Daylight promised its coming in typical Delta fashion. Scudding clouds that produced off-and-on splatters of heavy, iced rain drops riding a north wind that hardly qualified as gusts. Still, that wind was more than ample to toy with denuded oaks, easily making eager...
The 10 years or so of acquaintance with these two have left a powerful impression. My admiration remains. Pieter still wears the same hat he was wearing when I first met him quite a few years back. But as for that, so do I. I suppose we both discovered that a good...
Nash Buckingham (1880-1971) was, in his day and still now, one of the most renowned and best-loved outdoor writers to ever ply the trade. The Limb Dodger was overdue. Concern mounted, and talk had already turned to possible causes of why the train had not bumped and...
This was not our first safari, but this one was far more complex. We would hunt Cape buffalo, our first endeavor of such magnitude. Situations can quickly get out of hand when hunting Cape buffalo. This possibility is particularly enhanced when the pursuit is...
My last buck — the last to date at Charlie’s and likely the last, though the unknown has yet to reach its terminus. Distraught. That definitive aptly portrayed the sentiments of both Neal and me. Current news, while not completely unexpected, put us on alert. Near two...
The day I found myself, the wood duck came full-speed. From upriver and darting among cypress and willows — spilling air from his wings. Things had not been going particularly well, one single and specific vehicle of distress difficult to identify. Perhaps it was...
Tony Kinton details the ups and downs, reliefs and frustrations and the total fulfilment of experience that comes with the hunting of old. Obstinacy is considered poor taste. But fracturing protocol and proper behavior were not my intent. Rather, I was simply curious...
This fisherman’s fairytale is far from folklore… A true story of giants, fairies, heroism and romance stay alive in an old man’s memories. Once upon a time long ago and far, far away, there was a boy. “Wait,” someone will shout. “That sounds like an...
Some call their sporting lairs “man cave” or “trophy room.” But my very core contorts at either of the two, for this house is neither. It is a house of memories. I have a trophy house. Built it myself from beetle-killed pines, lightning-struck...
For any hunter, fancies flip and flop and morph. Change seems a common entity. As a bowhunter, my lifelong hunting journey was no exception. A green vine, thumb-sized and flexible, served well for the bow – in those tender years of boyhood. A three-day life maximum...
