Mud Dog.

He mighta' already caught every fish in Harding, and there's a good possibility he picked every clipper on the river bank. I know he bounced every rabbit, flushed every grouse, called in every turkey, spotted every deer, tracked every coyote and without a doubt drank every tap dry in Luzerne and Wyoming counties.



To most sportsmen he'd be considered a nuisance, worse than a shifty wind, a hard rain or a cold, crunchy autumn day on a whitetail stock during the peak of the rut. Just when you thought you'd have a nice, quiet day with some friends on the lake throwing plugs to bass and enjoying some root beers, here comes Mahi hotter than a walleye on a bucktail throwing some serious wake your way and shoutin' above that old 75 Johnson he's got cranked over to full throttle, "get off my @#$ #$%^ fish!." But he's a die-hard woodsman, one heck of a smallmouth fisherman, better than a beagle on bunnies, a pretty good clay-bird duster and the dirtiest dog you'll find the whole way north on 92. And as Mud Dog likes to say, "it don't get much cleaner than a little river mud behind the ears."



The last time I saw him he was hanging upside down from a big silver maple--sixty pound braided line fastened tight to his left shoelace--dropping cinder blocks on the ice jam over the walleye hole behind Bev's Country Store.

"Whatcha' doin' Mud Dog?"
"What the hecks' it look like I'm doin'?"
"Looks like you're gettin' ready for some walleye fishin' tomorrow night," I says.
"Heck!" he says. "By tomorrow night this here hole'll be all jammed up again! Soons I get this ice busted up I'm a run up to the truck and grab my rod. Why don't ya go grab a couple a' jigs and a couple a' cold ones for us!"







It was mid-October. The pre-rut was underway, but there was still fishing to be done. The smallmouth were feeling pretty fiesty, and so was Mud Dog, so him and Flintlock planned a nice relaxing float on the Falls stretch for the evening. I wasn't invited, most likely because I had outfished both of them on the previous smallmouth outing and they just didn't feel like going through the agony of friendly defeat again. I assume the canoe was loaded with rods, soft plastics, eighth-ounce jig heads, barrel swivels, bullet sinkers, a few cans of clippers, maybe a few cans of beer, maybe more than a few, maybe a couple minnows, life jackets, and whatever else two great minds thinking alike thought they may need for the evening float.



Around eight o'clock that night I received a phone call from the Appletree Restaurant--the local watering hole home to all of the Harding Boys. It was Big Mike, Mud Dog's old man.

"You better get down here right now," he said to me in an abrupt, demanding shout.
"Why?" I questioned.
"Because it's wing night! And Mud Dog just got a seven...fishin'!"

Flintlock.

Flintlock is oldschool. It's how he got the nickname. If you happen to run into him, it will probably be around mid-October through January in a cloud of black powder after a long track through pouring rain or five inches of snow on a ridge high in the Appalacians. He'll have two different colored gloves on, one camo, one flourescent orange, a cigarette dangling from his mouth after a clear fifty yard miss on a good buck. No matter though, he hunted the deer for three long hours, and for Flintlock, Penn's Woods doesn't hold any bad endings.


Shortly there after, he'll be bumming walleye and musky jigs from your tackle box (rarely will he show up for fishing with a tackle box, that's what friends are for). The river will be high, and Flintlock will be sitting at the rear of the john-boat with the Evenrude wide open skipping aluminum over the icy-hard water in search of white-caps, strong gails and toothy fish. His rod will probably be duct-taped somewhere, probably around a line guide or two (either from one that got away or even more likely from a mishap of accidentally leaving that pole in the tailgate upon slamming it shut).

You'll say, "flintlock, why are you so unprepared?"

He'll say, "I was in a hurry and fish won't wait."

He'll have the beer though. Rest assure he'll have the booze.


Spring will come, and with it Flintlock's bad attitude. Trout season will be just around the corner, and Flintlock will be getting finicky from too much coyote hunting and shed-searching. He may be drinking more than usual, but with the warmer weather will come a clearer vision no doubt. It will be time for a spiritual awakening, something trout have a tendency to spark on those anglers willing to pursue them in the coming months (and if the alcoholism continues, bass will break it...hopefully) . Flintlock will be out in the tilled garden, picking red worms and nightcrawlers and looking for good deals on spinners in the local sporting goods stores. He'll decide not to buy any though because, as I've already mentioned, that's what friends are for. Hooks and sinkers are easy to come buy. A good nightcrawler takes some digging.


There will be days when he limits out on trout, and there will be days when he limits out on the top speed of his ATV atop Peterson Mountain. But never will he be able to limit out on his time spent along the river or within the forest. It's in the mountains where he was born, and it's in the mountains where he'll lay his bones.










After I had started writing this little piece, Flintlock harvested a Pennsylvania black bear on the first Saturday in the extened bear season of 2008. It's one of the greatest accomplishments a big game hunter can achieve in this state. I didn't have the opportunity to take part in the hunt that morning because of a death in the family, but it was Flintlock's fifth consecutive day in the woods. The harvest took place around twenty after seven in the morning. One shot. A perfectly clean kill. The bear was estimated to be around 200 pounds live weight, roughly 167 dressed. Shortly thereafter a gallon of homemade wine was consumed with Mud Dog (whom you'll meet shortly) and the bear was taken to the weigh-station for statistics.
With this type of big game harvest comes a new rank among Pennsylvania outdoors-men and women for Flintlock. It is an achievement that many people can only dream of in their lifetime. So although Flintlock is without job, without gas and without any ammunition for the remainder of the 2008 hunting season, he's currently accepting donations for all of the above, as well as for the half-mount he plans on for his bear. And if you do decide to help him out of the tight spot he's in right now, don't be afraid to throw him a crankbait or two. Rumor has it the muskies and walleyes turned on hard last week.