Southwest Florida Fishing Report

October 13th, 2009

A Guide’s Worst Nightmare

Whenever a man or woman decides to earn a living by taking other men and women hunting or fishing for pay, there’s always a certain amount of trepidation and uncertainty.

Sometimes, it’s euphoria. Other times it can be an outright calamity.

Take last week for example. Please!

Mike Lazorchak, a New York City banker, drove 13 hours from his home in New Jersey to chase trout and grouse with me for three days. Man, does he have stories to tell all of the guys back home. Some good, some…

Actually, everything started off beautifully. Thursday dawned crisp, but wonderfully sunny. A classic October day in Michigan’s northwoods. The colors were spectacular and some of the leaves even had begun falling (at last!) because of a hard frost the night before.

Ghost, my 12-year-old English setter was Game On. We “flew” ten grouse and ten woodcock over her, but Mike’s bag was only one woodcock. And a very strangely-colored one at that. Very pale markings. Almost like an albino.

Alas, my two-year-old setter—Heart—ran hard but never found a bird. How was I to know that it was only the beginning of our problems.

Friday morning I hitched the Au Sable Longboat to the back of my truck and met Mike at DJ’s IGA store in Waters. He followed me to my good friend Jim Powers’ house. We unhitched the boat and hunted Jim’s 20 acres of riverfront property. Nothing.

We drove down the road to a favorite spot of mine and put Heart on the ground. He ran hard, covered ground and found no birds.

“Let’s head a bit north,” I suggested. We crashed through one low spot filled with water. No problem. However, my overconfidence in the Tahoe let me down on the next one.

SPLASH!!!!! Followed by the sickening sound of spinning tires. Yep. I was up to the runningboards in water. After a lengthy call to a young lady who undoubtedly was “in Bangladesh,” as Mike put it, I made contact with a “local” tow operator.

It quickly became evident that I was dealing with people who didn’t have many branches in their family tree. Fortunately, I was able to call Jim Powers—who lives not far from where I was mired. He drove onto the road and intercepted the tow truck driver, who was completely discombobulated about where I was and where he was supposed to be.

Finally, two hours after my rather indelicate miscalculation, we were back on the road to Jim’s house and my riverboat. At eight that night—twelve hours after Mike and I had met—I pulled up to Jim’s dock. We had raised precisely four fish in nearly six hours. It was pitch black. It was cold.

And then I found out that the left wheel hub of my trailer wouldn’t rotate.

Marvelous!

Okay. Leave the boat and trailer at Jim’s. We’ll deal with that later (maybe next week?).

Since Mike wanted to concentrate on grouse, Saturday morning found us in one of my grousiest spots with Ghost scouring the ground. Nothing. Which really surprised me. This is a hotspot.

Let’s go. The next place is always a winner. Twenty minutes later I put Heart on the ground for his “turn” and he spent three hours running hard. Unfortunately, only one of them was with US.

We were almost back to my Tahoe when he went over a ridge less than a hundred yards from me. Bingo! Gone with nary a hint of sound from the beeper collar. Wonderful. So, for the next two hours Mike and I (he was really a good sport about everything that subsequently happened) drove the two-tracks listening for the beeper.

Finally, we drove to the nearest house and Louie Johnson answered my knock.

“Nope,” he said, “haven’t seen a dog but I’ll be working outside quite a bit today. I’ll keep an eye out.”

So, we drove back to the original spot where we’d parked—where I’d left my hunting coat on the ground. No dog.

“Let’s put my spare beeper on Ghost and walk the woods,” I suggested. “At least that way you can hunt and maybe Heart will either hear the beeper or pick up our scent.”

A good plan in theory. Except it didn’t work. No birds and still no Heart.

“Let’s drive to some of the other houses,” Mike said.

Okay.

And as I pulled into the next house down from Louie’s, he barreled into the driveway.

“He’s someplace over behind my barn,” Louie said. “I saw him, but he wouldn’t come to me.”
Back at Louie’s we jumped into his golf cart and started driving down all of the lanes he’s cut through his 80-acre parcel.

“This is my 600-yard target range,” he said at one point. “I’ve been a competitive shooter since 1981.” Then he stopped the cart and I whistled and called out. No Heart. No heart. On we wound through the woods, finally getting back to his house.

“Some people in orange just went down the road,” his wife called out from the doorway. “Maybe he’s with them.”

Off we drove in my Tahoe, only to find two women and a young girl on horseback.

“Have you seen an English setter?” I asked.

“No, but my horse has been acting sorta strange. Maybe he smells your dog. We have English setters, too. But mine are tied up.”

“Mine’s wearing a beeper,” I said.

“I’ll bet he hears it,” she replied. “Horses hear a lot better than we do.”

Then my cell phone rang. “Your dog’s just east of our house,” Louie’s wife said. And almost simultaneously one of the woman called out “There’s the beeper. He’s right down here in front of us,” And darn if he wasn’t heading for our original parking spot and my red hunting coat.

I got out of the truck and stepped into the road. He was sorta shuffling toward me about fifty yards away. I raised my arms high and he sorta wagged his tail. Then he broke into a run when I whistled.

When he was in my arms I looked deep into his eyes. He looked balefully at me. And then I loaded him into his crate where he gratefully ate a handful of Alpo Snacks and curled up with a deep sigh, snuggling into a welcome setter-of-sleep after yet another Great Adventure.

Of course about that time my good friend Bill Ross arrived. He’d driven up from Grayling to help in the search for “Shorty Pants,” as he had dubbed Heart when he was a mere puppy. “No problem,” Bill said. “I was worried sick about him. Better that I be here to see that he’s alright.”

Bill—also infamously known as “Magoo”—had a few choice words for the puppy. Which I judiciously had deferred. Heart looked pretty chastised, though. I don’t really know if it was my lack of words, or Magoo’s scolding. But Shorty Pants has been pretty “agreeable” ever since. If only it’ll last!

Anyway, off we went to another cover, with Ghost on the ground again. Three woodcock and zero grouse later the wind was gusting so hard I suggested that maybe it was time to call it a half-day. She couldn’t hear me whistle and I could only occasionally hear her beeper.

One lost dog a day is more than enough.

I drove Mike back to Northernaiere Resort, where he watched college football games the rest of the afternoon while the sleet and snow squalls started pelting us in heavy wind. I got everybody back home safe and sound. Kate had dinner ready.

Ah, yes. Just another nightmare in the life of a guide.

But, hey. I COULD be riding a jackhammer for a living. Now THAT’S work.

Tight Loops,
Capt. Tony Petrella