THE JOYS OF THE SEASON

Happy Holidays December, 4th 2012.  We are in the midst of a much anticipated  winter storm here in Reno, on  the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada.   Ellen, Patrick, Nicholas, Catherine and Thomas are in fine health and great spirits.

In Winter, we started the year desert camping, hunting  and motor biking in southern Arizona.  In February, Patrick returned to Mexico to continue scoping out a comprehensive business development and conservation plan to develop  sustainable fisheries in the upper Gulf of California. The livelihood of 2.5 million Mexican fishermen and their families depend on the Gulf resources.   In 2012, Ellen and Pat completed two in-depth project.  Ellen finished developing a predication/forecasting models for the telecom industry and then  completed with Pat an extensive data mining/ biology compendium database looking at the impact of habitat and predation upon the massive decline in Nevada's Mule Deer.  It was a herculean task assembling the raw data but in the end the deer will be better managed.

In the Spring , Nick and Pat along with some friends and hunting dogs took a motorcycle/fishing/ camping  trip through the Sierras up to the Oregon/California border.  Nicholas is in his last semester of Civil Engineering.  A natural fixer, he could convince a vegan to eat steak and enjoy the experience.  His interests are to work in the booming Canadian Oil fields (Alberta) where he spent many Octobers being home- schooled.  Like both his grandfathers, he likes to know how things work.  God help the Canadians,  he is a force to be reckoned with.

 In April, Cate, our independent and very  "Happy Hipster"  left her idyllic lifestyle in Tucson to work for AmeriCorps in the Mogollon Rim (near Flagstaff,  Arizona).  She loves being in the outdoors like her mother.  She packs her reading books alongside her camping gear.  And in the fall after her AmeriCorp stint,  she returned to San Francisco to pursue her writing and reconnect  with the vitality and intellectualism of San Francisco.  She couldn't get us tickets to the World Series.  But like the elections, the good guys won impressively.

In June, Thomas finished his last two years mastering Mandarin at the National Taiwan University in Taipei and returned this June to the University in Reno to finish his studies in Asian history.  He is amazing with a deep  understanding of past events --  the who's, what's, when, where's and whys.  An  impressive educated man.  He hosted Pat and Ellen in Taiwan for 3 weeks and without his mastery of  Mandarin, the visit would have been much less colorful.  Instead it turned into one of our most memorable  adventures.  Tom is scheduled to complete his degree with Nick in the early summer.  Thomas brings his Taipei street habits home, demanding we drink oolong tea, behave civilly and listen to calming new age music.  And he still brings his laundry home.

  

Late summer, Patrick  and Ellen traveled to British Colombia to meet Canadian fly fishers for a fishing conclave.  We had a spectacular trip catching the large native Cutthroat Trout on large dry flies,  a favorite of Pat's. Our encampment was in the midst of the awesome Canadian Rockies.  The trip  extended on thru October in Saskatchewan with camping, dog training  water fowling,  upland hunting and visiting many friends who love dogs and fine English shotguns.

In the Fall,  upon returning from the Canadian Prairie and the Giant sweeping the World Series,  it was on to Chicago for Patrick and Ellen the day after the 2012 presidential  election.  We stayed several nights at the Chicago Fairmont where President Obama,  his family and staff celebrated their victory.  The city was charged from the results.  Patrick took the 40 minute drive back to his childhood home in the villages of Barrington and Trout Valley, Illinois.  It was dreamlike, extraordinary memories of happy days of trout fishing, camping skiing and having a Huck Finn youth.  Ellen met her relatives for dinner, all were giddy over the Obama victory.  They're holdovers' from the Daley machine.   After Chicago, on to West Lafayette, IN, where Ellen and Patrick's Professor from Purdue was being  honored by the University.  We were invited to attend the celebration that weekend.  A dinner and awards evening honored a great man, Dr. Charles Rhykerd .  His children came and it was a special honor and  a memorable gathering of the "best and brightest" of Purdue.  The next day Ellen and Patrick toured the campus and were amazed how well Purdue was doing.  It was a wonderful experience to see our labs and fields that meant so much during our graduate studies.  As a graduate student, one seldom has time to explore outside one’s own research and course work.  We concluded that Purdue was like M.I.T. and Cal Tech “on steroids”.  What an amazing science and engineering school.

Patrick's youngest brother (of eight children), Mark Collins Maxon, named after Michael Collins the martyred Irish revolutionary , completed his theology program and was ordained a diocesan Priest in the Roman Latin rite in 2012.  Mark is 51.  He was in the Army in Virginia for 4 years, returned to earn an engineering degree, a  P.E., married then divorced (annulled) and  worked as a hydrologist for seven years.   He spent six years in the seminary studying for the priesthood.  Although not a Jesuit, he has the schooling.  Presently,  he works for the Fresno Diocese in a parish where the Pastor is almost as young as Mark.  At last,  our Irish mum (88) got her last earthly wish!

Speaking of Irish Mums,  Ellen’s mother turns  90 this December and Ellen will join with her four sisters in Arlington, VA  to celebrate the big birthday this  December before we head to Arizona and Mexico.  Genevieve is a vital and energetic woman who has traveled the world, was educated at the University of Chicago, raised five daughters, and learned to trout fish.  She is well and fit enough to be in her 50's.

To end on a more pastoral note, our garden this year was superb.  With keen interest from Nick , a hearty rototiller, plenty of compost and an impressively hot summer, the Maxon Farm produce 2 pound heirloom tomatoes, eggplants, kale, potatoes, lettuce, chilies, bell peppers and a young  RATTLESNAKE.  The backyard was so lush it attracted the young rattler that lived under our air conditioner.  We live in the foothills of Reno,  amid wild mustang horses that eat from  our apple tree, or Mule Deer that fed on the alfalfa fields close by,  the quail and doves that fed each morning in our front yard,  or the red tail hawks that often nested in the back yard and great horned owls that hoot in winter evenings. 

 Mother Nature abhors a vacuum and so as the seasons change we age and the cycles seen and enjoyed by more mature eyes, the Maxons come to be more thankful for the bounty and blessing bestowed upon us. This is the time of year to celebrate the joys of the past year and to appreciate the future filled with wonder and hope. It is certain that goodness and righteousness prevail.                      

Feliz Navidad y prospero ano nuevo or Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,

Patrick, Ellen, Nicholas, Catherine, Thomas, Fe and Tess Maxon 

THE 2012 CANADIAN HUNT

This fall was different.  I was prepared to upland hunt with two old time friends I had not traveled with for over 10 years.  The eldest was in his early 80's fit as they come being an Ph.D. former human physiology professor at a well known University.  He was an Idaho farm boy that went east to school and returned to the West to pursue his love of hunting dogs, finely made side by side shotguns and a sportsmanlike behavior.  His mom moved him away from the irrigated fields of Idaho as the young beautiful Mormon gals wanted  his companionship in high school.  His Mum had different plans and moved the family back east away fron his temptress.  Still today, Don missed the companionship of the farmers daughter.

 The younger hunter in his late 60's was a gentle giant who appeared as though he stepped off the boat from Sweden. He was farm boy from Iowa who loved the outdoors so much he traveled to Alaska to hunt and fish after finishing his civil engineering degree. He tells me stories of moose hunts, sheep climbs and many days on the river.  Above all his love fore Iowa pheasant hunting controls his love affair with dogs and an excellent collection of differently designed double smooth bores. In the end I enjoy them both because the are sportsman and love dogs, great wine scotch and fine weapons.

Twenty years ago I invited them to travel with me to Saskatchewan and experience the wonderful farming families, wide open spaces and great bird hunting. Each year they return to the same place while I moved around always looking for different spots and meeting the homespun kindness of Saskatchewan rural families.
This year in this particular area the numbers of spring clutches was down.  The Huns had not recovered from the devastating Prairie snows of 2010.  It will take several mild winters to bring the number back., but there was enough to keep the sprints high.

Our first bird drive was about 10 minutes from the motel and campground.  I timed our hunt to make sure most of the birds were in cover after their morning feed of wheat. I spotted a covey  racing through the wheat stubble to the Caragana. I was a perfect setup.  I let my companion out and instructed him to inform the others not to start the drive through the cover until I was in a flanking position.  The birds would be focusing on me as I drove across the stubble making all sort of comotion.  The drive had begun and several adult blew out of the cover both able to head over the nearest rise in the stubble. I knew there had to be more birds and when a great horned ow flew fro
 the bush. I knew there was prey to be had.   The wind was favorable but strong.  I figured the birds would lift into the wind have a tailwind. The hunter would have to be quick.

Then by design a horde of pheasants busted out.  Often female hen can be mistaken for Sharptail and surely these excitable men having the sun in their eyes might mistake one for as delicious grouse.  The pheasants keep flushing as I got closer.  I counted 15 birds when the covey of Hun with their red tail lifted caught the wind and after six shoots not a brace to be had.  They were marked about 400 yards to the west in the middle of stubble and the hunt was on again.

Don the magnificent was in automatic and he knew how they would lift to the wind.  Chuck the newbie took the flank and at once I show Don aim and two birds went down before I heard the crack. Chuck had his shot and one fell but was a runner.  After 15 minuted and giving the Brittany time to hunt the runner up, I turned loose the lab and the wirehair.  The puppy lab was all excited and hung close to the hunter. Over my shoulder from the spectators, yelled that Fe the wirehair was on point.  She had found the cripple.  Age is a wonderful thing and having a 12 year old wirehair outhutting a lab and Brittany was fondly remembered. 

THE LAST DAY on THE ELK and it was DRY FLIES and STREAMERS

Jim and Scott had to leave and so Ellen and I had the camp to ourselves on and off with the two young men bitten with the fly bug.  I would go to a small stream and fish the 12# flavs and egg head streamer while Ellen stayed in Fernie to grab a shower and try a Tim Hortons.

I found a likely pool, tied on a large Mayfly.  No takers until I downsized to 5x and ginked the bug to bounce. Cast the bug with good accuracy on my slow actioned IM6 Winston Tom Morgan Favorite 4 wt and boom the monster came up so quick it hooked himself.  The 4 wt was under gunned and took more angling than normal but the action gave me control over the runs.  Four more cast and four more cutties all in excess of seventeen inch. I need a change and maybe there lurked a bull deep in the pool.

I tied on an Alaskan egg head and........20 inches later, the pool's grand daddy but no Bully's here

Sadly, It was time to head south maybe the snows had come to Ennis, Montana and killed the fires.

CUTTIES AND BULLS ON THE FLY

I came right from the whisky and vowed never to drink spirits and champagne ever on the same night. We set out to float and the launch was smooth.  The first pool held good fish and the river was not  crowded. We got out at each pool the they held good trout.  Ellen was using a new SA Sharkskin line and loved. The aluminum made Koffler RMT with defined chines handled like a Ferrari compare to my Hyde drift glass. It responded with both dogs in the back and Ellen up front. We did about five miles and raise over twenty cutties to the dry.


The fishing was good and getting better as the high pressure built over the Canadian Rockies. I thought I had the river figured out and even thought may be it was time to pull the plug and find some rainbows for more challenging action. I was in for a surprise.

I meant several hard core Calgarian who had been floating over twenty miles.  All had streamer strung up.  Fishing was great for cutts on streamer and then there was the bulls that sulked in deep pools.  I heard stories about landing bull trout with fin sticking out of their mouths.  I had hooked many dollies and char in Alaska so how special could these land locked char be.

Scott and I parked our boats on a long deep pool where I figured I might hook a cutt on a streamer.  I attached a single hook as per regs on a white bunny with a cone head. Rolled cast the streamer on a 7 wt. sink tip line and swung the offering through the pool. After the sweep the line line came right and after several strips I felt a tug that almost took the rod from my hand.  I set the hook and the fight was on.  I wasn't a cutties. I had fought sturgeon before and even thrasher sharks  and this behave like a cousin. After five minute trying to bring color up to the boat, the fight was over. Scott wanted to know what happened. I didn't know and wanted to know what in the hell that fish could be.

"Bull trout!" he smirked. "They live in these big pools and eat trout."

Another streamer and another hookup but it got off.  What was this all about!  I returned to the white single hook bunny and swung the flies through the huge pool.  Another hookup and this time I managed to bring the fish to surface. Remember Roy Snider when he saw the shark in Jaws .  This fish had to be ten pounds and as I lowered the net he let loose.  He had never been hooked.  He locked on to the bunny tail and refused to give in until the net came out. These were fearless fish that were the fresh water cousins to sharks.  Meat eaters

 Ellen took her nap on a grassy covert  and within the hour Jim floated wanting to know if Scott was up or down stream.  He was hatless. I sense something had happened. Jim was shaken. He got caught in side channel and got wrapped, a dreaded predicament feared by all river runners.  He was young and strong and was able to break free without injury but lost his trademark hat. A weaker less prepared runner could have been seriously hurt.  Wraps are right up there with rouge waves while blue water fishing.

COULD not FUNCTION AFTER A NIGHT OF SINGLE MALTS

I am too long in the tooth for nights of drinking, debating and denials. Jim and Scott could hold there own.  The more Jim sipped his whisky the more intense and deliberate he became. If I set him out in the wilds, he'd come back with a bear and moose tied for camp food.  Scott, well he could "beam me up," with his humour.  Never mix grapes with Scottish spirits.  Next morning I felt like a mule had kicked me in the stomach. Ellen warned me but I was having too  much fun laughing with these characters.  She told me not to mess with these guys as I was not even on the same planet with them.

All except I was up and ready to fish.  Jim saw I was in poor health and said he's wait on the drift boat float and he and Scott would go off to another stream and dry fly fish.

TIME TO STRING UP CAMP AND CATCH

The first night in camp the winds, snow and rains howled up from Fernie through our camp site and blew  the tents down.  We had to lower our jacks to stabilize our camper but were cozy letting the rain and winds put us to sleep. Our Canadians brethrens were not do  lucky and in the morning Jim who rises early was busy adjusting his guy lines from a downed tent. He did not get a lot of sleep but he was ready to fish the Elk.  I looked for Scott and heard a moan in the back of his pickup. He crawl forth from his truck shell blue jeans wet from the driving rain that crept inside his camper shell. Scott was all smiles. Just another day in British Colombia.  He lit a cig, fired up the Coleman and was around the campfire coffee and cig in hand. He always found the silver lining

Ellen casting to a pool that held Bull Char and Cutthroats

Ellen and I felt like one  of the "Three Little Piggy's" who made his house from bricks. I fired  up the Yamaha eu3000 inverter and handed out espresso to all, the camp was right and plans drawn up to attack the river. Jim and Scott would float and Ellen and I would meet them down river for a shuttle.

A strong wild Cuttie taken on a #6 foam hopper.

They were off when Ellen and I drove to the lower landing rigged up or 5 weights and looked for pools that might hold trout. Ellen first cast on the Elk brought a strong Cutthroat up and the fight was on. All smiles Ellen landed the wild trout and after several more fish we went back to wait for the floater.

Scoot on the left and Jim in his new pontoon boat

We finished mid afternoon and after picking up Jim and Scott who floated some wild stretches we headed back to camp where we had been slow cooking a rice mushroom chicken supper on a dutch oven .

Adding water to our dutch oven supper

FREE DRIFTING THE ELK RIVER

The 2012 summer in Montana had a different routine in mind for us.  Seldom can I grip the immense beauty as I travel from the Great Basin over watershed divides into the land of cool days, rivers and streams that house accommodating trout and blue skies that change little with polarized glasses. Being there during the Montana summer is about hoping like a teen hoping for the best at a co-ed summer camp. Here desires are fulfilled with the fish and people that live there enduring the winter. The spirits of an impending summer filled with water bugs morphing from their underwater homes into duns and then spinners drives a fly fisher to drink.  Montana has  two seasons, winter and August so time is precious and so is fishing the dry fly. It is a contagious feeling.

We had traveling to Montana since the early 1960's to escape the Arizona heat and dry fly fish. But this summer, smoke filled our historic fishing valleys and waved us onward telling us not to stop for the  summer but come back after the first September snows.  The trout would still be waiting for us. So driving several hours further north seemed reasonable.  Besides my gypsy wife craves more adventure


A simple invite by several fly fishing  posters on a internet board I had been on and off since 1993 got me excited about catching Cutthroats.  The board is split into three audiences.  Mostly easterners, a few western Canadians and a sprinkling of American urban westerns.  Clearly an inverse relationship between fishing opportunities and posting. I dreamed of Cutthroats coming from the clear waters to grab a floating bug my aging eyes could celebrate.

I had a three point hitch trailing my Grand Cherokee behind my truck camper.  Behind the Jeep I trailer ed my Koffler Rocky Mountain Trout Drift boat. At the crossing in BC they made me disconnect my rig. Ellen drove the Jeep and I trailered the drift boat.  Our first stop was a fruit stand in Fernie.  We bought some apples (not so good) but the cherries were to die for.  While eating them at a the only stop light in Fernie, I heard my cell ring.

"This is Jim, your klave host! Are you driving a big diesel truck camper hauling a drift boat?" 

"Yep," I said but how do you know that." 

"I'm driving next you," Jim laughed.

 And so we connected from an online presence to a real handshake and excitement that we are going to make this fishing trip happen. Jim from Calgary had done and excellent job of recon.  We spent the night alongside the Elk River in Fernie awaken to Ellen returning from her morning wake with the hunting dogs seeing black bear. It was a prelude of events to come the next week.

Your spirits soar when you see jagged peaks looming in the towering mountains. So these were the Canadian Rockies so much more impressive than I imagine and there are wild fish as well. Camp was within yards (meters) of the river about 40 km north of Fernie south of Elkford.


And them a force of nature showed up that next day.  Scott was a Peter Pan like man child with a smile from ear to ear and an easy going nature that put you immediately at ease. A classic Canadian fellow who knew how and when to party, fish and cook.  He was the most self contained man I had meant in awhile and above all he loved dogs. Scott unbashfully was enjoying life and his and Jim energy was contagious. Dry fly fishing was quickly taking a back seat to the camping and comradely.

Scott

VISITNG NEW RIVERS IN SEARCH FOR DRY FLY ACTION

My father and father-in-law were from "Old School."  They were raised in an era when dry fly fishing was the purist means to trout.  Sadly, both have passed on however their love of  ways still lives and gladly adapted by their offspring. Our paternal grandfather, a consummate sportsman had a keen interest in all outdoor pursuits ranging from water fowling,  dog training to Big Game hunting  but above all, he loved fishing.

On one of his early community developments in the Fox River in Northern Illinois that he acquired  from the Hertz Estate and Curtiss Candy company from Chicago was an outgrowth of his passions.  Beside race horse stables, Bull Barns and corn fields for pheasant hunting, Hearst copied the gilded English estates of the Edwardian age.  He made twelve trout ponds with three miles of interconnecting streams holding brown trout with names like Bertha and Tyrone.  Father named it Trout Valley, Illinois.  There he perfect casting Orvis and Payne cane rods and tied dry flies. He  became a master rod builder under the mentor ship of Dale Clemens and tied flies worshiping Helen Shaw.  And when he moved West, he switched to early Lamiglass blanks and perfected deer hair dry flies for the rough and tumbling water for rivers like the Madison and Clear Creek and bass lakes in Sonora, Mexico.

Back in the 1960's, before the Redford's movie, a 12 royal humpy, he called strawberry sundaes would readily bring many rainbows up from their lies on the Madison. Today one must deploy an 18 soft hackle flav. My father- in- law was raised in eastern Washington but after through West Point and graduate work ended up in the Pentagon and adapted quickly to 10" brook trout using #20 Hendricksons and Quill Gordons.  He fished each weekend on funny sounding, dark colored slow moving mosquito infested water.  He loved every minute on the streams but he was more steadfast and a purist than my father.When I meant my future wife in grad school trying flies for a fishing trip with her father it was the love of fishing that brought us together. And when we married it brought the two father together who hit it off immediately. They set a date to fish the West

I can remember picking my father in-law up a the Yellowstone airport. He  dressed like a model out of an Orvis catalog and within minuted upon arriving at our lodge he was fishing fishing the Madison. Not a productive stretch but the enthusiasm was contagious. He was totally military and at 5:00 pm mountain, 7:00 east coast time, he broke off the wading to retire to his cabin and delight in his martini always dangling a Salem menthol cigarette. We knew he was in heaven.

All next day he fished hard with no hookups. We were handily catching many rainbow on dry's many over 17 inches, each one frustrating him. It aggravated more when his daughter and son in law doing well.  After all, I was just a  punk lieutenant,  just married his eldest daughter while he was a full bird Ph.D. Colonel with 25 years in the Army.  My father informed us that he must come to us for advice when he is ready. Finally it happened during out stream side lunch

Mom packed a delightful lunch and while the Colonel continued to fish a trout filled pool without success.  The lunch time audience gathered on the banks to watch the ordeal.  He had a magnificent cast perfected after many dry fly fishing but he was unable to score.  I could not take it any more and slipped in and began casting 20 yards behind him with a 12# Royal Wulff.  Immediately hooked into a huge rainbow that bounced several times slapping the water.  The Colonel turned to see  the commotion and just stared in disgust.  Quickly he returned to casting but to avail.  When he reached the head of the pool, I could see my wife and parents enjoying the show while munching their brie  and fruit lunch sipping cold clear Madison water. I hooked two more trout. The Colonel turned to watch the struggle having passed the water five minutes before.  At last he got the message and reeled his Argentinian Orvis CFO and joined the group sitting next to father.  I continued to fish the pool

"Its the material in your fly," my father finally said to him. "Profile and drift are is everything on these pocket water.  Eastern small hackle have no drift out here." The master East Coast dry fly fisher was hooked on deer hair dry flies and never looked back.

THE CHASE FOR MARLIN

Sailfish behaved like teased cats, catching them soon became a routine. To free up time, trans morph from a serial entrepreneur to a "recovering entrepreneur," I sold my BioTech Company to Shell Oil and seriously outplayed my Venture Capitalists who thought they were play poker with a "dumb bunny." Never play the game until you have a full house or better or your drawing to three aces.
They were focused on dilution issues they forgot that the money game is akin to the great lessons leaned from fishing. Meaning that rule one, fish in productive water, have the right bait, set the hook slow but forceful, then let the fish run keeping the drag loose at first but tighten down as the fight wanes. None of my VC fished.

I wanted to give time to child rearing and sharing my passions with them. So, I hauled my fantastic 26 foot boat equipped with sleeping quarters, a galley, a head and single screw 350cc Volvo Penta down from Tucson to the desert town in Guaymas Mexico.

"The Good Vibrations" was berthed next to the Catch 22 beach and when the sailfish came northbound usually in May we would hunt them. My crew consisted of a first mate my eldest Nick, a 1o year with a keen proclivities for fishing and adventure and the daughter Cate, a 7 year who played below with her barbies, but would later in life bag a 10 point trophy Mule Deer and fly fish floating down the Madison River in a bikini.
Morning at sunrise if the off shore breeze did not fan the palm outside my window, I bundled up the kids with cereal in a cup bounce down the dirt road and fire up Good Vibrations. She would purr and bellow under full throttle doing about 20 knots out to the fishing fields. With trim tabs adjusted to starboard a little we take a 180 bearing about 20 minutes out in search of bait balls and sailfish.

Birds were the objects. Looking the horizon with Nick at the helm, I scoured the dimly lit horizon with my Bausch and Lomb for feeding birds. The sea was a desert but often enough your eyes hardened adjust to the swells. I could find the currents, even up-swells or depressions and that's where you found the sailfish attacking the bait.

I had four Penn International rods and reels rigged with teasers. It became a serious game who could spot the first sail of the day. I had to calm Nick to let Cate win a few to keep her in the game. She would get ice cream later.

Once the sail was spotted protruding and retracting, I knew the great fish was feeding and if it didn't dive at our rumbling, we put the Penn SW with 15 lbs test into free spool letting out the teaser at various distances. The teasing began with a great circle surrounding the slow moving fish usually with its sail fin flashing trying to scare bait. We kept circling the sailfish, always closing the gap until the strike. Never failed and the absolute chaos began. Nick would head the craft outbound as I fought the bill fish. Once the fish was on and tailing, he turned the helm over to 7 year Cate who keep a straight bearing. Nick begin to reel in the other three lines. Chaos was controlled but never lost a hookup unlike our Tuna blitzes.

It was awesome to witness the 60 lbs sail go aerobatic usually jumping a dozen or more time trying to throw the hook. Never had to set the hook I just them the run on a loose drag do the trick. Slowly I'd retrieve the line until a slight pressure was felt and pump the rod a dozen time to make sure the great fish was on.

The drag was set low and the boat engines drove and set the hook. Sometimes a pissed off sailfish would jump 20-40 times. We managed to hook and release about fifteen sails a week and quickly the crew got bored. They were more interested in watching the sharks feast on dead whales brought north by the prevailing currents.

It was hot that time of year and our air conditioner struggled to keep the house cool. Closing the curtains and keeping ti dark helped. It was a grand house to take an after noon siesta after a morning fishing for bill-fish and tuna. Cate found a tree house by the beach and managed to recreate a world . It was an idyllic place but I need more.

My wife EJ was a green to the ocean swells and when on board she sliped below to sleep and read. She would fly over from the Sierras and live and beach it until she returned back to Reno usually after several weeks of decompressing. We supervised the home schooling and EJ encourage the home schooling immersion approach. EJ loves a man's world and despised the chit chat of women and when I mentioned there were stronger fish in the sea she said to go for it.

Before I returned to the Sierras that summer, a local mariner impressed with our success with ninos mentioned one evening while attending a local fiesta that I should go on down to Cabo. I told him catching sailfish was too easy so maybe I'd go back to TARPON THIS TIME ON LIGHT FLY RODS TACKLE. "Try the marlin," he said. "The sailfish is a weak sister to the marlin. No comparison and Cabo is the place to do it." Those words struck me with pure excitement and the adventure began that would last for the next three years

A THREE RING CICRUS: THE HAWKERS WERE DIGGING THE RATS NEST FOR A REFLUSH

There was a kid, two horses, three dogs, four falcons, two falconers and a quest. When a quail was cornered all were part of the spectacle. The Harris hawks lifted together each taking a perch on top of the cactus. Harry on horse followed on trot the fights that lasted a hundred yards until his hawk shot across the open space. His trot became gallop and kept going for a quarter mile until the Harris lit. Somehow Harry knew the flight was after quail. Jamaica's Harris followed behind Harry's passage and before I arrived both falconers had hoes out standing in then middle of a kangaroo nest surrounded by cactus excavating the rat hole. Harry took one side of the nest while Jamaica began digging furiously hoping to force the trapped quail to reflush

Both Hawks were perched 5 paces away on top of the cactus waiting. They had been here before and were waiting for the quail to scatter. The dogs were on point. One had a cholla embedded in his snot but he didn't care. Harry dug at least a foot then the quail flushed in a buzz and a second later the Harris had the quail impaled in its talons.

Harry told in me in his subtle way that healthy habitat was excessive desert rats nest. I mentioned some of my colleagues were working the deadly hantavirus carried in the kangaroo's rat feces. Harry laughed saying, "Not as deadly as the rattlers that live down these holes."

THE ULTIMATE QUAIL HUNTER

Desert Hawking by horse takes quail hunting to a new level. I came to visit the Zen Master, Harry McElroy, a Hemingway lookish male who at 82 has the energy and drive of a 40 year old. He is from a cast of Tucson character I've known from Margaret Sanger, to Joe "The Godfather" Bonano, and Norm Borlaug, father of the Green Revolution. I knew Harry as an apprentice astringer in the incredible 60's. He is renown sportsman, an author on Hawking, earned a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology, a Texas bred democrat, and above all a gentleman of the "Old School," with a slight drawl that makes you instinctively listen. Harry was a Kellogg Fellow trained as an educational Psychologist but left to peruse his dreams that he practices each day. He discovered, it was the teacher not students that required intervention with behavioral issues.

And so Harry is my oldest living teacher who took the route of an obsessed human, a life without hesitation, inventing desert quail hunting with with Gos Hawks, Coopers, Sharp Shinned the Harris Hawk ,a parabuteos and aplomado longwings. His summary: Coopers can get the quail, Gos fly faster and Harris's are hunting machines. Harry always loved speed in flight. Harry added horses to his team and moved his attack methods up a notch. He refined hooding, compelling techniques in daily eight control and modern telemetry. Harry, the professor, changes the wild raptors fundamental hunting instinct of simple killing to eat. Instead he modifies them into a quasi-domestic predator, akin to walking the T.Rex on leash through downtown Manhattan.

Harry is as agile and fit as a man in his late 40's. I feel young and hopeful watching him saddle the horse, weigh the hawks and plan the attack. He is slow, a deliberate man much like a desert tortoise until the hunt begins; He morphs to a Mr. Hyde. I learned under Harry back in then 1960's and early 1970's but had too choose grad school over hawking life thanks to the glorious 60's and Woodstock generation. I often wonder where I'd be if I choose the falconers life. I made the good choice but I long for the splendor and happiness that hawking gave me.

I enjoy my visits with Harry and his wife Beth a well traveled patient educator. Today's hunting group was, two Peruvian Paso horses, two pointers who can barely walk due to their cactus impaled paws and of course the stars; an imprinted male Northern Goshawk and a passage Harris Hawk. Each species is fined tuned to this high energy quail hunting. The Goshawk an accipiter, from old English, gōshafoc, meaning goose hawk, is Harry's secret love although he craves the para buteo wolf pack social hunting skills of the Harris Hawks.

I hadn't seen Harry for awhile. And after three weeks in the Sonoran desert camping, hunting riding dual sport KLR 650 and pass shooting, I promised myself to reconnect with this legendary man and his hunting style. Being with Harry floods my memory banks with warmth and joyous times before the crush of adult survival. As a teen housed in a Catholic minor-seminary, Harry gave me advice on bonding skills learned with with raptors. Catholic minor-seminaries were designed to preclude human bonding, women in particular, which I soon discovered was the best route toward recovery and 1960's enlightenment. I was fortunate to get exposure to highly educated men like Harry, learned but demanding priests and teachers who imparted an obsession for knowledge. But, it was not enough for curing the hormone rage. I was homesick for the passions of my father; The hunting dogs, fine guns, camping, fishing, skiing, horses, music and family and on. I had no bonding skill until I meant Harry and learned the essence of life bonding thru falconry.

My father was a persuasive man who gave the seminary priests many perks from golf course passes to hunting trips. He convinced them to let me train hawks while attending seminary school located in the desert. I think he knew where that might led. I learned the bliss on bonding that quickly reveal those forbidden items like 60's music secret radio we heard on a handmade made with copper wire and a crystal set that we listened to in the Hawk Mew with a Coopers Hawks inside. Then best bonding experience of all- girls, a candy stripper to be exact. I my confessions on Friday before mass were legendary. I LEFT THE SEMINARY SOON AFTER. I thank Harry and my hawks for what I am today.

At 2:30, Harry handed me his portable cadge that housed the hooded Harris Hawk.

"Keep him on your lap, tight."

"Sure Harry." I mumbled concerned such a killing machine perched over my jewels

I was amazed how light the bird weighed and grinned how heavy my 20 bore Holland and Holland was. We gathered the dogs and drove down the steep hill to the stable. The horse were at the gate ready to be saddled A fellow falconer, Jamaica and her young daughter joined us flying their aplomado peregrine. Within 15 minuted we had the horses cinched, stirrups adjusted, we mounted and were ready to ride. Quxiote, Harry's name for the Gos, the first to fly was at 590 grams,

" A little lite but within the margin of error," according to Harry.

Just over a pound, I calculated.

"How do you like my happy hunting grounds? Its my heaven and there are many quail," Harry said with sublime certainty. He was right..

We were off in a quick trot. Harry led the way. My horse 14 hands had a smooth trot. He followed the dogs . I didn't have chaps on and he came too close to the cholla cactus and so I would give him a ear twist after removing two cacti from my thigh. He nodded he was going to listen. Straight ahead I saw a thrasher flush to a cactus. Seconds later a pile of dickey birds. Harry had his Goshawk on fist and that sight of a raptor in the field scattered everything in complete terror. Within seconds, the Goshawk exploded from the fist. His horse didn't move at the comporting and dogs gave chase after hawk. Harry shouted, "Whoa, whoa." The accipiter beat its wings several times and was to the horizon. The hawk was onto to something. At a three hundred yards I couldn't tell. Harry knew from the flight pattern he was into quail and the hoot shouts alerted the dogs. Suddenly the Goshawk veered sharp right lifted up and crashed to the ground. Harry said he wanted the dogs alerted to stay with the Gos to prevent other raptor from killing his bird. He had lost several hawks to Red Tails and Golden Eagles.

NEXT THE HUNT

THE ADULTS ONLY WINTER HUNTING CAMP

Empty nest, thank God this year. Don't think ill of me for wanting be separate from my independent children. Without dependents, the dynamics of our winter campaign would be different my not having to do the 10 a.m. bugle call. I wouldn't invite those that could not camp anymore. We wanted to hunt solo with dogs, keep it simple enjoying the splendor, sights and sounds of late season doves without the call for, "what's for diner Mom."

I have a friend who fly fish with us in the Sierras and Montana and is game for adventure. He was invited with his single Brittany to join us. He is a self sufficient guy and never had to hover. In fact, he pitches in without ever being asked. I like that and being the son of a devout preacher man from the old school, he brings much humor to camp. He loves his simple camping style and enjoys the field with his dogs.

Doves were still up north so we had to find flights that were stable. We could shoot a fair bit but the roost or fields wouldn't hold much pressure. It was a just one shoot and had to find other roost. My young retriever was in training to mark and stay on heel until sent. She behave so valiantly always in command and her name was coined back in North Dakota when she managed to recover a double on grouse. I called her super dog because as she is the happiest dog I ever have trained although I have not collar conditioned her. Her disposition in part is due to her older companion Fe a German Wirehair who was imprinted by a famous lab mother daughter relationship.

I began shooting these high flyer with a 1872 Damascus 30 in bar action I. Hollis and Sons stunning wood/timber with high profile rebounding hammers. It is a pigeon grade/ weight and so I shoot 2 3/4 inch, 7/8 oz, 7 1/2. I restored after I discovered it in New Zealand. It has a deadly pattern. Next, I moved up an era and across the channel to a 1892 French bespoke FAVURE LePAGE y FILS PARIS MAKER with gold washed locks, ejectors and the finest rose and scroll engraving . This is the finest double made in the era under the tillage of Napoleon III. It is a finer constructed weapon than my Holland and Holland Royal and equal or exceeds in some feature my Purdey.

We were starting to devour many doves so I switched to my Browning O/U superposed to improve their odds, cheating but it was a gift from my wife. Soon we were in dove heaven and my 8 shot was bringing the high flyers down from 50 yard. I ended the season with my Hollands 20 bore royal but my last shot was with my 1876 WC Scott and Sons Premiere hammer.

We were broiling fine grain fed doves with a Chilean red with brown and wild rice and a garlic bread. Hard to beat camp food made in a slow cooking dutch oven. To finish it off we delighted in a homemade fruit cake.