Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley
Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley
As Trumbo photographed his older girls, Yuba (left) and Finn (right), the sound of his Nikon's shutter must have spooked a ruffed grouse that flushed over his left shoulder, caught the breeze, and sailed to safety.
This regal eagle distracted Trumbo from his focus on fishing, costing him a giant rainbow trout. This image was an ample reward, at least from Trumbo's perspective.
Trumbo joked with his hunting partner that Zeta was "on another meadowlark," as she perfectly stood on point. To his surprise, he harvested a beautiful rooster pheasant which he flushed "simply to humor the dog."
Here, Trumbo demonstrates the pitfall of multitasking. A rooster pheasant flushed to botch the photo of the dog on point, followed by him abruptly missing the pheasant with both bores of his side-by-side. Had he focused on the hunt, the rooster would likely have been dinner.
The moment that Trumbo failed to believe a wild rooster pheasant would sit nearby as he waited for Zeta to catch up. As he moved ahead of the dog for another photo, the rooster jumped from behind
Scenery is equally distracting when fishing or hunting. Here, the writer fell weak to the beauty of autumn's palette, again losing a fat rainbow trout to his buddy who remained focused on fishing.
If you've been reading this column, you understand that I live, eat, sleep, and breathe the outdoors. The Blue Mountains ridgetop views, the vibrant fall foliage and upland bird plumage, and the delicacy of wildflowers and wild game table fare are what keep me afield. If I'm not recreating outdoors, I'm daydreaming about it. So, how could it be that I'm an impostor outdoorsman?
Scenery is equally distracting when fishing or hunting. Here, the writer fell weak to the beauty of autumn's palette, again losing a fat rainbow trout to his buddy who remained focused on fishing.
The hunter, angler, and photographer in me have all merged into a somewhat imperfect version of each, mainly because of the camera's magnetism, and my desire to capture memories and share nature's beauty with everyone. I've never cared for drama or acting, but it's become clear that I am, indeed, an actor. A role-player, if you will.
Maybe you've seen the Society for Creative Anachronism events or a Civil War reenactment. Simply put, dressing up for and acting out a period-appropriate role is called "live action role playing," or LARP for short. Role-playing is not my jam, or at least I didn't think it was, but a recent epiphany suggests otherwise.
While dressed in upland hunting gear, toting my beloved scattergun, a camera slung around my neck, and a dog running big in the grasslands, I realized that succeeding at both bird hunting and photography was a farce. I'm merely "LARPing," dressing the part, and fooling only myself (so I've heard...). The epiphany struck twice last fall, once involving a wild rooster pheasant and another involving a bald eagle. Here's how these scenes went down.
A strong wind bent the sturdy Great Basin wildrye stems and rattled the thick, tawny grass blades. It was mid-November, and temperatures were climbing toward 60 degrees under a mostly sunny sky. The morning hunt had been exhilarating, and I was fortunate enough to have harvested a young wild rooster.
Here, Trumbo demonstrates the pitfall of multitasking. A rooster pheasant flushed to botch the photo of the dog on point, followed by him abruptly missing the pheasant with both bores of his side-by-side. Had he focused on the hunt, the rooster would likely have been dinner.
My youngest setter, Zeta, the small white dog with orange blotches over her eyes, worked along the edge of a swale about 100 yards away, while I moved up a shallow draw in the opposite direction. The only good pocket of cover remaining was between me and the truck, which was parked at the top of the hill. A couple of beeps to Zeta's collar turned her in my direction.
The moment that Trumbo failed to believe a wild rooster pheasant would sit nearby as he waited for Zeta to catch up. As he moved ahead of the dog for another photo, the rooster jumped from behind
As Zeta approached, she spun into the wind and locked into a pointing posture that leaves no question of a bird's whereabouts, but I couldn't believe a wild pheasant would sit within 15 feet of me while I lingered. Zeta's stance was beautiful, fully lit by the morning glow. Instead of playing the pheasant game, I grabbed my phone to take some photos of my little girl on point.
Trumbo joked with his hunting partner that Zeta was "on another meadowlark," as she perfectly stood on point. To his surprise, he harvested a beautiful rooster pheasant which he flushed "simply to humor the dog."
During the photo shoot, I stepped past Zeta and turned to face her, all the while that little voice in my head warned me of regret. Pheasants are intelligent birds capable of calculating the precise moment to escape. While I was fiddling with the camera, a dazzling rooster erupted just 10 feet from me and made a beautiful left-to-right quartering flight. Instinct took over, and the phone fell against my vest. Dad's old sixteen-gauge side-by-side came up to my shoulder and fired two pellet wads somewhere in the rooster's vicinity. Zeta had performed perfectly, while I made an appearance as a hunter. A true hunter would have landed such an easy shot.
Fast-forward to a beautiful November day on the Upper Columbia River and challenging fishing for big red band rainbow trout. I had focused much of the day on fish with little reward, and a nearby bald eagle ultimately distracted me from the fishing rod. The eagle soared above a quintessential Eastern Washington landscape as I fruitlessly worked a marabou jig for the sixth straight hour. The shoreline ahead was contoured with car-sized boulders and flow seams that were too good not to have a willing fish lurking somewhere in the depths. But the regal eagle coaxed the fishing rod from my hands.
This regal eagle distracted Trumbo from his focus on fishing, costing him a giant rainbow trout. This image was an ample reward, at least from Trumbo's perspective.
The camera shutter fluttered, capturing the eagle in a few stunning, majestic scenes. Meanwhile, my fishing partner cast to the boulder where I would have otherwise dropped my jig. He was rewarded with a 10-pounder. Fortunately, I was equally impressed with my eagle photos.
When faced with the choice to cast, shoot, or hit the shutter button, photography often wins. It's usually easier to capture the "prey" in an image, and photography provides the simplest form of hunting "catch-and-release." Sometimes, I fumble completely, missing the birds, fish, and photos, but to succeed at hunting and fishing, photography can't be the primary focus.
My left eye twitches in disappointment when a wild bird slips away, but that disappointment quickly fades if the photos turn out well. Conversely, I've regretted every breathtaking photo opportunity I've missed. With that realization, it seems I'm now more of a photographer, and LARPing as the hunter and fisherman. I still look dapper in my felt Stetson and strap vest. I still carry those vintage double-guns and fancy fly rods. Every outing still holds a story all its own, a story captured more on "film" than by the harvest, but that's an act I can live with.
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