It was one of those unexplainable moments when time stands still, and you become something more than yourself. I could have been a rock or a tree or an insect in flight. I was at once both an observer and participant in the great mystery, a part of something far larger than myself.

The air was electric and my body tingled as the two warriors squared off. The cows felt it, too, and crashed crazily over the ridge. It was as if they knew something extraordinary was going down and wanted no part of it. The bulls screamed and grunted wildly at each other from close range, with quite a bit more intensity than I had ever witnessed. And suddenly they were one. They would have made any bighorn ram proud, as they seemed to rear up on their hind legs before rushing and clashing with a tremendous crack. I watched as they pushed and shoved with all their might, a solid mass of energy and immense power surrounded by flying dirt and debris.

They showed no signs of quitting. Soon it dawned on me that they were too preoccupied to notice what I was doing, even though there was virtually no cover for a stalk. My legs carried me effortlessly over the rough and broken ground, and I was giddy with the exhilaration of the end so close at hand. The larger of the two was obviously tiring, and I remember feeling a pang of sorrow for an animal that would soon be beaten, probably for the first time in a very long time, and would now have to slink off humiliated and cowless.

They pushed and they struggled and, for a few moments, seemed to have reached a stalemate as I neared bow range. The old bull hesitated, then pushed, and when the other bull responded, the old bull spun like a Sumo Wrestler, took the uphill advantage and charged. I stood dumbfounded as the two hit the top of a shallow ravine and disappeared from view.

When I reached the edge of the drop-off, the fight was over. The old bull crawled slowly out of the ravine, managing to keep the only two trees between us all the while. He moved sorely and looked like he had just survived 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. I was probably the least of his problems.

I found the other bull where I knew he would be. I sent a shaft his way and ended what remained of his life, although his fate had already been sealed. A very long tine had done its job as well as any arrow ever could.

I collapsed by the side of that marvelous creature as if I were the one who’d just been beaten, and in a way I had. I stared off into space, confused, a little angry, and barely able to grope around in my pack for a gulp of water, half laughing, then crying. I don’t know how long I remained there before a distant bugle brought me back into the moment, reminding me of the work at hand and the long uphill walk back to my truck.

His head hangs in my den now, and I still stare at him in wonder and amazement. When my friends and family ask why I didn’t have him officially scored for the record book, I usually mumble some vague and incoherent answer, as the right words never seem to come.

For some reason, antler measurements have ceased to matter to me. It has something to do with realizing animals are much more than the sum of their parts. Hunting and the hunted remain a significant part of my life, but my reasons for hunting, and my life in general, have changed in some way I have yet to fully understand. Perhaps more than anything, I realize just how much I love to hunt. And that in itself is more than enough reason for doing it.

The bull’s proud head on my wall will always serve to remind me of that special place I have visited and hope to never forget.

I am, and will always be,  forever humbled. Perhaps you have been there yourself.

 

By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

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“Elk hunting runs deep. Not that it’s always fun, because it isn’t. It’s a contrast in superlatives, ranging from agony to euphoria, and it will stretch your senses to the limit. It raises you higher, drops you lower, deep into your body, mind, emotions, and soul. You may like elk hunting, you may not, but definitely you won’t forget it”. – Dwight Schuh, Game Country, October, 1989

 

“A Bowhunter is a Hunter Reborn – Forever…” – Michael Patrick McCarty

 

 

A Limited Edition Print of Two Bull Elk Fighting With One Bull Goring The Other With His Antlers. Artist Unknown. From The Collection of Michael Patrick McCarty
Death Is A Most Serious Business

 

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Unknown Artist Signature
Unknown Artist Signature

 

Unknown Title
Unknown Title

 

Directly above is a photo of an original print from my personal collection. I have owned it for several years, and in fact found this at an antique store not long after I wrote this article. As you might imagine, it means a great deal to me.

I am unable to translate the title, nor identify the artist. I would love to do both, and also give proper attribution to the artist.

Can anyone help?

 

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After The Hunters’ Have Gone

 

A Cow Elk Caught On A Game Camera During The Archery Season In Western Colorado.

Thirsting For Water At the End Of The Trail. Photo By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

You can feel them waiting, the elk…patiently, longingly, for the rapidly approaching darkness that signals an end to an impossibly hot, late summer day in the drylands of the west.

For there are eyes, and life, on the trail, which just minutes before offered nothing up but sun baked sand and rocks that might permanently sear the touch of a human hand.

They do not wait for the hunter to return to the comfort of camp, or home. In the deserts of everywhere the hunter of game may be the least of their worries, and the herd is driven by much more basic needs. Extreme heat has a way of focusing the body and being and the inner workings of every last cell down to one vital and all encompassing purpose.

To live…

For one more second…and one more day. One more sunrise, and moonrise, and another life sustaining gulp of water. This too, this murderous furnace, shall pass.

In the mean time, just what can a  bowhunter do when the air that slams your lungs hovers near 100 degrees? The answer is simple, though not always obvious. Things will change, as surely as the earth continues it’s orbit away from the sun. Until then, one can only do what a bowhunter does best.

Wait… Listen… Learn…Plan…

Slink to the shade, like all wild things must. Hunt when you can. Head for water, when it’s time.

And live…

 

Two Mature Bull Elk Head Down A Game Trail Towards Water In the Early Evening During A Colorado Bowhunt. Photo By Michael Patrick McCarty

Darkness Visible. Photo By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

By Michael Patrick McCarty

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Just Another “I Should have never left the blind” moment

 

A Young, Bull Elk Wanders Up A Game Trail during The Middle Of a Hot Day In Western Colorado. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty

What’s An Elk to Do When It’s Over 100 Degrees. Well, Look For Some Better Shade, Of Course! Photo By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

No matter how long I manage to stay in my blind or treestand during daylight hours, there always seems to come the time when one must decide to stay, or go. I always have a twinge of hesitation at that first step away, knowing that whatever I am waiting for on that day may be just out of sight down the trail.

In this case, I had been bowhunting for elk in western Colorado, on a game trail that had been very good to me in the past. As you can see from the photo on my game camera alongside my hide, a small bull was there, for some time actually, but alas, I was not. I left the blind that day at 9:00 a.m. to check another spot, and mostly because past experience had shown that the elk would have normally passed by before 7:30 a.m.

Yet, I don’t suppose you can blame me to much for my indiscretion. After all, the animal decided to mosey by after 3:00 p.m on a blazingly bright afternoon, and when the temperature readout on the trail camera recorded a balmy 104 degrees. I was taking a nap at whatever shade was available at the time.

Go figure!

And so much for the best laid plans.

It is why it is called hunting, and not shooting, after all.

Good Hunting!

And may you have the patience, and stamina, to remain in your blind much longer than I.

Michael Patrick McCarty

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Americans’ Love Of Hiking Has Driven Elk To The Brink, Scientists Say

A Large Bull Elk Caught On Trail Camera On A Late Summer Evening In Colorado
Gone In The Dark, Black Night…Or Not? Photo by Michael Patrick McCarty

By Christine Peterson

Biologists used to count over 1,000 head of elk from the air near Vail, Colorado. The majestic brown animals, a symbol of the American west, dotted hundreds of square miles of slopes and valleys.

But when researchers flew the same area in February for an annual elk count, they saw only 53.

“Very few elk, not even many tracks,” their notes read. “Lots of backcountry skiing tracks.”

The surprising culprit isn’t expanding fossil-fuel development, herd mismanagement by state agenciesor predators, wildlife managers say. It’s increasing numbers of outdoor recreationists – everything from hikers, mountain bikers and backcountry skiers to Jeep, all-terrain vehicle and motorcycle riders. Researchers are now starting to understand why.

Read the full article here:

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*One can easily drop this article into the “I Told You So”, category and move on to other things, for in this case the warning signs of an elk herd under pressure have been flashing red for some time. Elk and elk hunting in the Vail and Roaring Fork Valleys, and perhaps many other areas throughout the state of Colorado, may never return to their historical parameters.

We have talked about the issue of declining big game herds quite often at Through A Hunter’s Eyes, although primarily about the worrisome trajectory of the Mule Deer. The loss of an elk herd may be even more concerning, for it clearly defines some serious problems in paradise.

But I think it would be safe to say that very few people had truly predicted the speed and velocity of the decline of this particular local elk herd. I can count myself as one of those.

I can only hope that a solution can be found, and implemented, before it is much too late for an easy turnaround.

The elk, are more than tough, and willing, when given half a chance.

Michael Patrick McCarty

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A Late Night Postcard Of The Best Kind

Seasons Greetings!

Two Bull Elk Feed In Late Winter Snow

Winter is the Tough Time

 

I arrived home past midnight last night, to find a small herd of elk feeding in an open pasture to the west. My neighbor keeps his horses here, and I have an unobstructed view of it from our house on the hill. I spotted them as I walked over to our dog kennel on the fence line, and as I studied them I saw a big cow raise her head, just to let me know that she was watching me too.

 I don’t suppose I will ever tire of seeing elk. They have a way of taking over the conversation, you might say, to make you pause in mid sentence when you spy one, to make you completely forget whatever you had been doing at the time, as if the world is a mere background created just for them. It has always been this way between the elk and I.

 They looked particularly surreal this night, quietly feeding on a blanket of fresh, white powder, surrounded by the mystical light of a high, full moon. I am struck by the picture quality of it all, the sharp crispness of the image frozen in the cold night air. I can only smile. It is a perfect moment in time.

 

A Labrador Retriever In The Snow, Watching For Animals Hidden In The Trees

Watching For What Comes

 

 My dogs knew they were out there, of course, being that they were no more than 100 yards away with just some old wire to separate them. They had probably been watching them for some time, waiting for me to come home, whining nervously, and wishing they could run over and join up. The elk, for their part, paid us no mind, as they pawed in the snow. They had seen this show before and are not as impressed as us.

 We see quite a few elk around our property when the snows grow formidable in the high country. It is one reason to look forward to winter. They especially like to feed at night in a large hay-field below us, and at first light they bunch up and head for the cover of rougher grounds and cedar trees on the properties and public lands to our North.

To my everlasting delight, they like to cross one small corner of our property as they leave the hay fields, and if we are lucky, we get to watch. I often sit in an overstuffed chair behind our big picture window, waiting, hot coffee in hand, enveloped in the approaching day as the rest of the world wakes up.

 

A Large Bull Elk Feeding In The Snow Of Late Winter, Somewhere In The Rocky Mountain West

Without Winter, No Spring

 

 We have seen herds of one hundred elk and more, although smaller groups are most common. One morning I sat transfixed as a herd of about fifty or so lined up to jump the fence at the edge of the field below our house, then crossed our field on a run and passed along our fence line next to the house. I counted seventeen bulls, some small, some large, surrounded by foggy breath when they stopped. I can see it in my mind’s eye, just now.

 At times, a small herd will bed down for the night under our apple trees. Once I looked out to see several lying contentedly in the sun, with freshly laid snow still shimmering on their backs. I’ve seen them browsing in the remnants of our flower garden or standing next to our bird bath, and I wave and say hello.

Welcome, I say, and good morning to you.

 Last night, I reach my door and turn one last time to watch the elk and try to lock this image in my memory bank for all time. It is the quintessential Rocky Mountain postcard, a picture postcard for the soul, and I wish I could send it out to you, to all, with good tidings and cheer.

May the spirit of elk be with you!

I don’t suppose I shall ever tire of seeing elk….

 

An Illustration, Or Postcard, Of A Trophy Bull Elk, Bugling, With Foggy Breath, Silhouetted Against A Starry, Late Night Sky

 

 By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

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Elk On The Range

 

December 2018

 

 

Two Cow Elk Feed In A Sage Covered Meadow Below Snowy Cliffs In Colorado. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty
A Good Snack Interrupted

 

In the Rocky Mountains, elk are often most concentrated, and observable, on the lower elevations of their traditional winter ranges. Life is generally easier there, for obvious reasons.

Still, it can be the time of dangerous weather and increased predation, making it the most vulnerable time for elk survival. Without a doubt, the heavy snows, and other trials, will come.

 

A Spike Bull Elk Moves Alertly Through The Brush With An Elk Herd In Northwestern Colorado. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

These elk look healthy and content, for now.

For when it comes to the fates, and ultimate survival, only the elk, and Mother Nature, know for sure.

Best Holiday Wishes For The Elk, and To All!

 

A Small Herd Of Elk Feed On A Sagebrush Flat In Western Colorado. Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty

 

Photographs By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

Cow Elk On Winter Range in Snow

 

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A Mule Deer Apparition

 

A Trophy Mule Deer Buck Walks Towards The Camera During The Annual Mule Deer Rut In Western Colorado, Oblivious To The World Around Him. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty
Is He Real, Or Is It A Dream…

 

Trophy mule deer can haunt your dreams like a shimmering ghost, fading eerily in and out of a hunter’s reality.

Ready or not, they say, for you may not get another chance.

Still, they wait for us, somewhere…

I don’t suppose I shall ever tire of seeing Mule Deer…

 

Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty

 

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Let The Quest Begin:

 

 

A Skyfall of Geese

 

“They Burst the Air With Sound and Glory; A Canada Goose is a Sky Full of Dreams” – Michael Patrick McCarty

 

 

A Very Good Day of Goose Hunting

 

 

A Small Group Of Geese Pass Overhead Below a Deep Blue Sky. Photo by Doug Brown licensed by CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
Photo By Doug Brown

 

 

Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around long, broken-down rows of recently picked corn, their remnant tassels  chattering nervously in the brisk autumn wind coming hard off of the Chesapeake Bay.  We hunted geese there from pit blinds dug from the rich, black earth, surrounded by rafts of decoys as we peered hopefully into fast approaching storm.

Waterfowl hunting, and especially goose hunting, is the high art of the gunning world. It requires dedication, intimate knowledge of the game at hand, and specialized skills acquired and honed over a long period of time. It is generational expertise not easily attained, most often passed down from close family or good friends.

To be successful a hunter must be able to read the weather and the lay of the land, and place oneself if even for a moment in the eyes of a gander. One must present the perfect setup of form and function, in order to lure even the most gullible birds.

You must speak their language too, for one wrong note can spoil the day. Patience, above all, is key, even when standing in ice-cold water up to your knees while trying to slow down the incessant chattering of your teeth.

Bring it on, you say, all if it, for in the end there is nothing in the realm of mortals to match the thrill of cupped wings over the spread, sliding and swirling down over the gun as you tell yourself to stay calm and focus on a single bird.

Impossibly large, and bold, a canada goose has a way of unsettling even the most practiced sportsman among us, Chaos reigns, and it is a rare gunner that can stay composed under a full gaggle of decoying geese. Perhaps I can do just that, next time…

I can hear them now, honking and clawing, forever upwards towards the promise of a limitless, blue sky.

With luck, and blessings, you can see them too.

 

“Against the bright, luminous sky one sees just after sunset on clear, cold days the geese were etched, flock upon following flock. Those farthest away bore on with steadily beating pinions, the nearer birds beginning their glide, great wings cupped. It was beautiful beyond speech, almost heartaching to behold, and suddenly Carl was aware of the gun slanted back across his curved arm, and without reason (but with a certain knowing), he saw that the gun gave the sight a greater beauty, for it was his hunter’s soul that transfixed him at the sight of the living splendor overhead.” – Kenneth Otterson, Last Casts & Stolen Hunts, 1993

 

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Here are a few photos from my hunt this fall in Eastern Colorado. As you can see, it was a very, very good day of goose hunting, and I wish you all, just one day, at least one day, like this too.

 

 

A Large Trailer Capable of Holding 400 Full Bodied Taxidermy Goose Decoys On A Hunting Trip Near Greeley, Colorado
It Takes a Large Trailer to Haul 400 Taxidermy Decoys

 

 

A Close-up of Taxidermy Stuffed Canada Goose Decoys, Set Up Around On Pit Blind On Hunting Trip Near Greeley, Colorado. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty
Almost Too Real!

 

 

A Hunting Guide Examines a Large Spread of Canada Goose Decoys In Recently Picked Corn Field In Front Of a Rising Sun. Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty
Checking The Spread

 

 

A Canada Goose Kite Hunting Decoy, Tethered Above a Goose Pit Blind On A Hunting Trip In Northern Colorado. Photograph by Michael Patrick McCarty
Flagging Them In with a Kite

 

 

A Large Flock of Canada Geese Circle Above The Decoys From A Pit Blind in Northern Colorado Near Greeley.
A Goose Hunter’s Dream. Photo by Rocky Tschappat

 

 

A Hunter Brings In an Armfull of Canada Geese To The Blind On A Hunting Trip Near Greeley, Colorado. Photograph By Michael Patrick McCarty
Bringing In The Geese

 

 

Winner Winner, Canada Goose Dinner. Hunters Pose Behind A Limit Of Canada Geese, Harvested In A Cornfield Near Greeley, Colorado.
A Fine Day Of Gunning

 

By Michael Patrick McCarty

 

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“As long as there is such a thing as a wild goose, I leave them the meaning of freedom. As long as there is such a thing as a cock pheasant, I leave them the meaning of beauty. As long as there is such a thing as a hunting dog, I leave them the meaning of loyalty. As long as there is such a thing as a man’s own gun and a place to walk free with it, I leave them the feeling of responsibility. This is part of what I believe I have given them when I have given them their first gun”. Gene Hill, from A Hunter’s Fireside Book, 1972

 

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