There is a room in my house that is mine, and mine alone. It is where the camouflage resides, along with various styles of hunting boots and waders. A place where all of the duck, goose and elk calls hang from nails on the wall. Tents and sleeping bags are piled along the side of a portable camp kitchen, and a workbench holds a variety of precious items. Different guns and bows are scattered about, along with boxes of their respective ammunition and arrows, and a variety of fishing rods adorn the corners.
This room is not unlike many others across the country, for those of us who have a passion for the field sports. It is not just for storing all of the equipment we tend to acquire, but is also a special retreat for escape, when the mood strikes us.
Rooms like this are a sanctuary, where we can spend a quiet winter evening carefully rubbing an oiled cloth along our favorite shotgun, while remembering the special moments of that morning’s pheasant hunt. It is a place to sit on a late summer night with the comforting sound of crickets chirping outside in the darkness. Where time is spent thinking about the two more days that still need to pass, before the next weekend fishing trip.
Evenings sitting at the workbench, and spending time with everything that has accumulated there, are always enjoyable. A treasure chest of memories is opened whenever I glance across the bench’s surface and see all of the mementos of past excursions, and reminders of adventures to come. Along the back of the bench sits a small cabinet, which is filled with trout flies and the rattles of dispatched snakes. It still holds a few early creations, from when a teenage boy first tried his hand at wrapping feathers and fur around the shank of a hook, and its compartments show an evolution of skills that have been refined over a span of decades.
Off to the side, a collection of turkey beards lays scattered about, along with the recovered bullet from a .270 rifle, removed from the rib cage of the biggest whitetail that I have ever shot, or may ever shoot.
Fly-tying equipment and a shotshell reloader have their specified places, and feathers, fur, primers, lead shot and powder have all settled into their niches. A collection of antlers overlooks the bench, along with the arrow used to take my first deer with a bow. Hanging from the far wall are a set of plans for the cabin that I continue to dream about building.
There is not enough space for everything, but everything has its space. My place is among these objects of affection and the chosen lifestyle that surrounds it all. I can spend hours in there, tinkering with and cleaning fishing reels or reloading a few boxes of shells after a sporting clays shoot.
Sometimes, it appears to my wife that I am doing nothing more than staring blankly out the window, watching the cold snow cover the world in soft lacy flakes. But on the inside, my mind and heart are being warmed by the recollections of an old Labrador and some of the incredible retrieves he made. My room is place that helps make those memories seem a lot more special.
MEMORIES . . .
All of us have special memories from our days of hunting and fishing, which we have no doubt shared around campfires or inside sporting lodges.
Now, in our new Memories feature, we would like to share your fondest hunting and fishing experiences with all of our readers. Just write up your memory, keeping it between 250 and 1,000 words, and email it to us. You can even include up to six photographs. Email your story to: Chuck@sportingclassics.com