If tomorrow you were suddenly, despicably rich, what would be the first thing you would buy?
“You can’t buy happiness” must be the oldest prank in the aphorism boneyard, but we all know Gene Hill dispelled that myth when he remembered, “they forgot little puppies.”
However, from the vantage of seven decades . . . while unequivocally agreeing with Mr.Hill on the first order . . . I’m thinking maybe they overlooked a few other things that might tip the scales of euphoria almost as well. We’re speaking, of course, in the context of the sporting world, for if we are weighing the finest shades of life’s happiness, what other world can there be?
When Gene Hill said puppies, understand, he didn’t mean corgis or peekinsneeze.
In point, while I have subsisted during my tenure on the planet somewhat happily in modest middle-class poverty, I will nonetheless confess that in my latter years I am sustaining recurring desires, which I am convinced could be sated even more delightfully by affluence. In short, having known the relatively plebeian pleasures of the middle road, I think I could now tolerate the petty nuances of sudden wealth.
In other words, for the next 10 to 15 years, before I get too decrepit to sort the difference, I’d like to be filthy, stinking rich. To place the proposition in perspective, I’m thinking the Microsoft and Facebook fortunes times 10. (We want to have enough left over for a couple more puppies.)
Because at this august stage of life, all has brought me to the belief — apart from setters, pointers, spaniels, terriers, hounds, harriers and retrievers — that even if, argumentatively, you can’t buy happiness, you can damn sure most certainly and providentially purchase its means. That is, if you’re wedged solidly in the upper cordilleras of the Fortune 500 list.
So hang on my aging, long suffering and financially impaired friends, for should you have entertained (of course you haven’t) similar suppositions, I’m about to endow you with untold riches beyond your wildest dreams. At least in theory.
We endure enough reality. Nothing wrong with a pinch of fantasy, do you suppose? — in or out of bed. Keep in mind now, we’re talking material and intangible things here — the sporting life — not Catherine Zeta Jones. Things you can buy. (Well, with this kind of money, who knows? Rather than a bling, we’ll buy her a Beretta SOEL27es. Or maybe we’ll just buy the company. Honeymoon in Brescia during the acquisition. Shoot red-legs.)
But, no, wait. Now that you’re deplorably rich, here’s the question: What would be the first thing you’d buy? The absolute, singular, one-and-only thing you’d have off-the-bat? Numero uno?
With the money comes the time. You can have anything. It won’t make you happy you know, but until you discover otherwise you can pretend so.
If you really, really think about it . . . “whatcha want, whatcha really, really want” . . . rule out the Hollands and Purdeys, the Hardy Zenith rods-and-personalized reels, the Bob Kuhn firsts-and-bests, the vintage Land Rovers, the Rolex Oysters, the Rigby double rifles (you can buy them all the day after) . . . what would it be?
Bet I know.
A plane.
Your own plane — a big one — and four pilots. Two can sleep; the other two can drive. 24/7. Global capability, ready to go on your backyard, exclusive airfield, without corporate tariff or lien, no need to shelter it in anybody’s conglomerate tax hangar. Hot-damn!
Don’t know what the secondary market is on ex-military cargo craft, but I’m pondering something like a C-130. Consider how much stuff it takes for a two-day trip, then think the world. You gotta have stuff. Departure on an hour’s notice. No TSA hang-ups, no gun check, no delays, no over-lapping fat people in the seats either side. (Well, maybe not quite a 130; we’ll need to set it into some regional and third-world airports. But close.)
Now, aside from the going, comes the real fun. We get to trick it out. HO-Boy! Hey, they do it on the TV reality shows all the time. The ultimate bus, the ultimate RV, the hang-dangdest treehouse. Just imagine: the consummate, world best-quality, bespoken, despicably private, flying personal sporting craft: The Kilimanjaro Express.
Just remember. Don’t be happy.
First thing we’ll do is get Boeing to come in and convert it to whisper-jet and structure it for the globe. Have Eldridge Hardie by for the exterior make-over, canvas over the olive drab with a full nose-to-tail New England grouse-hunting job. Birds, autumn woods, double guns and setters. That’s on port. For starboard, the African big five and the world’s great bears via John Banovich. For the interior cabin, I’m thinking Bob Timberlake and gallery redux 19th-century, distressed-leather lounge chairs for 10, motif setter-and-grouse reading lamps, heartpine floors, barn wood trim, 200-year-old wainscoting and wall paneling. Oriental rugs plus a zebra skin or two.
For the twin, integral 20-foot bars and fold-away gun safes — either side — of cherry, rosewood, exhibition Circassian, American walnut and mahogany, we’ll engage Julian & Sons. No one does it better. For the wall trim, there’ll be dogs and upland originals by Bob Abbett, North American big-game studies by Ken Carlson, legendary African impressions by John Seery-Lester. Commissioned bronze busts of the world’s sporting dogs by Kreg Harrison. A bull elephant by Animal Artistry over the hallway to the cockpit, a Dall ram over the mid-cabin napping chamber, early American bedroom designs by Samuel Botero.
On board, full-time, anywhere in the world net-service; 10 Garmin-best CPS handhelds and SD-card topo maps for every country of the world: a dream device, electronic alcove with satellite red-phone connections to all known global sporting destinations, outfitters on-call. Dominique, our en-flight secretary, to juggle the bookings. (No, Mister Outfitter, you don’t understand. He wants to be there tomorrow with three friends. We’ll advance you for your next three years’ bookings, plus cover the extra staff it’ll take to hunt your previously-booked clients.)
Ten labels of Scotch best for the liquor cabinet. A few pints of smooth Kentucky bourbon. Cognacs. Rums and gins. Vodka for the Marys. The 37 most-desirable bottles of wines on the globe. For humility’s sake, at least one sniffer of Bird Dog Peach to toast the plantation outings.
For the tail-section dog quarters, we’ll do Mason for the kenneling, 9-gauge of course; engage Mike Lardy and Sherry Ray Ebert for blueprints and engineering. Housing runs, and treadmill equipment for 10. A large dropdown, stowaway feeding table, dual sinks and running water, all-purpose storage cabinets, an all-emergency medicine and first aid chest, a whirlpool, a dog treat larder and feed bins big enough to hold Bob West (he’ll sure want to go), and a three-week supply of Purina Pro Plan Performance and Pro Plan Puppy Formulas. Spacious dog-gear storage and collar-charging accommodations. A pair of racks for your two favorite saddles. And oh yes, the on-staff, trip-time vet bunks in the rudder compartment.
House Rules: Dogs reign, with complete, in-flight run of the cabin. No exceptions. If you want the best seat in the house, you know what to do. If you’re bitten, it’s your baby. Complaint department’s in Outer Mongolia.
Oh gosh. Forgot the kitchen and the in-transit gym: Marble counters. Full-size oven and multiple microwaves. Hot, bottomless coffee and 27 nationalities of tea. Guinness compliments of the house, guest brands upon request, perpetually in the fridge. Cereal, snack foods and fresh sandwiches in the pantry. A complete, universal gym by Cybex IntI., with a cameo wall likeness personalized by Jack LaLanne.
Finally in the cargo bay, the on-board, stand-by land craft: a retro-tricked LR Defender, three BMW touring cycles, a Toyota Cruiser, an Argo, and two customized Kawasaki Mules for the prairie and pampas respectively, rigged with extra gear storage, gun-boots, high-seats, and dog boxes. A live-on mechanic. Two-week tanker reserves of petrol and oil.
We’d all do it a little different, of course, but you’ve got the drift.
Go to it.
OK . . . well . . . maybe I’m forging a bit over the top. Instant wealth at 70-something, as you see — with the bucket list in the breaks — will do that to you. You’re right, of course. We should be subtle and discreet, remember who we are. Sudden money should be worn with style, dignity and grace . . . (like the voluptuous 30-something on our arm at the next SCI Convention).
Whichever . . . now we’re cooking with canola oil. No more arduously impossible road-trip logistics, nada for the fatiguing mass-transit endurance ordeals and myriad, public airline snafus. There’s only the Captain (that’s you, with the scrambled eggs on your bill) to pilot: “Hit the stick, James.”
Load the dogs, load the guns, leave your knife to hell in your pocket, strap on your favorite Kimber 1911, open-carry, fart when you want to, to blazes with the snotty security clicks and groin grapples, kick off the suspected ISIS zealots . . . lift the devil off-the-ground-and-gone. Up where the air is clear.
It’s God’s month, October. We’ll do Montana and prairie birds this first week, be in Dar and on to the Selous for seven days the next, back to Minnesota for a squeeze of grouse a bit before Thanksgiving, take the chap in Yorkshire up on the estate invitation just after, make Esquel-Trevilinas December scrolls up for a fine few days of fishing. And after that, we can migrate back to South Georgia and Texas for wild quail, horses, pointing dogs, cockers and plan’ation holidays. When I say plan’ation, I mean our own.
Throw on the Yule log. Break out the Macallan.
Just, through it all . . . Santy Claus or not . . . remember — Don’t be happy.
Life can be likened to ascending a mountain. The higher you climb, the more years you have beneath you, the farther you can see, the more unobstructed the view, the more you understand.
From A Higher Hill finds Mike Gaddis atop the enlightening vantage of almost eight decades. Looking back over the vast and enthralling sporting landscape of a life well lived. And ahead, to anticipate and savor whatever years are left to come. Buy Now
