“Look Dada a clue, a clue!” Live water is an hour away this time of year, and viable bird hunting is nearly as committing. With only a two hour window to spare, Everett and I had opted instead to creep around the sage and look for small game. Maybe the dog would kick up, Read More
It’s Black Friday, the national holiday of acquisition and consumption. I bet attendees of the original Thanksgiving set about finding and collecting assorted provisions after their feast too. It was called hunting back then. Team STS may find time for some old-school shopping this afternoon, but first we need to finish counting our blessings., Read More
Not all that counts can be counted. Sometimes though, numbers can tell a story.
Upon discovering my hunting pack, loaded and stashed for the morning, my 3 year old ignored the knife, the saw, the lighter, the rope, the Snickers, the Fritos, the laser range finder, the flagging tape, the camelback, the .30-06 cartridges and other tempting tools of mess and mayhem. He went instead, straight for the, Read More
The submerged root-ball looked like a horror movie prop. Its deepest mysteries were hidden in shadow, but what reached the light was pure menace. Meaty shrouds of river gunk waved from grabby tentacles over crevices pregnant with evil possibility. No one yelled “don’t go in there!”, and they didn’t need to. I knew I wanted, Read More
It’s a rare kindergartener that wants to fish as often, as long or as hard as mom or dad. I’m sure they’re out there, but I also know that black-footed ferrets exist. I haven’t seen either in the wild. Which shouldn’t be surprising. It’s tough out there for little folks. The brush is higher,, Read More
In the three years since I became a father, I’ve had to redefine some terms. “Sleeping in” does not mean what it used to for example, nor “big night out” for that matter. “Free time”… I seem to recall using that phrase as a younger man, but the concept is fuzzy now. Most of, Read More
“Dada, can I um… can I go over to Al and Anne’s house… pleeease Dada?” asked my five year old. Al and Anne are our next-door neighbors. My son visits most days, but he’d missed them the day before. They’d been in the mountains, scouting for elk. They’re 81 and 75 years old, respectively., Read More
“Whoa, hey!” I said, voice rising as I backed involuntarily away from my five year old. He’d crept to my office door, not as stealthily as he may have thought, and paused there. I’d expected to surprise him when I yanked the door open, maybe give him a start. I hadn’t expected the coiled, mummified, Read More
“Dada, can I say it? I wanna say it! Please Dada!” pled my five year old. To my left the dog sat rigid as a stump, staring at the distant spot where the lake swallowed her bumper. She was taut as a bowstring, but only the slightest tremble betrayed her growing impatience. Click here, Read More