Author Dr. Richy J. Harrod

When we'd finished setting up our camp near the crest of northeast Oregon's Blue Mountains, we took a break. Resting in folding chairs, we watched the sun tumble into the western horizon. The view was spectacular. The craggy peaks that rose above pine forests shimmered in that light. Granite boulders strewn along steep scree-covered slopes looked like patches of snow. Some hillsides were dotted with alpine plants turning red as summer yielded to autumn. Gray Clark's nutcrackers kept busy caching whitebark pine seeds on the crest of the ridge for winter.

We'd come to one of the most remote places in the Pacific Northwest to hunt a mountain goat - my brother, Ron; our life-long friend, Riley; and me.

Riley drew a once-in-a-lifetime mountain goat tag, amazing since he was no longer an Oregon resident.

Read the full story in the December 2024 issue of Fur, Fish, Game Magazine.

 The two-track forest road rounded dry ridges and crossed small draws with little to no flowing water. The road was overgrown with buckbrush, willows, and Douglas maple which grated down the pickup side like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Why the hell don’t they brush these roads out anymore,” I said disgustingly to my wife, Vicki.   

Our necks were stiff from craning up at the tree canopy looking for suitable firewood trees. The hillside steepened and the road darkened from the shade of overgrown vegetation. “Is that a grouse?” Vicki said as I quickly hit the brakes. Bailing out of the pickup, I grabbed my old trusty Winchester Model 120 from the back seat and jacked a shell in the chamber. The hunt was on! 

Read the full story and subscribe for free online to the Bushman Journal.

 The climb seemed steeper and longer as I hiked to the top of the fire line for a third time. My upper body ached from a heavy load: multiple inch-and-a-half hose rolls stacked onto the handle of the Combi tool balanced on my shoulder. The trail was covered in three inches of fine powder dust raised by the pounding of Vibram soles worn by 25 firefighters from the crew now digging a fire line around giant boulders and working upward on the seemingly vertical slope of the Icicle Drainage. Heat radiating from the edge of the fire line had turned my face red, and sweat soaked the T-shirt under my yellow Nomex shirt. The fire hose I had hauled up

the mountain wasn't working; the pump at the bottom of the hill lacked sufficient power to push water up to our location. The C-130 airtanker was dropping 4,000 gallons of retardant somewhere down the canyon, but we couldn't hear it over the deafening sound of the wildfire. Verbal communication was impossible. Strong 15-20 mph down-valley winds had arrived on this afternoon in late July 1994, and we were losing our battle with the Rat Creek Fire.

Read the full story here for free (Wildfire and Grouse) or purchase the Fall issue of On the Fly Magazine.

 The heavy morning air carried a scent of corn silage, alfalfa, and dried Kochia that surrounded the corrals of our grandfather’s dairy farm in southeast Oregon. Bird dogs ran off nervous energy in the parking area by the dairy shed. A short walk past the feedlot and pig barn would bring us to the edge of a hay field for one of our first pheasant hunts as young boys of the mid-1970s. Stomachs churned with excitement and anxiety about impending shooting opportunities at magnificent long-tailed roosters. The single-shot Stevens 20-gauge shotgun kicked like a mule which added to the unease.

 The shorthaired pointers quartered the field at full speed with noses inches off the ground. Our dads and uncles gave us gentle instructions, “make sure you don’t get too far ahead, stay in line,” or “be ready to shoot and lean into your shotgun.” One of the dogs went from a sprint to a 180-degree dead stop with an intent stare and trembling back legs. “You boys be ready now, walk up slowly behind Quennie,” said Howard Harrod, Richy’s dad and Mike’s Uncle, who was about 30 years old.

Read the full article in the Spring/Summer issue of On the Fly Magazine.

Black bear hunting wasn't among our family traditions. Growing up, we hunted most everything else, but I never had a strong desire to harvest a bear. Yet my brother and close friends enjoyed chasing bears. They helped me discover bear is wonderful table fair, and I've always enjoyed the challenge, when hunting other game, of trying to find and get close to bears. So, when my brother, Ron, suggested I try for a spring bear tag in eastern Oregon, and I was selected, I quickly became committed.

Ron and I arrived at our bear camp at midday. It was the same location where, seven years earlier, Ron tagged a beautiful cinnamon-colored black bear. After setting up camp, unloading our gear, and changing into hunting clothes, we rode our four-wheelers down a dusty two-track to the edge of a massive canyon to begin hiking and looking for bears. The familiar ridge line put a spark of excitement into the excursion.

Read the full article in the May 2024 issue of Fur, Fish, Game Magazine.

The decoys, chairs, shotguns, shell bags, and coffee thermos were loaded into the boat as we pushed off the shore heading into the inky black of an overcast early morning. There was a steady rain falling in the light rays of our headlamps. Shelby rounded the log boom, brought the boat up on plane, and sped through 34-degree air. Bobby, Levi, and I secured our hoods by zipping our camouflage parkas over our chins. The boat ride took us across open lake and then wound through brushy patches of the dunes of Potholes Reservoir. Shelby followed his GPS to the duck blind, but he had made the trip so many times as a waterfowl hunting guide that I could tell he didn't really need his electronic navigator.

The boat stepped off plane and I knew we were close to the blind. Shelby turned on a handheld spotlight making the blind glisten through falling rain. A steel pipe frame supported a pickup load of willow branches which made the blind indistinguishable from surrounding vegetation. We could hear hen mallards in all directions alerting all who would listen that morning was here. Our excitement was evident by immediate chatter from the four of us about the chores about to commence.

Read the full article in the Winter 2024 issue of On the Fly Magazine.

"Dad, you'd better shot!" "No son, we should wait until he clears that bush in front of him. You should always take a clear shot. Just be patient." This was the conversation my father and I had on an early November morning in 1977. I had just turned 11 years old and this was my first elk hunting trip with dad. Hunter safety would come over the winter and next year I would be packing a rifle in my own quest for elk, but for now I was a nervous spectator.

The 5-point bull elk stood behind shoulder tall bush for what seemed like forever to a kid. Dad wouldn't shoot despite my constant urging and then disappointment happened.

"Boom!" The bull dropped in his tracks as another hunter had a clear shot from a different direction. 

"See dad, you should have shot," I said with displeasure. 

"Well, that's OK son; if I had shot, I may have wounded that bull and we might not have got him anyway." Learning to be an ethical hunter doesn't come easy for an 11-year-old but this moment was much more. 

Read the full article in the Nov/Dec 2023 issue of Oregon Hunter Magazine.

She was walking around in the bed of a pickup with her brothers and sisters. Vicki, the kids and I leaned on the side and watched their interaction. It was hard to pick 

because they all were cute little buggers. 

Finally, one seemed to grab our collective 

attention and we said, “We’ll take this one.” 

We paid the owner $75 for the yellow Lab/

golden retriever mix puppy and headed 

home with our new family member. 

We named her Maizy because she was 

yellow like maize. Her yellow fur was even 

brighter after the bath she badly needed. 

Our kids were in their early teens and they 

played with her frequently, attempting to 

distract from the constant chewing on our 

shoes. It was March and she lived in the 

garage to keep her warm and to monitor 

her destructive little bite.

 My family raised dogs when I was a kid 

on our ranch in Eastern Oregon. My uncle 

and cousins had cattle dogs, but Dad, my 

brother and I had hunting dogs.

Read the full article in the February 2022 issue of Northwest Sportsman Magazine.

Traditions are important in my family. We gather at a family member’s home for a specific holiday each year. We share our original recipes with each other. And we take vacations with the entire family almost every year. 

But some of our most cherished traditions revolve around hunting and fishing adventures to places in the woods and on the water that have special meaning to us. My brother Ron started hunting bears and 

turkeys in a remote part of Northeast 

Oregon many decades ago after he first graduated from college. Dad and I joined him, along with our closest friends, a few years later. 

The camping spot is almost always in the same location. We hunt many of the same canyons, meadows and forest 

stands. The hunting is consistently good and we are fortunate to bring turkey and bear meat home to our freezers. We have made memories there. Memories that are not just about hunting success, but connections to the land and the game animals we pursue.

Read the full article in April 2022 issue of Northwest Sportsman Magazine.

Moths and gnats were circling in the light of my headlamp. The temperature was easily 60 degrees, and the sweat was rolling down my face as I labored up the hill. Dried balsamroot leaves crackled with every other step rudely interrupting the silence of early morning. All I could think about was that every elk for 1/2 mile in any direction was slowly moving away from my ruckus. My heaving breathing was becoming more uncomfortable as wildfire smoke stung my throat and nose the higher I climbed. The first week of September was feeling more like the first week in August. 

My brother, lifelong friend Riley, and I had been hunting for days without a peep from an elk or seeing but a few. The elk were only active during the first 1-2 hours of daylight, so I knew I needed to hustle to the top of the hill. The grade was lessening and so was my breathing. The trail snaked through the mahogany and eventually split in the darkness of a dense clump of Douglas-fir. The glow on the horizon was encouraging me to move faster but there was time for a quick change to a dry shirt.

Read the full article in the August 2022 issue of Northwest Sportsman Magazine.

There came a point when I didn’t think I could hike up my favorite elk hunting 

mountains, and neither did my brother. Our bodies have a way of reminding us that ranching, high school and college football, wildland firefighting, working in fish hatcheries, working in the woods, and the miles and miles of hunting over many decades have caused wear and tear that we’ve tried to forget.

Brother Ron was first to face these consequences with major surgery on his 

heart in June, and I had an orange-sized fatty tumor removed from deep in my hip 

in July. Of course, we knew Ron’s surgery would be the most challenging, but I 

thought I’d be going full speed in a few weeks. I was wrong! Two weeks into my recovery, I still had a ten-inch drain tube inside my leg, and at times, the dull pain 

would make me sick to my stomach. My leg was bruised from my hip to past my knee. The tumor was underneath the muscle fibers, so walking was difficult for nearly a month.

Read the full article in the Sept/Oct. 2022 issue of Western Hunter Magazine.

Walleye are probably my favorite fish to catch and, most definitely, the best eating of our freshwater fishes. Late winter and early spring are great times to go walleye fishing in Washington lakes. The number of fish caught may not be as great as in late spring and summer, but the average size is greater, and the fish are in good condition. There are many techniques for catching walleye, but these methods have worked well for me from year to year.

Tools of the Trade

There really isn’t one type of fishing rod that will fit all your needs when walleye fishing because you’ll want to try trolling, jigging, or casting to see which yields the most fish. Trolling allows you to cover the most water to find elusive fish. You are allowed two rods in most walleye lakes so with 4-6 rods in your boat, it’s a good idea to have a mix of short and long rods to spread out your fishing gear. A 7’ to 7’10” moderate action, medium power graphite bait casting rod works very well for the front and side of the boat.

Read the entire article in the May 2022 issue of Reel Life Magazine.