Release the Grease
There are things in this world—rare, fine things—that no amount of money can buy. I’m not talking about intangibles: love, happiness, a satisfied mind. I’m talking about palpable objects of desire, things that exist in the realm of the senses but are simply...
The Bond Between Hunter and Dog
The guy’s name was Charlie, I think. The one time I met him, at the now long-defunct Gustav Pabst Invitational Hungarian Partridge Shoot, he showed up in a Jaguar sedan with his German short-haired pointer riding shotgun. That was pretty cool, but what made an even...
Jane Mason: Hemingway’s Femme Fatale
Among the most accomplished outdoorswomen of her day, gorgeous Jane Mason inspired Hemingway’s nastiest femmes fatales.
A Killing in Saskatchewan
It was a scene of primal, primitive savagery; it seemed like something out of a corrupted Moby Dick, with the inept, half-crazed Wolf in the role of Queequeg, the aboriginal harpooner who prided himself on his lethal professionalism. Below Elizabeth Falls, where it...
The Irish Setter: A Victim of Its Own Beauty
Askew’s Carolina Lady was, and is, the foundation female—the Eve, if you will—of the field-type Irish setter as we know it today. One day a friend of Ned LeGrande’s stopped by to visit him at his Willow Winds Farm, near Douglassville in southeastern Pennsylvania. At...
Eldridge Hardie: Painter of Dogs
The greatest equine artist of all time, and arguably the greatest animal portraitist, was the 18th century Englishman George Stubbs. The toast of the town in his day, when the cream of British aristocracy beat a path to his door to have him paint...
Immortal Dogs: The Sporting Art of J.M. Tracy
Before there was an Eldridge Hardie, a Tom Quinn or a Bob Abbett; before there was a William Harnden Foster or a Percival Rosseau; even before there was an Edmund Osthaus or a Gustav Muss-Arnolt, there was John Martin Tracy. And J.M. Tracy, to use the name he signed...
September’s Lessons
It was the kind of heat that has weight—like an enormous hand pressing down. Every so often a puffy cloud would pass, obscuring the sun and providing a few moments of blessed relief. But then the sky would clear, the sun’s unblinking gaze would hammer down once again,...