Maybe if I take five more steps, throw one more mend, skate one more fly, a hero will appear, armored in chrome, and dance to the music of my singing reel.
Calf deep now in the cold river, Trent’s completed his prelude of silky false casts and is ready to start the show in earnest.
Over the course of 6 trips, in and out, and nearly 40 miles, I question whether or not it’s worth it.
Folding neatly the greenhead splashed soundly onto the water. The old lady made quick work of the retrieve.
We glassed the treelines, scrutinized the shrubbery and examined every dip and swell of the park, but as the last of the comfortable shooting light dissolved, the lone grazing cow remained, improbably, a party of one.
A semi truck arrives each Friday and unloads 70,000 rounds of ammunition. Fiocchi has a plant in Argentina. Maers & Goldman has an exclusive agreement with Fiocchi to purchase every 20 gauge shell produced in country. That adds up to nearly 4 million rounds per year.
There are no more decisions, only knowledge. You know that there is no shot, then, just as certainly, that there is, and that you are taking it.
Sitting atop a cliff-band, the elk had run straight at him. He practically had to shoot out of self defense. Once hit, the bull fell over the cliff ledge. A grizzly fed on the gut pile overnight but with the help of friends the meat was all packed out the following day.
I grew up with the gun knowing that it would always shoot where I pointed it, for better or for worse, so I should make sure I was pointing it where I needed it to shoot.
There are a ton of great hunting dog breeds out there but most of us settle on one or two. From that point on we espouse the virtues of our particular breed with little regard for logic. Heck, I had a person recently spend thirty minutes explaining to me why Border Collie’s are the best bird dog period.
Why does the simple act of pulling gear from it bins and shelves deliver such a thrill?
We fired up the engines in the inky dark. A heavy chop blanketed the bay. We cinched our jackets tight against the wicked wind and faced the stern so we could breath. Then it was headlamps and knee deep muck, marching, lugging decoys and cut branches, to build a blind. As night gave way to, Read More
Immerse yourself in the acrid musk as you approach a now still, and now still bleeding body, a clean bullet hole, like a lance wound staring at you.
Shouldering a shotgun I had never fired, with an unfamiliar safety, was not a recipe for success. My excitement likely contributed to my clumsiness. Fortunately, the opportunities were abundant and I soon settled in.