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A Tailless Whitetail

(c) Jack Ballard

Near the edge of town during mid-summer, just at twilight, I spied two whitetail bucks feeding in a meadow. Intrigued by their large, fuzzy antlers, I pulled over at the side of the road to give my son in the back seat a better look. On closer examination, we noticed something very strange about one of the deer. He had no tail.

A few months later, while puttering about trying take photos of a jackrabbit, I noticed a buck deer bounding pell-mell in my direction. It was a sight I’ve seen a thousand times, but something didn’t seem right. Viewing the photos on my computer later in the day, I recognized the tailless whitetail. It was the same buck, absent the trademark white flag normally carried upright on the rump of a deer when running.

Initially amused, I soon found myself zooming in on the image of the unfortunate creature to examine its missing appendage. Within the tail of a whitetail deer is a series of thin bones, much smaller but similar to those in the spine. This buck wasn’t simply missing the hair on its tail. Its tail was completely gone, severed from its body precisely at the base as if it had been surgically removed by a mentally unstable veterinarian.

And so I pose some obvious questions. Has anyone else seen a deer without a tail? Does anyone know how a whitetail might lose its tail? Maybe all those kids trying to pin the tail on the poor donkey could help out this buck. But perhaps not. I think they’d have a hard time catching him.

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Elk Hunting – Tip #1

(c) Jack Ballard

WHEN IT’S DRY GO HIGH – On a recent hike in the Beartooth Mountains in October I found a herd of elk at 11,000 feet above sea level, up in the alpine zone. Haunts more commonly associated with bighorn sheep or mountain goats, the average hunter might ask, “what were they doing there.”

As it turns out, my corner of Montana has been in an extended drought with much higher than normal temperatures. Under such conditions, elk go high. And stay there. Not only is the cooler weather in the alpine zone more comfortable for creatures clad in a thick winter coat, the feed is better as well. Alpine grasses are very nutritious and in a drought year the high country generally produces more grass than the lowlands. Wapiti will remain at very high elevations in dry years until winter weather pushes them lower. You’ll find them in hanging valleys and on forested slopes at timberline, often feeding above the reaches of their traditional forested habitats.

Dry conditions make elk hunting tough anywhere. But if you point your boots up the mountain at least you’ll be hunting where they’re living.

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Browsing versus Grazing: What’s the Difference?

(c) Jack Ballard

There’s plenty of green grass on my lawn and still lots of greenery in the irrigated hayfields at the edge of town. Nonetheless, deer are invading my neighborhood, chewing up flowers, nibbling new growth from roses and other ornamental shrubs, and gobbling leaves from nearly any variety of deciduous trees they can get their incisors around. All across the Rocky Mountain states, this is about the time that mule deer, whitetail deer, elk, antelope and even moose sneak in to grab their snacks at the expense of suburban landscaping.

While all these species might find a meal in a yard at the edge of town, their preferences in forage are quite different. Biologists often categorize ungulates on a continuum between browsers and grazers. Browsers consume their plant matter in the form of leaves, bark and twigs from a variety of trees and shrubs. Moose are browsers, although they do eat some aquatic plants as well. Grazers are grass-eaters. Bison are a prime example of a grazing animal. Other ungulates may browse and graze. In North America, elk are the most versatile of our native ungulates, capable or either grazing or browsing. Mule and whitetail deer tend primarily toward browsing, but will also graze on succulent, broad-leafed plants, especially in the spring and early summer.

To a large extent, an ungulate’s range and habitat is tied to its eating habits. The eclectic elk can forage in a wide range of habitats, from grassy prairies to boreal forests. Bison are most naturally animals of the grasslands, but they can survive in mountainous areas, so long as there’s sufficient grass to graze. The selective eating habits of moose limit their distribution to areas that have abundant trees to browse. As they don’t graze, you’ll never spot a moose at home on the prairie.

Deer and the occasional moose frequent my neighborhood. Based on their eating habits, I don’t need to worry too much about my lawn. But if I don’t protect the shrubs, these browsers will prune them to smithereens.

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Bat For Breakfast?

On a recent camping trip, I sat idly in a morning stupor, sucking the first sips of coffee from a plastic cup, waiting for a caffeine lift to start the day. The first bashful rays of daylight caressed a canyon wall above the camp. As I contemplated my own breakfast, a tiny bat flitted about overhead, apparently attempting to nab a few more bugs before retiring to a roost to pass the day. He was a straggler. The several dozen of his kind that danced in the night sky the previous evening had already punched out from their nightshift of bug patrol.

Suddenly, two dark thunderbolts descended from the sky overhead. Shrill shrieks of deadly intent accompanied their bolt from the blue. In less than an eye-blink, my consciousness slammed from half-asleep to wide-awake.

A pair of peregrine falcons had targeted the errant bat. The dive of the first falcon clipped its prey, sending the bat into a momentary tumble. As it regained its equilibrium the second bird dropped in, the speed of its stoop astonishing. It too narrowly missed its prey, pulling up into a perfect loop to take a second swipe at the bat.

The chaotic scene lasted but seconds, two feathered assassins shrieking and swooping, one intended victim desperately attempting to elude their talons. The bat disappeared behind a breach in the canyon wall, the peregrines lifted to perch on a stony precipice above.

It was an experience I will never forget. The hunting dive (stoop) of a peregrine may reach speeds of 200 mph. I’m not sure what a bat’s capacity for learning encompasses, but I’m guessing there’s one that will no longer linger in search of breakfast.

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Bulking Up

(C) Jack Ballard

I spot the animal along a roadside in a national park, a glimpse of something large and dark, rustling in the undergrowth. The highway is devoid of oncoming traffic, so I whip a quick U-turn for closer inspection. Mystery solved. Planted on all fours near the roadside is a black bear.

Parked, with full attention to focus on the bruin, I realize the animal is frenetically mouthing and mauling a bush for its berries. Although midday, the bear is feeding as frantically as one of my teenage sons after missing three meals. It’s late summer, a time of bounty. Ripe berries abound. There are lots of nutritious insects and scores of rodents and other mammals for Blackie to hunt, not to mention a bounty of roots and plants. All of these things are palatable to a black bear, perhaps the most omnivorous creature in North America. Why is it attacking this berry bush as if it may be its last meal?

In contrast to humans seeking to shed a dozen unwanted pounds, Blackie is bulking up. Yes, there’s plenty to eat at the moment. But in its haunts here in the northern Rockies, this black bear will retire to a den in a couple months, spending the entire winter underground. To maintain the energy needed to survive its hibernation, the bear relies on fat. The typical black bear loses around 30% of its body weight during hibernation.

In late summer and fall, instinct propels black bears to bulk up. They eat ravenously and nearly continually when food sources are available. At this time, bears prefer high-calorie foods that convert easily to fat such as nuts and berries. Has our bear missed a meal? Probably not. It’s just bulking up for winter.

Many biologists believe humans have some innate potential for hibernation, just like bears. From now until November, if you catch me pigging away at the all-you-can-eat buffet, I’m not over-indulging, just preparing for winter.

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Dream Lake, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO

(c) Jack Ballard

Start with a national park. Add a short hike of just over a mile that gains less than 500 feet in elevation. End at one of the most picturesque lakes in the region. What does this recipe yield – Dream Lake, one of the most popular hikes in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park.

For fly anglers, there’s more to Dream Lake than pretty photos, invigorating vistas and moderate exercise. Greenback cutthroat trout, Colorado’s state fish, fin the waters of this lovely alpine tarn in relatively high numbers. Once thought to be extinct, greenback cutthroats are now thriving in a growing number of lakes and streams in high mountain habitats across the Centennial State.

In late September, a friend and I depart from the trailhead at the Bear Lake parking lot, headed for Dream Lake. A five-piece travel rod is strapped to my daypack, a reel and small assortment of flies nestled inside. My companion carries a camera. Her goals for the hike involve photos, not fish.

Shortly after leaving the trailhead we veer left at a “T” in the path. A few minutes later we encounter another fork in the trail. This time we veer right, our footsteps aimed uphill. A pleasant jaunt of a half-mile brings us to Nymph Lake, a comely little puddle in a very big landscape, devoid of fish but flush with photographic possibilities. Departing Nymph Lake, it takes just 30 minutes to reach the shoreline of Dream Lake.

The view is as lovely as heralded on the hiking websites and park service brochures. But we aren’t alone. On this pleasant weekend, a sunbathed, summery prelude to the cooler days of autumn, dozens of other Rocky Mountain National Park hikers lounge on the rocky outcroppings near the outlet of the lake. Along the two shorelines, whose vectors pull the visitor’s gaze inevitably toward the stony summits of Flattop and Hallett Peaks, I spy a couple dozen anglers flipping lures and casting flies. On the water, dainty dimples and the occasional robust rise betray the presence of Colorado’s most prized cutthroat.

A crumb-trail of large rocks protruding from the lake lead to a whale-sized boulder in deeper water. I rig my rod, then leap rock to rock, as a watchful audience on the shoreline roots for a dunking. Perch gained, I crouch motionless on the boulder, eyeing a pod of cruising trout nipping bugs from the surface. Ruefully I recognize their targets as tiny dark midges. I have nothing in my meager fly assortment that remotely resembles these miniatures in size or color.


Unable to match a trout-targeted hatch with a reasonable imitation, I’m generally inclined to try something completely unrelated instead of plying a second-rate imitation. I tie a black foam-bodied cricket to my tippet. In the course of an hour, dozens of Dream Lake greenbacks from 6 to 12 inches fin over to inspect the cricket. I miss one determined strike, then 20 minutes later hook and land a strikingly beautiful, foot-long greenback. A couple onlookers clap while Lisa records the moment with her camera. It’s not the fastest action I’ve had on an alpine lake, but loads of fun.

When I return to Dream Lake and Rocky Mountain National Park, I’ll carry a selection of small midge dries and ants. So armed, I’m hoping the ratio of fish to photos will tilt toward the trout.

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Trout Lake, Yellowstone National Park

(C) Jack Ballard

Some locations hint of fine angling, but not all of them deliver. Fish Creek in central Wyoming is not only devoid of finned residents, but waterless most of the year. Others aren’t so deceptive. Trout Lake, in Yellowstone National Park, is aptly named. A modest lake reached by a steep, but short, hike in the northeastern portion of the park, Trout Lake boasts native Yellowstone cutthroats and rainbow trout in fine numbers. It’s also a reliable place to encounter critters that find fish an appealing dinner item, such as ospreys and otters.

Trout Lake perches on a bench above the Soda Butte Creek canyon, east of the confluence of Soda Butte Creek and the Lamar River. To reach the lake, hike from the trailhead on the Northeast Entrance Road, 19 miles east of Tower Junction. From the trailhead on the north side of the highway, a short but steep hike of about a half-mile leads to the lake. The trail reaches the lake at its outlet, then continues completely around the tarn, offering fishing access at all points. The shoreline opposite the outlet is treeless, offering easier casting for ground-bound anglers. Many dedicated folks pack a float tube to the lake to reach deeper water, especially in mid-summer. A special permit from Yellowstone National Park is required to use float tubes on park waters.

The lake boasts sizeable trout, fish most commonly caught range from 14 to 20 inches. The inlet stream and adjacent area in the lake is closed to fishing until July 15 to protect spawning cutthroats. If you happen to hit the park at that time, the spawning spectacle is worth a hike to the lake, even though you won’t find as many targets for your flies in the portion of the lake open to fishing. Better times to tempt the trout are in the days immediately after the lake opens for fishing on June 15 and in September.

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The Bully and the Bimbo

(c) Jack Ballard

In late October I moved out of the condo I’d been renting and into a house. Situated next to a couple of vacant lots with the backyard adjacent to a golf course, I was happy to find a nest box hung on a post near the fairway. Much of the winter was spent in speculation regarding what occupants (if any) might claim the box. Yesterday I found out.

While sitting in a favorite chair writing, I glanced outside to see a flutter of blue. The flutterer hovered over the nest box, then perched on its roof. As blue as the big blue sky overhead, this male mountain bluebird was as pretty and energetic as any I’ve seen previously. He ducked inside the box, then poked his head out the hole, like a prospective home-buyer appraising the front yard from the entryway of a house. He dropped to the ground to snatch a bug, then winged up to perch happily on the top of the post to which the nest box is attached. How wonderful, I thought, to have such a beautiful bird for a neighbor.

It turns out the other birds don’t like him. This bluebird is a bully. After a day of watching him harass pine siskins, chickadees and house finches from my feeders, I moved them to a tree further from the nest box. That’s spared the little guys, but the bully also shoves bigger boys around. A male robin hunting for worms beneath the bluebird’s perch was promptly attacked and driven away. Ravens occasionally visit my neighborhood. Will he take them on as well?

Chances are he will. Bluebirds are highly territorial. Male mountain bluebirds can be exceptionally aggressive. With such a pugnacious personality, I’m wondering how well he’ll attract a mate.

Yesterday, he found his female. But before I describe her, let’s pose a question from human courtship. What kind of girl goes for a bully? Cut through all the politically correct speech and the answer is simple. Only stupid girls stoop to consorting with bullies.

It appears the same principle holds in mountain bluebird circles. The bully has a mate, but she’s a bimbo. A comely little thing with olive overtones to her plumage and striking blue highlights in her tail feathers, she is uncommonly pretty. But oh so stupid. For the past three days she’s spent most of her waking hours attacking her reflection in my picture windows. Thinking myself clever, I decided to save the bimbo from herself. I carefully printed and cut out a sizeable image of a hawk and taped it to the pane, a tactic that has worked to keep birds from bashing into glass in the past.

She now attacks the hawk. I’m not sure what to do. My teenage son has suggested that perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing if she broke her neck and spared her species a dose of defective genes. I’m not sure I’m willing to keep my blinds drawn all summer to protect a brainless bimbo.

But maybe that’s what I get for harboring a bully…

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Branch Pond, VT

(c) Jack Ballard

The mountains of southern Vermont are pocked with ponds. Many of these are natural tarns that collect water in dips and depressions in the terrain. Others are confined or enhanced by human-created impoundments, while a third category is solely constructed and maintained by yet another contingent of landscape architects: local beavers whose naked paws and gnawing jaws create dams that sometimes persist a decade after the engineers have departed. Some ponds require a hike of several miles to reach, others are accessed directly from the backroads. Whether seeking a secluded place to nap among the maples, a bird-watching excursion, a cool spot of a midsummer swim or a sublimely relaxing place to fish, the ponds offer rewards on many levels.

One such puddle with ample appeal is Branch Pond. But pardon me, at 35 acres it’s more than a puddle or a pond. Branch Pond is a small, lovely lake in the Green Mountain National Forest, fed by springs and small streams. A short (quarter-mile) hike is all it takes to reach the pond from the access road, though the best fishing from shoreline is found on the opposite side of the lake. From there, it’s possible to wade out among the large and sometimes slippery boulders on the pond’s bottom to cast for the brightly-colored brook trout who make this lake their home. However, an even better way to fish is from a canoe or kayak, crafts that can be easily transported over the short shuttle to the lake.

For shore-bound anglers, shortly after ice-out and once the water cools in autumn are the best times to target the brookies. In midsummer, the trout retreat to spring-fed holes near the middle of the lake. Here the brookies will bite, but it takes some sort of watercraft to reach them. Mike Quartararo, a product development guy with Orvis and local angler, notes the best way to find the big, cool, spring-hole favored by the brook trout in midsummer is to “take a swim in the area northwest of the pond’s island. When you feel the water cool, that’s where the trout hang out.” Short of a dip, look for rising trout in the evening. They’re likely nipping caddis, tan and sometimes black, that frequently hatch on the pond.

The Forest Service allows primitive camping on the perimeter of Branch Pond. Local inquiry with the Manchester Ranger District (802-362-2307) is the best way to ascertain locations of viable camping spots and regulations. Whether you think of it as a puddle, pond or lake, whether the brookies are biting or not, Branch Pond is a New England classic, well worth a visit.

To reach Branch Pond, head west from the village of Stratton (not the resort) toward Arlington on the Arlington-West Wardsboro Road, also called the Kelley Stand Road. The trailhead for Branch Pond is on the right about 4.0 miles from Stratton and about a mile beyond the entrance for Grout Pond.

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Rock Creek, MT

(c) Jack Ballard

Photos by Dominic Ballard.

While setting traps on a small stream in early September, 1836, two trappers were ambushed by Blackfeet Indians. As they swam the creek, one was struck twice through the chest with musket balls, the other escaped with a minor wound to the shoulder. According to the journals of Osborne Russell, the pair made their way back to a larger trapper’s encampment near the mouth of the “Rocky Fork” a tributary of the Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone River. The following day the wounded trapper expired. The party then buried him beneath a large cottonwood tree and named the location “Howell’s Encampment” in his honor.

Today, the names “Rocky Fork” and “Howell” won’t cause a flicker of recognition in the minds of most Montana natives or visitors to the state. Mention Red Lodge and Rock Creek, though, and most will know exactly the location of which you’re speaking. The “Rocky Fork” of Russell’s journals is now known as Rock Creek. The major community on this lovely stream that tumbles from the Beartooth Mountains is named Red Lodge.

With a fascinating history to contemplate, anglers who fish for Rock Creek’s trout have plenty to mull as they loop their lines. However, the rainbow, brown and infrequent brook trout have a way of keep one’s thoughts more closely focused upon fishing. Overshadowed by other Montana streams in the area such as the Yellowstone, Bighorn and Stillwater Rivers, Rock Creek receives modest fishing pressure, the bulk of it from local anglers. Access to the creek along the some 45 miles from its headwaters to its confluence with the Clark’s Forks is easily gained through several fishing access sites and bridge crossings.

Badly dewatered in the dry, early years of the third millennium, Rock Creek’s fishery suffered badly but has rebounded nicely in the past few seasons. Brown and rainbow trout are numerous, with browns dominating on the lower stretches of the creek, rainbows holding the majority on the upper reaches. Most fish run about ten inches in length but individuals stretching the tape to 16 inches swim the creek, feisty, beautiful combatants sure to raise the heart-rate of the most seasoned angler. Occasionally, a Rock Creek angler hooks into a positively big brown trout, fish that tend to hang in the deepest, most remote holes in the creek.

High water after the run-off makes wading tricky, but for most of the summer and into the fall it’s easy to wade the creek. Anglers who hike 20 minutes up or downstream from the access points are well-rewarded for their efforts. Rock Creek trout devour standard nymphs and chase streamers, but it’s an excellent place to try dries. On a warm September evening, I caught a dozen assorted rainbows and browns downstream from a highway bridge on Parachute Adams, a #16 Elk Hair Caddis and a big fluffy Stimulator. The fly didn’t seem to matter, so long as the presentation was perfect. Earlier in the year, Rock Creek trout eat a variety of nymphs. Folks fishing before or after the runoff (which usually occurs in June) are advised to carry a selection of Copper Johns, beadhead Hare’s Ears and such. When they’re hot, you’ll not find a better fly for Rock Creek than the Bitch Creek nymph. On a recent spring outing I took a half-dozen trout, five mountain whitefish and even four wretched suckers on a beadhead Bitch Creek.

Each summer, thousands of tourists motor up Montana’s Highway 212 from Laurel to Red Lodge, then on to Yellowstone Park via the famous Beartooth Highway. If you find yourself in the throng, don’t be in too much of a hurry to get to Yellowstone. A couple hours invested in fishing Rock Creek may turn out to be some of the most memorable of your excursion.

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