Wayward in Hayward

Wayward in Hayward

The man who taught me grouse and woodcock lives with his wife in a Vermont hamlet just this side of Canada. He has some gray in his beard these days but only enough to make him look as wise as his years, and he smells like pipe smoke and cherry-wood shavings. He heats...
The Firing Line

The Firing Line

Last November in Scotland, a line of seven friends spaced 20 yards apart marched across a harvested field in pursuit of pheasant. On that misty morning, hunters, dogs and gamekeepers were eager to find birds and almost immediately they did. A brightly feathered...
True Blue

True Blue

Grandma’s farm consisted of five acres, mostly wooded except for a half-acre garden loaded with berries and vegetables. Out back stood a shed stuffed with old rakes and spades and other hand tools. Mason jars were scattered among bushel and berry baskets filled with...
Woodcock Days

Woodcock Days

The best hunting spots are secrets among friends, where a bird in the bag is just a bonus. A mist conceals these mountains. They are gray like bone. The sun will not rise above them for another hour, and yet it is eight o’clock. This is a favorite spot. I find...
Trust Your Dog

Trust Your Dog

Give a pointer the benefit of the doubt when he or she makes a stand. You’ll usually be glad you did!

The Rain

The Rain

Someone once wrote that “rain is the oldest sound to reach the porches of man’s ear.” I like the sentence and I like the sentiment. And I like rain. I like to hunt in it, fish in it and just walk around in it. I like the sound of rain, the feel of it and the soft...