Sporting Classics Magazine MayJune21

SWEEPSTAKES MONTHLY GIVEAWAYS: GUNS, KNIVES & MORE! detailsinside! AMAZON! YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’LL CATCH HOGS! LOVE THEM… OR HATE THEM? IN SEARCH OF TROPHY GUNDOGS What they have to teach usA BOY,A DOG AND A FINDINGSHOTGUNCOVERS (AND HOW TO KEEP THEM) Everett Garrison: RODMAKERALL-AMERICAN Night stalker: THE DEVIL BANGALOREOF NEW BOOKSEEREY-LESTERANNOUNCED REDFISHDISCOVERING MAY/JUNE 2021 PAGES! ONLY$6.95! 160 AISLEGACYBORN heritage HOW TROUT CAN RUIN FRIENDSHIPA BY FREDERIC REMINGTON classic

GIVES YOU EVERYTHING HE’S GOT. bragging rights. Nutrition to help bring out their best. Instagram @eukanubasportingdog BREEDER:COOPER, German Shorthaired Pointer standing stone kennels © Mars and its A liates 2021. All Rights Reserved.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 1MAY / JUNE 2021 Reliable and dependable all-around premium optics, Leica’s new Amplus 6 riflescope series balances Leica’s legendary optical performance, extremely rugged features and budget. Complimented by an extremely sharp, precise illuminated dot, 6x zoom, large exit pupil, wide field of view and unrivalled light transmission. The extremely durable design makes the Leica Amplus 6 ideal for uncompromising use in any situation, even in the most adverse conditions. leica-amplus.com @LeicaHuntingUSA Leica Amplus 6. Performance to rely on. #forhunterslikeus AMPLUS 6 2.5–15 x 56 i AMPLUS 6 3–18 x 44 i (BDC MOA) AMPLUS 6 2.5–15 x 50 i AMPLUS 6 1–6 x 24 i NEW!

MAY / JUNE 2021 CLASSICSSPORTING PUBLISHER DUNCAN GRANT EDITORIAL DIRECTOR SCOTT E. MAYER CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER WAYNE NANNEY ASSISTANT EDITOR—DIGITAL EMMA M c CRACKEN BOOK EDITOR & GIFT SUBSCRIPTIONS c HU c K WE c HSLER EDITOR-AT-LARGE JAMES CASADA COLUMNS RAMBLINGS: MICHAEL ALTIZER GUNDOGS: TOM DAVIS FIRST LIGHT: MIKE GADDIS SHOTGUNS: ROBERT MATTHEWS HORIZONS: ROGER PINCKNEY RIFLES: RON SPOMER FLY FISHING: TODD TANNER ART & ETC.: TODD WILKINSON ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER - ADVERTISING BRIAN RALEY (800) 849-1004 (803) 736-2424 NATIONAL ADVERTISING BERNARD & ASSOCIATES 767 M i LL S t ., R E no , n V 89502 (775) 323-6828 J E ff t HRUS ton Jeff@bernardandassociates.com M E gan W a LSH Megan@bernardandassociates.com BYERS MEDIA P o B ox 148, L U z ER n E , M i 48636 (989) 928-6925 K E n B y ERS Ken@byersmediaonline.com t o B y S H a W Toby@byersmediaonline.com OMSWA R ic K R o S n ER o ffic E (253) 514-6457 c ELL (206) 359-2666 E M ai L rgr@omswa.com CREATIVE DIRECTOR E R ic t ay L o R ADVERTISING ART DIRECTOR M ic H a EL R. c o LEM an CONSULTANT D o U g P aint ER ADVERTISING COORDINATOR D EBB i E S. M oa K CUSTOMER RELATIONS B i LL J ac KS on R on S t EPP WEBSTORE/SHIPPING L a UR a W i LHELM ACCOUNTING P a UL a c L aa S CUSTOMER SERVICE/SUBSCRIPTIONS S ta RK S ERV ic ES (877) 724-6423 ALL OTHER PRODUCTS (800) 849-1004 PO Box 23707, Columbia, SC 29224 (800) 849-1004 (803) 736-2424 WWW.SPORTINGCLASSICS.COM

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54 FEATURES

THE DEVIL OF BANGALORE Something was moving furtively in and out of the shadows... john seerey-lester

CLASSIC CLASSICS All- American Rodmaker: Everett Garrison’s legacy of craftsmanship. hoagy b. carmichael TROPHY BUCKET MOUTHS If you want to catch big bass, you must go where big bass live. joe cogan

CLASSIC SPORTING LITERATURE How a trout broke a friendship. frederic remington

SPORTING CLASSICS • 5MAY / JUNE 2021 artwork: JAMES BRADE SWORD (AMERICAN, 1839-1915) DOGS TEACHERSAS

AMAZON PRIME Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to get lost…in the Amazon, no less. chris dorsey SALTWATER IN MY BLOOD A freshwater enthusiast discovers the joys of redfish. michael m. dewitt, jr. ANDROS How big could a fish like that be? Twelve pounds? Fifteen pounds? God, but he had no idea. gene lee

60 64 72 78 84 88 94 102 108 116 120 SPORTING CLASSICSVOLUME 40 • ISSUE 3 • MAY / JUNE 2021

Every dog I’ve hunted with has made an indelible mark on me. scott linden

FINDING COVERS Finding them isn’t always easy, but I’m always on the lookout. tom keer A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN I remember the boy. tony kinton LEGACIES LOST AND FOUND Though they just met, she had already taught him a priceless lesson. emma mccracken

PIG TALES Everybody hates them but me. roger pinckney

6 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS VOLUME 40 • ISSUE 3 • MAY / JUNE 2021 COLUMNSDEPARTMENTS 15 21 27 31 35 39 45 49 137 149 FIRST LIGHT A Season of Hope. mike gaddis HORIZONS The Schoolmarm’s Pistol. roger pinckney FLY FISHING The Golden Rule and Fly-Fishing. todd tanner SHOTGUNS The 16 is His Goldilocks of Gauges. bob matthews GUNDOGS New Dogs, New Challenges. tom davis PROFILES Ted Williams: The Greatest Hitter (and Fisherman) There Ever Was. john chalstrom RIFLES Zero Issues. ron spomer RAMBLINGS The Road Through Amarillo. michael altizer FISHING Hi-Tech, Meet Angling: A Compendium of Sporting Products. rick rosner BOOKS Dr. James A. Henshall: The Godfather of Bass Fishing. jim casada Windy Point by Walter M. Baumhofer, oil on canvas, 31 x 42 inches • THIS ’N THAT 9  • HANDGUN REVIEW 133  • KNIVES SHOWCASE 142  • SPORTING AUCTIONS, EXHIBITS & PROPERTIES 154  • TOP SHELF 158  • QUOTES 160 Pointer BY HY FORHINTERMEISTER,REMINGTONARMSCOMPANY COVER IMAGE

SPORTING CLASSICS • krieghoff.com A CHAMPION IN ANY FIELD K-20 PARCOURS Light and Lean for Beautiful Handling. The Ideal Companion For Every Hunter and Sport Shooter. Add a 28 gauge barrel to Maximize the Experience.

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8 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS 40TH ANNIVERSARY GIVEAWAY WIN GUNS, KNIVES AND MORE IN THE

To

our valuable prizes, you still win each time you receive your free editions of Sporting Classics Daily, where every weekday you’ll enjoy the best stories about hunting and fishing, sporting art, artists and authors, adventures, firearms, handmade knives and much more. You’ll also be helping us preserve The Heritage, The Romance, The Art of Hunting & Fishing. And yes! Subscribing to Sporting Classics Daily is free! help celebrate 40 years of publishing the finest hunting and fishing content ever, Sporting Classics is giving away 12 great prizes—one per month during 2021 to 12 lucky Sporting Classics Daily subscribers. No purchase is necessary, but you do have to subscribe to win. Complete rules and a description of each month’s prize can be found on the website. It’s easy! It’s quick!

The Mackey Cobb Feeding Brant, Nathan F. Cobb, Jr. (1825-1905). Estimate: $100,000 to $150,000, sold for $186,000.

Copley’s owner and principal Stephen B. O’Brien, Jr. reports that the bidding on all platforms was “strong” and with an “unprecedented number of new buyers” coming away with lots, which is a good sign for the future growth of the decoy and sporting art market. ■

Ogden M. Pleissner (1905–1983), Jimmy’s Pool on the Restigouche, oil on canvas. Estimate: $60,000 to $90,000, sold for $240,000.

The largest number of participants in the firm’s history filled both days with energetic bidding via phone, absentee bids, the Copley Live app and two online platforms, Bidsquare and Live Auctioneers. There was robust bidding across all categories, including antique and contemporary decoys, decorative carvings, paintings, prints, folk art, canes and Americana. Established collectors and dealers competed against bidders who were new to the field, resulting in a high number of new buyers and seven lots achieving six-figure prices.

Copley Fine Art Auctions recently completed its most successful Winter Sale ever, realizing $4.9 million in total sales, flying past the auction’s high estimate of $4.6 million. The auction surpassed the company’s previous record Winter Sale high of $3.4 million. In this major sale, single-owner collections and estates led the day with the three top collections each surpassing their high estimates.

■

SPORTING CLASSICS • 9 THIS ’N THAT

RIGBY LAUNCHES NEW CLASSIC NECKTIE COLLECTION

Sporting Art and Decoys Auction Approaches $5 Million

Marc Newton, managing director of Rigby, explained, “Expanding our clothing range is an exciting move for Rigby. We’ve worked hard to create a versatile collection that will suit all tastes, whatever the occasion. We want our customers to reach for their Rigby tie time and time again, so nothing has been spared on quality or design.”

The two-day, 600-lot auction, livestreamed February 19 and 20, was 98 percent sold by lot, extending Copley’s unrivaled track record in the industry.

The Purnell-Muller Ward Canvasback Pair, The Ward Brothers. Estimate: $50,000 to $80,000, sold for $129,000.

John Rigby & Co. expands its sporting goods clothing line with a new bespoke necktie collection created with hunting enthusiasts in mind and designed to complement any outfit whether in the field, at the office or around the dinner table. A first for the London gunmaker, the new tie collection is made of the finest silk with rolled edges and finished with the Rigby name on the inner keeper’s loop. Customers can choose between the company’s traditional signature tie or one of three classic wild animal designs.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 11MAY / JUNE 2021 THIS ’N THAT

Montana Has New Record Brown Trout

If you catch a fish that you think might be a record, Montana Fish Wildlife & Parks says: ■ To prevent loss of weight, do not clean or freeze the fish.

■ Contact the nearest FWP office to have the fish positively identified by a Fisheries Biologist or Manager. ■

■ Keep the fish cool—preferably on ice. ■ Take a picture of the fish.

Vermilion Snapper and Saltwater Catfish Added to FWC Catch a Florida Memory

Robbie Dockter from Conrad, Montana, landed a 32.43-pound brown trout out of the Marias River, shattering the old record of 29.0 pounds that was set in 1966 by E.H. Peck Bacon who caught his trout in Wade Lake. Dockter’s fish was caught using a small, brown troutcolored Kastmaster spoon on 4-pound line.

■ Weigh the fish on a certified scale (found in grocery store or hardware store, etc.), witnessed by a store employee or other observer. Obtain a weight receipt and an affidavit from the store personnel if no FWP official is present. Measure the length and girth.

The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC) and its saltwater angler recognition program, Catch a Florida Memory, recently added vermilion snapper and saltwater catfish to its list of fish able to earn Reel Big Fish recognition.Toqualify, a fish must reach or exceed the qualifying length listed for each species in youth (under age 16) or adult categories. The qualifying length for vermilion snapper is 17 inches for adults and 13 inches for youth, while the qualifying length for saltwater catfish (gafftopsail or hardhead) is 22 inches for adults and 16 inches for youth. All Reel Big Fish catches must be photographed over a qualifying measuring device clearly showing the exact full length of the fish. A photo of the fish with the angler submitting the catch is also required.Thesenew Reel Big Fish additions give both inshore and offshore anglers new goals to keep them on the water targeting a variety of fish species. Successful anglers who submit an approved Reel Big Fish receive a colorful certificate and other prizes. New Reel Big Fish recipients are also listed in the Saltwater Recreational Fishing Regulations booklet and on the Club Members page. Anglers who are missing a photograph of their fish over a measuring device can be awarded a Reel Big Fish Honorable Mention digital certificate instead (emailed to the angler).

■

A single coyote may be responsible for a series of attacks on people in inwalkingyear-oldtherecentCalifornia.northernThemostattackwaswhenanimalbitathree-girlasshewaswithaparentMoraga.

Coyote Attacks Four People in California

Bigfoot Bounty Grows to $2.1M

12 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 THIS ’N THAT

At 34 years old, grizzly bear 168, captured in southwestern Wyoming, has been confirmed as the oldest on record in the Yellowstone region. The 170-pound male was captured and euthanized last summer after it preyed on calves.

■

Sporting and wildlife pieces saw strong interest with Bob Kuhn’s Watch the Buck Runways (acrylic and conte/paperboard, 16 1/2 x 25 1/2) selling for $12,000. Other wildlife highlights include record-setting Rock Creek (oil/board, 10 x 12) by Jim Morgan, which sold for $5,700—more than four times the high estimate. Justin Prigmore’s Mating Games (oil/canvas, 18 x 24) also more than quadrupled its estimate, setting a record for the artist at $9,000. Records were also set for wildlife artists Don Brown, Robert Refvem and Daren Wilding. ■

■

Bob Kuhn’s Watch the Buck Runways

According to California Fish and Wildlife Capt. Patrick Foy, the coyote’s DNA profile “is a match” to a coyote responsible for three earlier attacks that occurred all in the same vicinity when a coyote bit a grocery store worker and a man in separate incidents, as well a two-year-old boy. Foy said the agency is now on the hunt for the animal and that once it is caught, they plan to test it for rabies and euthanize it. Foy added that most coyotes are afraid of humans, but they can become comfort able due to people feeding them.

Records Set at Wyoming Art Auction

The inaugural Wyoming Art Auction held February 20 in Jackson, Wyoming, and presented by the Jackson Hole Art Auction, offered 228 lots— selling 96 percent of them and realizing a total of $668,650. The online auction saw active bidding across three internet platforms. This strong interest led to 42 percent of sold pieces exceeding their high estimates and the establishment of 35 new world auction records!

It had just a few teeth left, three nubs for canines and no other teeth, which helped biologists determine that grizzly 168 was responsible for killing the calves.

“You’ll skin them [the calves] and there’s like terrible bruising, but there’s no real punctures,” explained Dan Thompson, a biologist with Wyoming Game and Fish. “They have so much strength in their jaws they can kill an animal by basically gumming it.” The lack of teeth made it likely that the bear would continue seeking out easy prey such as calves. According to officials, grizzly 168 outlived all females documented within the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem by four years, and female grizzly bears tend to live longer.

■

Oklahoma State Rep. Justin Humphrey recently presented a bill to capture Bigfoot. A bounty, originally set at $25,000, has since grown to $2.1 million. The capture and bounty are part of developing a Bigfoot promotional campaign that includes license plates, decals, an annual commemorative tracking license and “Bigfoot checkout stations.” It also allows businesses along State Highway 259A to sell annual Bigfoot tracking permits with profits from the sales staying in local affordablebyissaidcommunities.Rep.Humphreyhisultimategoalto“drawintouristsprovidingsafe,fun.”

Yellowstone’s Oldest Known Grizzly

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God, there is such infinite inspiration in that. Hope, that sweet carrot of optimism we forever gamble before the maw of Fate, trusting that in our kindness we might receive kindness in return.

“Bob-White!” I sat on a stump at wood’s edge, listening for a half-hour, rejoicing each time his small double-note lifted so wishfully across the gladdening renewal of spring. For he had to be a wild bird, searching for his true love, and sadly again–where once it was as brightly ubiquitous as each morning’s sunrise–the voice of a wild bob today in my immediate neck of the woods is akin to hunting arrowheads, and chancing upon the gleam of a winterwashed, 19-century golden coin, face up and beckoning from muddened soil. And much the more valuable. As daunting, I knew, would be his quest for a mate. Feeling for him, after a short time more, I answered his plea. “Wheew-whett . . . wheew-whett.” Fraught almost equally with guilt, I imagined the leap of his heart as he heard, and when moments later he called next, he was coming. A few solicitations more, and I saw the handsome little man, bobbing along up through the woods.

A turn of the earth ago, as I made the way from the kennel to my desk to begin my morning’s work, I was arrested mid-step by his plaintive supplication. Uncertain, but wishful, of what I had heard. And then, a minute or two later, I was sure, as his hopeful song arose again from the distant edge of a field across the hollow.

Hope sets the world to spin, causes the seasons ever to turn, drums with life, and is forgetful of death. Hope can wrestle the wish of sunlight from the darkest

Hope gives us the fortitude to turn our backs upon gloom and despair, to reach for light and happiness instead.

Eastern Bob White by Ray Harm

I could surmise as vividly the chasm of his disappointment, when he did not discover the lady-in-waiting of his dreams. After a time, he tittled on off into the woods, still searching and calling as I slipped quietly to the house. Near noon, joyfully interrupted as I worked by his clarion summons once more, I could hardly believe my ears. For the strength of his symphony could have placed him in the next room. I found him, as fully ardent as before, atop the corner post of the back deck near the place hours before I had left him. For a solid two hours he sat there, pleading. Before he left again, searching on. Though returning each morning,

same exact time, to this same post for the next three days, hoping against hope that one time midst all the others he would call, and she would answer.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 15MAY / JUNE 2021 FIRST HLIGHT e was andaboutsetlittleforbearingafellow,properlyhistask,soonIwas affected by the ardor of his search, though burdened by the weight of his plight.

A Season of Hope BY MIKE GADDIS

So that, in contrast to “wishful thinking” we can augur a sustaining degree of confidence within that vagary of fortune we call the future. Gain grounds for anticipation from a strong and confident expectation. From that, as in life at large, we glean the most fundamental basis of our sporting lives, and arguably the realm in which we are happiest, aptly denoted as “a perpetual series of occasions for hope.” “Getting ready to get ready,” as an old friend also puts it. While the manufactured, historical province of etymology suggests that hope, the emotion and basis of credible anticipation, was first set to word about c.12, its supposition was born in Nature long before it was born in man. Every time a leaf is newly born, a fawn is dropped, a bob begs a maiden, a drop of water joins another and another, and becomes a brook. In which a trout might expect to live. It could be said, that in the outdoor world we so deeply love, and for its myriad of creatures—diurnal and nocturnal—hope is born in tens-ofmillions of planetary places every time the sun rises, and every time the sun sets. I do so sincerely hope my little man finally found his lady. For hope had him firmly clasping hands with faith... its sister. Which said that he would. And of the two, he would never let go.

A short space later, in the same spring, about the time the first tender hickory leaves burst the buds, the “’poor-wills” summoned again from meadow-side, and the big owls eerily queried the hollows for missing souls, I stole into a turkey woods. There was scarcely more than the silver sliver of a moon resting on its back in the heavens, stars glimmered like dew drops upon the sky, and night lay two hours before its thought of dawn.

FIRST LIGHT BY MIKE GADDIS and dreariest of nights. Hope, we come to know, within the overall percentage of life’s returns, will with a sustaining frequency, rise to prevail.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 17MAY / JUNE 2021

Bob White Covey Rise by Ray Harm

Wobbling my way silently in baby steps down the faintest suggestion of a path, daring not to brush a twig, break a stick, turn a stone, I sat down in the little circle I had scratched to the dirt the day before, beneath and against a father oak tree. Which stood proudly above a lovely and winding creek bottom guarded by the canopy of other great hardwoods. A year before—and the year before that—from the same spot in the completing wakening of another spring morning, I had felt, watched and listened to life reborn—including my own—as the first sleepy rays of the rising sun gently touched the saffron-green of the natal leaves above, and the Old Man with the trip-beard had boomed from his beechwood throne. Maybe a dozen times. Even as two of his lessers throated more vociferously a tenuous challenge. Until, as I heard the first hen, I had answered in dozy tree yelps, and seemingly, the ground had quivered. Sunlight and shadow crept tentatively through the understory in lovely tapestry. As, on the ground now, he had thundered sovereignty one last time, then run absent as an abandoned gravestone. Shortly afterward, the first hens strummed in, the bitch lady fanning and circling the single hen decoy I had planted in the path 15 yards away. Pecking and thumping her to the dirt. A half-hour afterward, as inexactly as daybreak steals free of night, where a

Hope will lift its song with what we have learned is a rightful expectation, and faith will rush to embrace it, urging that it never let go. ■

I n its season of the year just past, Fortune was, in the beginning, kind. It had happened again, and Loretta and I had rejoiced almost every morning as we traveled the path by the pasture, to the road. To see again a little fellow—we guessed—frolicking alongside the fence beside us, and mama, watching ever fretfully from across the way. Seeing him, electric with life, becoming ever more handsome and graceful with each passing day. Only to have tranquility shattered, when one morning two months later we found the doe, ugly and beset by buzzards, in the roadside ditch beyond the protection of the pasture. As was common, she had jumped the fence to cross, but this time befallen the tragedy of onrushing death. Still, the little buck had survived and prospered, alone, and we loved that he did. Until, another morning a month after, when he had grown tall enough to make the leap of faith over the fence himself, we were devastated to discover he had suffered the same terrible fate. Thankfully, I found him before the buzzards could.

FIRST LIGHT BY MIKE GADDIS

But I do believe that this spring, in our season of highest hopes, faith will be reborn, and joyfully there will be another.

18 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 moment ago he wasn’t, he was. Amongst the trunks of the trees, path’s edge. Swollen and regal, flanking and behind him two subordinates, attempting the same. When, abruptly, in the year before, a pair of coyotes had brazened upon the scene...the hens instantly running, then taking wing back to the bottom. Not the Big Man, nor even his lessers, emboldened by his unwavering stand. Hope stood firm. Holding their ground, still full blown, three mature gobblers postured and glared, and the threat blinked, turned, glanced back over its shoulders, and padded away. An hour later, the hens trickled back; 20 minutes hence The Man, and protoplasm was procreated in abundance, both with the real she and the pretend-to-be. Life turned on. I knew I would never kill him then. I did not have the gun anyhow, and did not wish for one. Hope bubbles in the spring woods. I think maybe it was born there. Mine was, this glorious morning, a calendar revolution later. I hoped mightily he was still there. The owls questioned the bottoms, the whip-poor-wills called from the hillsides. Faith whispered “soon.” Sooner...even. Dawn hadn’t wakened, much less blushed, this time, when he opened in a thunderous blast from the creek bottom, right where history said he should be... “Obble- obble-obble! . . . Obble-obble-obble!” ...and I clenched my eyes in celebration, and shivered. Not from the chill, but at the reunion of hope, with faith. Behind the pond dam of our little front pasture, I allow brier and brush to flourish. There I plant with rightful expectation, other hopes each spring. That a doe will come, drop and nurture her fawn there. Within the relative safety of the woven fence.One does. As regular as sweetgums grow. For years now. Sometimes, Fate accepts the hand of hope; other times it is spurned.

Stooping and gathering him in my arms, he was maybe a quarter-grown, velvetybeautiful, even in demise. Laying him in the truck, I carried him to the place he was born, lifted him over the fence and laid him in the brambles behind the pond. His flesh has since returned to earth, but his small skull lies there still, in the shadowy depths of winter as I write this, and I stop sometimes on a somber, cold and rainy day to study it. To mourn him as a fawn, alive and frisking under early morning sunshine.

No matter that we are beset by the times, no matter the cordon of trouble and strife, I believe that, ultimately—from a lifetime now in Nature’s school room—hope shall never suffer the betrayal of faith.

WBEU had two DJs, Bill Peters daytimes and DJ Kovacks at night. Bill Peters nipped whiskey, played big band music and pretended to broadcast from “the beautiful Blue and Gold room, situated on the saturated side of US 21 where there is champagne every hour on the hour.” DJ Kovacks was a beatnik and Bill Peters called him “the great unwashed” on the air. DJ Kovacks pulled the night shift. He rode a Harley, wore yellow sunglasses day and night, smoked dope and played Little Richard, a is

all you need

deed

BY ROGER PINCKNEY Low Country Allure by Michael B. Karas, 24 x 36

inches GICLÉE PRINTS ON CANVAS ARE AVAILABLE AT MICHAELBKARAS.COM

oil,

SPORTING CLASSICS • 21MAY / JUNE 2021 HORIZONS

M iss Sheteacher.kindergartenwasLindbergLillymywasalso a Swede, which explains a lot. She lived way out on Lady’s Island in a house so precarious she came and went through a window, as she was convinced the doors were the only things holding up the walls. Maybe she was right.

I never knew her to own a car, never saw her behind the wheel. A severe, angular and hatchet-faced woman, she hitch-hiked back and forth to town, in high-top sneakers, ankle socks, a dull colored schoolmarm smock and, summer and winter, a long scarf. It was a dozen miles and traffic was scant in those days. If she was halfway and the rides played out, she’d run back and forth across the two-lane blacktop, thumb in the air to any car that passed, to town or back home, it didn’t seem to matter. When her house finally threatened collapse, she bought a Jim Walter shell home, you know “a dollar and a deed is all you need” said the commercials on WBEU, The Clear Channel Voice of the Sea Islands that “did not run-down at sundown.”

The Schoolmarm’s Pistol A dollar and

She only had enough money left over for a handful of shells, which she kept in a little paper bag and doled them out as needed to dispute nautical traffic.

22 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

I didn’t have a loose $500 laying around. I’d have to do some serious scratching. Phone bill was paid, the power bill might wait, but land taxes could not. It took a week to corral the cash. I called my buddy, but damnit-all, so sorry it had just been sold. So, I would never own Miss Lilly’s pistol, even if really was the same gun. But I saved $500. And the memories are free. ■

HORIZONS BY ROGER PINCKNEY

Her former students were allowed safe passage, but God help everybody else. We always hailed her before we got naked and jumped overboard.

Some local ruffians, who shall remain nameless, laden with more testosterone than brains or breeding, embarked upon a campaign of harassment, motoring up and down the river, whooping obscenities until they provoked gunfire. I was working the pump handle one July afternoon when witness to such an incident.

“Lindberg, bitch, bitch!” came the calls from the river. Miss Lilly came out of her Jim Walter Dollar and a Deed Is All You Need Shell Home, pistol in hand. She stood on the edge of the bluff, jaw clenched, eyes ablaze, a more fearsome woman you hope you never see.

“Lindberg, Lindberg!” “Get out, get out!” she shouted in a shrill tremolo, hauled back the hammer, let fly with the first round. They were 80 yards downrange, no place I’d want to be, Miss Lilly at the trigger. “Who-hee!” they hollered, dropped the outboard into gear, wrung the throttle to the max. Plywood runabout and maybe a two-stroke 25, it took about 30 seconds to get up on plane. Ka-pop, second shot and then they were gone.Miss Lilly unloaded the pistol, put the four unfired rounds back into the brown paper bag, folded it carefully. “Outlaws!” she snorted and strode back into her Jim Walter home. Fast forward 60-odd years. I was back in my hometown, visiting a friend who ran an art gallery on Bay Street, laid out in 1712. “Art gallery” hardly does the place justice. It was an antiquarian’s delight. There were ancient maps, old bottles, petrified megalodon teeth, buckles and bullets from the Civil War. And there in a display case alongside a brass spyglass was Miss Lilly’s pistol. It sure looked like it, anyway. Colt Army Special 32-20, $500. What did my buddy know about it? Nothing much, it came in on consignment. Long odds it was the same Colt but still...there weren’t many made and would there be two in a little riverside town of less than 20,000?

But back to Miss Lilly Lindberg and A Dollar and a Deed. If you owned your land, Jim Walter would file a lien and build you a house on credit. Not much of a house, but four walls, a roof, windows and doors, better than sleeping in a tent. You rigged the plumbing, strung the wires, tacked up insulation and maybe sheetrock but more likely Weld Wood paneling, which was sawdust, glue and a picture of wood. Miss Lilly’s house was about 18 by 24 feet, no wallboard, no insulation. She used an outhouse, drew water from a handpump in the yard, bathed in a bucket, ran two lamps, an electric hot-plate and space heater off a drop-cord. All four corners were piled high with reams of her former students’ work, mine most likely among the confetti the field mice soon made of it. Miss Lilly’s well was a major attraction, but more about that after a bit. Pappy gave me my first boat when I turned 10. It was a 12-foot skiff, cypress sides, oak bow-spit and transom, 3/8inch plywood bottom, she was so light and nimble it would throw a wake if you put your back to the oars. Oars were all I had. There was no motor, no place where a motor might fit. There were no lifejackets either, but it opened up a whole new world for me and my buddies. We’d ride the falling tide out, the flood tide home, fishing, crabbing, picking oysters in season but mostly just bumming, learning the wiles of wind and wave. The sandbar across from Miss Lilly’s made for some wonderful swimming and the cool sweet water from her pitcher pump was perfect for washing off the salt and slaking our thirsts before the long row home. By that time, she was stuck by the delusion that parties unknown were trying to steal her land and simultaneously that she owned the river, which she took to defending with a long barreled 32-20 Colt revolver. It was an Army Special as I recall, made in the mid 1920s that she purchased second-hand from the local Western Auto store, an odd piece since the great majority of that model were in 38 Special.

Gary U S Bonds and Chuck Berry. He finally come seriously unwrapped, locked himself in the control room and played “The Bird is the Word” by the Trashmen over and over for hours until the cops busted down the door and hauled him away. If you don’t know the song, for Godsakes don’t look it up on YouTube, ’cause it might get stuck in your head like it got stuck in mine. “Everybody talking about the bird, ’cause everybody knows that the bird is the word. The bird bird bird is the word….” And so on endlessly. So absolutely annoying, the CIA could give up on waterboarding and use it for a torture technique. Tie you to a chair and slap earphones on you. Make you confess to anything. Make you want to take back stuff you ain’t even stole. Forgive me. I digress. But this is how I grew up, in a little tidewater town, where eccentricity, oftentimes a perilous eccentricity, was a fact of life, expected if not demanded.

24 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

SPORTING CLASSICS • 25MAY / JUNE 2021

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

According to Angling Trade editor Kirk Deeter, writing in the pages of the fly fishing industry’s go-to publication, a lot of us “are absolutely mortified by the crowds, the pressure and the overall degradation of the on-thewater experience we saw last season.  Read the message boards.  Look at the threads.  We’re in a spot where some lovers of this sport are ready to throw their hands up and walk away, and the newbies are also having gagreactions to their first impressions, because of the circus atmosphere.” And Kirk is not the only one sounding the alarm. Pretty much every fly-fisher I talk to these days has a tale (or eight) of showing up at their favorite stretch of water only to find a horde of other anglers looking to target the exact same spot. Even the New York Times took note with a story bearing the ominous title: “Pandemic Crowds Bring ‘Rivergeddon’ to Montana’s Rivers.”

 Admit that you’ve grown to love the sound of mosquitoes buzzing in your ear.

Explain that you derive a certain visceral pleasure from traveling halfway across the country and not catching any fish.



FLY FISHING BY TODD TANNER The Fly-FishingRuleGoldenand



BY TODD TANNER Engraving from Life In The Countryside, circa 1861-1867

SPORTING CLASSICS • 27MAY / JUNE 2021

W

Well, first things first. We need to stop focusing on the positive. When someone new to fly fishing asks you what you love about our sport, do what comes naturally to every angler. Lie. Only instead of adding an inch to every brook trout you land, or a pound to your latest smallmouth bass, get a little more creative.

The Times piece went on to note: “As urbanites flock to forests and rivers to escape coronavirus threats, trailheads are cramped with parked cars and fishing on the Madison River is like a Disneyland ride.”Ifthe reports are to be believed—and it doesn’t sound like we have much choice but to accept this new reality—then the recent influx of angling pressure has not only equaled, but surpassed, the huge bump that fly fishing experienced back in the early 1990s after Robert Redford released his cinematic version of A River Runs Through It Which leaves us with a question with no easy or obvious answer. What are we supposed to do?

Wax poetic about the fact that fly fishing is more expensive than yachting, harder to master than gymnastics and more challenging than quantum physics Then share a quote or two from the experts. And no, I’m not talking about Arnold Gingrich opining that “a trout is a moment of beauty known only to those who seek it,” or Jim Harrison’s profound “I stare into the deepest pool of the river which holds the mystery of a cellar to a child, and think of those two track roads

Confess your preference for outdoor activities that mimic a Walmart parking lot on a hot summer afternoon.

hile I’ve been sticking close to home for the past year or so, I keep hearing that I’m pretty much the only one. Reports from rivers across the West, ranging from the Frying Pan in Colorado to Idaho’s South Fork of the Snake to the Madison right here in Montana, are all in agreement. There are more fly-fishers on the water than ever before.

 Tell new anglers that fly fishing is an irritating, impossible-to-master activity dominated far more by its major and long-lasting disappointments than by its minor and transitory triumphs.

Fly-fishing is enjoying an surgeunprecedentedinpopularity.

 Open up about your ongoing attraction to waterproof pants.

Instead, offer up A.K. Best’s honest assessment that “the fishing was good; it was the catching that was bad.” Or John Gierach’s timeless observation that “creeps and idiots cannot conceal themselves for long on a fishing trip.” Or even Steven Wright’s classic “there’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.”

The goal here is simple. Throw cold water on the newcomers to our sport. Extinguish every tiny ember of angling passion that exists in the depths of their collective souls, and direct them to a more attractive and worthwhile pastime. Checkers, maybe. Or perhaps crosswords puzzles.

Now if I had to make a bet, I’d wager that right now you’re asking yourself whether I’m serious about any of this. And the answer, of course, is that no, I’m not. In the grand scheme of things, more folks on the water is a positive development. Why? Well, mostly because we need the American public to steward and protect our rivers, lakes and streams, and it should be obvious that more anglers mean more people joining conservation groups. In many cases, anglers are the last bastion between healthy rivers and degraded rivers, or between lakes with fish and lakes with none. Now more than ever, we need to swell the ranks of conservation advocates. At the same time, though, we cannot, and should not, ignore overcrowding. It’s a serious problem. None of us want to show up at the river first thing in the morning to find 43 boats in line ahead of us. Nor do we want to arrive at the trailhead to our favorite backcountry angling experience to learn that a dozen other folks are hiking in to the exact same spot. So it’s incumbent upon each of us to come up with ways to make the current situation—this apparently inescapable swelling of our angling ranks—more tenable for everyone involved. I’ve thought long and hard on this subject and, while there are any number of rules and regulations that, depending on location and circumstance, might prove helpful, there is also one overriding principle that I feel confident in recommending.Ifyouopenupa King James Bible to Matthew 7:12, you’ll find the following: “Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you: do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.” Depending on your familiarity and comfort with the language, that particular verse may make a ton of sense, or it may sound dated, arcane or perhaps even unintelligible. And yet, in its more colloquial form, Matthew 7:12 is known the world-over. Even those of you who aren’t all that familiar with the Bible will have heard of “The Golden Rule.”

28 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 that dwindle into nothing in the forest.

Some years ago, I came across a few words from Ralph Waldo Emerson that seem particularly apropos at times like this.

“To the dull mind, nature is leaden. To the illuminated mind, the whole world burns and sparkles with light.”

FLY FISHING BY TODD TANNER

If we all adhere to the Golden Rule and treat others as we hope to be treated, then we can minimize any shared inconvenience and maximize our collective enjoyment.

It’s really pretty simple. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Or, more plainly yet, treat people the way that you’d like to be treated. When you’re out on the water and it’s a little crowded—or more than a little crowded—look around and put yourself in the other anglers’ shoes. How much space do they need? Which direction are they heading? What style are they employing? Ask those questions of yourself, along with any others that seem germane, and then react accordingly.

I have this feeling of walking around for days with the wind knocked out of me.”

I like to think that if we roll out the welcome wagon for folks who are new to our sport, and if we treat everyone on the water the way we’d like to be treated, then we’ll all see the light. ■

None of us know what the future is going to bring. We can’t say for certain whether recent crowding on the water will prove temporary, or whether we’ll need to adjust to a new normal as the siren call of the great outdoors continues pulling more people back to nature. But we can all commit to making the best of the current situation, and to cutting each other a little extra slack in these uncertain times. Let’s all act with as much mutual consideration, and as much grace, as we can individually and collectively muster.

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Michael McIntosh extolled the many virtues of the mid-bore in his outstanding book Shotguns and Shooting. Perhaps the most eloquent endorsement of the 16 was William Harnden Foster’s story of “The Little Gun,” which appears in the first chapter of his classic New England Grouse HuntingThese. days, the 16-bore may not set any sales records, but it performs with the “best of them” on upland birds of all kinds. And does so with a modicum of style and grace that is uncommon to say the least! The fact that this is most frequently asserted by grizzled old gents with lots of experience and an equal amount of white about their crowns does not detract in the slightest from its unmitigated truth.

Sixteen-gauge Piotti King Royal.

BY ROBERT MATTHEWS

SPORTING CLASSICS • 31MAY / JUNE 2021 Y ou remember Willie Boy, don’t you? His grandfather and I came from the same place and time and, not too long ago, he found his way into a short story called “A Small Southern Tale,” which became the final chapter of The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever. He was pretty much raised by his grandpa who tagged him with the “Willie Boy” moniker a long, long time ago. I’ve known him since he was a toddler, and since he’s not exactly a boy anymore, I mostly just call him Will. Anyway, young Will shows up every so often as old friends do—mostly in recollections of his childhood or when he has a far-fetched tale or some new bauble to show off. Despite the difference in our ages, we’re both creatures of the South, and we share a lot of things. Among them are abiding affections for fried chicken, shrimp and grits, bream fishing with popping bugs, pointers, setters and crisp fall mornings with small tendrils of mist curling from the broomsedge. Especially if the latter happens to be the opening day of quail season. You can add to the list full moons on cold winter nights, summer rainstorms and memories of old friends, including his grandpa. And 16-gauge shotguns. “Back in the day” grown men usually carried 12 gauges, because they could be relied upon to handle anything and everything. They worked equally well for quail, doves, ducks, geese, turkey, deer, foxes and the occasional miscreant who was foolish enough to run afoul of the law. Twenty gauges were for “learners”— youngsters—and the occasional special lady who had both the grit and inclination for the sport. Annie Oakley comes to mind. Sixteen gauges, on the other hand, were for the cognoscenti—those “in the know.” If you hang around long enough, and shoot enough shotguns, you’ll come to realize that there is a “sweet spot” in the realm of field guns, and a well-built, well-proportioned 16-gauge hits it right on the mark. For all its versatility, the 12-gauge can be a little chunky. Only a few perfect specimens avoid this drawback. Twenty and 28-gauges, on the other hand, lean toward the “wispy” end of the scale. Sixteens hit right in the middle—the sweet spot where Goldilocks found things to be “just right.” How 16 gauges fell out of favor is one of life’s great mysteries. I guess there just aren’t many folks who have been around long enough to acquire enough experience to recognize how sweet they are! Add that to the fact that few makers really “push” the 16 in their lines, and here we are! I came to my fondness for 16-bores in mid-life, after I was old enough to have a lot of experience and little sense. Will, on the other hand, grew up with one of the finest specimens that ever existed. Will’s grandpa bequeathed him a splendid 0-frame, 16-gauge DHE Parker, which he has to this day. Will and I are not alone in our affection for the 16-bore, either. Gene Hill wrote fondly about his “woodcock gun,” which was a sprightly little 16-gauge Greener.

SHOTGUNS The 16 is His Goldilocks of Gauges

BY ROBERT MATTHEWS above: One of the hallmarks of the King Royal is exquisite Turkish walnut.

Will chose wisely, to say the least.

SHOTGUNS

A while back, Will decided that it was time to put the old Parker into semi-retirement. After more than 100 years of use, the old gun was getting a little weary. Not worn out, mind you, because it takes a lot of use to wear out a Parker of any gauge. No, he just wanted to give it a rest, once in a while, and started looking for another 16-gauge.

When he called the other day, I swear that I could actually hear the smile on his face! He told me that he had found his gun and wanted me to see it. And after I did, I wanted you to see it, too. Just because. For the same reason that I send back photos from Africa and the American West, and Patagonia and the Southern Alps. Because these things exist, and you need to see them.

■

We talked about guns that I felt were worthy—and a few that I didn’t feel quite made the grade. And the search continued.

The bad news is that good used Parker 16s are a tad hard to find these days, and Will had to broaden his search.

The Holland-style sidelock is so good that it’s undoubtedly the most copied sidelock in the world. There are very few sidelocks that don’t have a little Holland blood in them. The design is simple, strong and reliable. And when made with care, extremely fine as well. The one he found is “barely used” condition, exhibiting only a few handling marks. I seriously doubt that it has ever been hunted with and would easily qualify for “closet queen” status. The particular model is called the “King Royal” because it so closely resembles Holland & Holland’s “Royal.” Of course, it’s a 16-gauge. With 28-inch barrels, it scales just a tad over 6 1/2 pounds. It has a hand-matted rib to lead the eye in the right direction and is choked improved cylinder and modified. Being of best quality, it is exquisitely engraved in the Holland “Royal” style and wears Turkish walnut that will break your heart! Since the stock is just a smidgen long and a trifle high for Will, I think we’ll take a little trip to Texas this summer and have Todd Ramirez bend the stock and install a shorter pad. All in all, it’s about as fine a gun as a man could aspire to shoot a bird with, and Will and his grandson will be well equipped to do so for another 100 years.

The famous Italian firm of Fratelli Piotti makes some of the finest guns in the world, bar none. The firm makes a number of different styles of gun and all of them are of best quality. One of them is a Holland & Holland pattern sidelock, and that’s the gun he chose.

32 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

Over the next couple of years, we talked about his dilemma several times.

Well, you know what they say about being in the right place at the right time. The price was unbeatable, too. When I related the details of the transaction to one of my hunting buddies, his jaw went a little“Youslack.could fall out of a 12th story window,” he marveled, “and land in a feather bed.” I couldn’t disagree.

This is a matter of some concern as I grow older and find it harder to maintain focus in the face of the long silences that are increasingly the rule of 21st century pheasant hunting. The fire in the belly doesn’t burn as hot as it once did; my attention is more likely to wander. There isn’t a lot of time to react under the best of circumstances when a rooster busts from cover, and if your mind’s someplace else—dwelling on how physically miserable you are, for example—you already have one foot in a gopher hole.

Most of us are lucky to get one Tina in our lifetime; having had two—the other, also an English setter, was named Emmylou—I decided upon Tina’s retirement to strike off in an entirely different direction, follow through on a threat I’d been making for years, and try to pick up a trained, or at least well-started, English cocker spaniel.

You can’t help but be charmed by these irrepressible scamps, and their abilities in the field—abilities that belie their stature—led someone to describe them, delightfully, as “Little Big Dogs.”

GUNDOGS New Dogs, New Challenges Becoming accustomed to hunting with a different breed isn’t always a smooth transition.

BY TOM DAVIS

I put out some feelers among my contacts in the cocker camp—and got so outrageously lucky (again!) that I feel a twinge of guilt about it. It so happened that a husband-and-wife team of cocker field trialers from Minnesota, Kim and Bethann Wiley, had a six-year-old Field Champion, a black-and-tan female named Rumor, that they’d retired from competition.

T here is a certain knitting together of warmish environmentmoisturetemperatureairandinthethat forces the upland bird hunter to pick his poison. A “wardrobe dilemma,” you might call it.

You can dress to prevent the moisture—in the form of rain and/or wet vegetation—from penetrating to your skin, in which case you steam from the inside out like a Christmas pudding. Or, you can dress to beat the heat, in which case your clothes will soon be squishily plastered against your arms, legs and torso, eroding your thermal equilibrium if not shattering it altogether.

The point being that there is no better option, really, or even a palatable compromise, for hunting in these conditions. (GORE-TEX pants are a cruel joke.) You’re going to be uncomfortable no matter what you do—and in danger, therefore, of being ruinously distracted from the business at hand.

Part of the problem, too, is that for most of my life I hunted with pointing dogs, most recently an English setter savant named Tina. Hunting pheasants with Tina, you didn’t have to worry much about being caught off-guard by a surprise flush, because the overwhelming majority of encounters were mediated by the rare combination of qualities—nose, intelligence, tenacity and sheer, unbridled bird sense—that she brought to the table. If a rooster tried to run, she’d stick to him like glue until, one way or another, the drama resolved itself; if he chose to hunker down she’d point him with the finality of a vault being closed, and she’d hold that point for as long as it took to get there and flush the bird. Indeed, she took a fierce professional pride in not being the agent of a premature flush, meaning that when I hunted with Tina I could just sort of saunter along with the dial at a minimal level of mental intensity, powering up as necessary when she danced into a point.

Wanting to devote as much time as possible to developing and campaigning their younger dogs, they were looking to place her in a good “hunting home.”

SPORTING CLASSICS • 35MAY / JUNE 2021

GUNDOGS BY TOM DAVIS

The transition to hunting grouse and woodcock with a flushing dog was almost frictionless, like stepping from one side of a foot-wide creek to the other. I’d spent enough time beating the bushes of northern Wisconsin behind my friends’ Labs and goldens to know what to expect; plus, the number of flushes, especially when the woodcock are “in” (or “down,” as the old-timers put it), makes it easy to stay engaged and on task—even for a graybeard like me. But if Rumor and I hit the ground running in the grouse-and-woodcock cover, hunting public-land roosters in Iowa was proving to be a bumpy ride. If you were charitably inclined you could call our performance a work-inprogress—but calling it a train wreck was just as valid. The fault was all mine, of course, and it came back to that tendency, absent any galvanizing signals, for my thoughts to wander. This came to a pathetic nadir one afternoon on a shaggy piece of public ground when, after a lengthy period of inactivity (read: birdlessness), a rooster flushed in what should have been my wheelhouse. Not point-blank range, but darn close—and my mind was so desperately far away that by the time I disentangled it from whatever lurid fantasy I was having, I was left with a barrel-stretcher shot that, predictably, didn’t cut a feather.

I said some bad words then. When Rumor and I found ourselves at another piece of public land, faced with the prospect of hunting wet, heavy prairie grass on an unseasonably warm, humid day, I foresaw that no matter what combination of clothing I selected it would be wrong—and that the “distraction index,” in turn, was likely to be extremely high. Armed with this knowledge, I made a concerted effort to buckle down and keep my head in the game. When the stout little cocker flushed that rooster I was going to be ready, dammit. And, despite having to unbutton my shirt to the navel to vent the sweaty heat I’d built up, I was. The rooster, the first pheasant we’d seen, burst from a fringe of sloughgrass and flared to my left. I swung the Superposed and dumped it; Rumor retrieved it, lickety-split, at my command.

36 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

■

Funny how easy it can seem when all the pieces fall in place, isn’t it? We’re still a work in progress, but we’re heading in the right direction.

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Arguably the best player the game has ever seen, Williams compiled a lifetime batting average of .344 while hitting 521 home runs over a career spent entirely with the Boston Red Sox. Williams was the last player to hit more than .400 in a season, hitting .406 in 1941. Most remarkable perhaps is the fact that Williams lost five seasons at the peak of his major league career due to service in World War II and the Korean Conflict. In the military, Williams matched his on-field performance as a Navy and Marine flyer. Primarily a trainer during World War II, he flew 37 missions over Korea serving as a wingman for future astronaut and Senator, John Glenn. A hero in the sports world and a remarkable military career made Williams an American icon. Yet besides these incredible accomplishments was an individual whose mark on the outdoor sporting world is perhaps unparalleled.

T hey called him The Kid. The Splendid Splinter. Ballgame.TeddyAndby his own admission all he wanted in life was to walk down the street and have people say, “There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter there ever was.”

SPORTING CLASSICS • 39MAY / JUNE 2021

PROFILES

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It was in my early childhood in the late 1960s that I first came to know of Ted Williams. His face was on the label of a Sears tent that my father owned for many years. I knew less of Williams the baseball legend and more of him as an outdoor promoter in my youth. In fact, Williams became among the first sports figures to turn his superstar persona into a product endorser and household name. After retiring from the Boston Red Sox following the 1960 season, (in which he hit a home run in his final at bat), Williams became a spokesperson for Sears. Throughout the 1960s nearly all Sears sporting equipment bore the Ted Williams name, whether it be fishing

Ted Williams: The greatest hitter (and fisherman) there ever was.

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BY DR. JOHN CHALSTROM, PH.D.

Perhaps to avoid the pressures of being the greatest ballplayer of a generation, he would retreat to his hotel room after games where he found solace in tying flies. Again, he approached his hobby with an obsessive drive for perfection, creating his own designs that were innovative and effective. While fly-fishing was his passion, Williams was ever the pragmatist and would apply all fishing techniques to the test given the appropriate circumstances, whether it be spin- or baitcasting. While his fishing quests would eventually take him throughout the world, Williams found his primary solace in two distinctly different fishing worlds: Islamorada, Florida, and the Miramachi River in New Brunswick. Islamorada is known today as the Mecca of North American saltwater fishing. When Ted Williams first came to know of Islamorada, it was a sparsely populated hamlet midway on the Florida Keys. Williams came to Islamorada in order to become one of the first individuals to pursue bonefish with a fly rod. And with the same enthusiasm for a fast ball thrown ever so slightly into his zone, he attacked bonefishing in a likewise manner. Perfecting, if not helping to invent the technique of poling a boat in saltwater flats, Williams was unrelenting in his quest for bonefish. A myth came to be accepted that Williams could count the stiches on an incoming pitch, (which he in fact denied being able to do). However, those who fished the saltwater flats with him were simply amazed at his extraordinary, if not superhuman vision. Able to see a bonefish undetectable to his boat mates, Williams could delicately place a fly anywhere he wished and with great results. Largely because of Ted Williams, fly-fishing for bonefish became popular. And also because of Williams, the relatively unknown key of Islamorada exploded in size and became a destination for anglers throughout the world to pursue the same fishing opportunities as The Kid.

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SPORTING CLASSICS • 41MAY / JUNE 2021 reels, shotguns, boats or campers. Being named the chief advisor of all sporting good products, Williams’s careful attention to detail in all he did allowed Sears to market their products as personally approved and tested by him, giving a well-deserved reputation for quality products. Williams even had a staff of advisors working underneath him. Most notable was legendary mountaineer Sir Edmund Hillary who, even at the time, fell under the shadow not of Mount Everest, but that of the great Ted Williams. A generation of Americans came to know Ted Williams as the face of America’s number one retailer as well as its greatest baseball player. Yet it was fishing that may have been the true passion of Ted Williams— more than baseball and perhaps more than life itself. Growing up in San Diego, Williams was introduced to fishing at an early age, and it was a pursuit that would come to consume him. Playing minor league ball in St. Paul, Minnesota, Williams was known to fish for walleye and northern pike on area lakes anytime the opportunity presented itself. Famously known for his acerbic and somewhat aloof personality, fishing seemed to provide an element of escapism from the outside world. Williams began to study fishing with the same veracity that he applied to the art of hitting. He had no interest in being a casual fisherman, but rather wished to become an expert in all aspects of the sport. During his days in Boston, Williams was known to fish local haunts, once landing a 395-pound tuna in 1949 near Cape Cod. Only when he discovered that the action of casting a rod was interfering with his bat swing did he relegate his passion to the off season.

BY DR. JOHN CHALSTROM, PH.D.

Much has been written and discussed about the great Ted Williams. He was a complicated man known to possess a volatile temper a little tolerance for anything short of excellence in any endeavor. He came to personify perfection if not exceptionalism in every one of his pursuits. Enshrined on his first ballot into Cooperstown in 1966, Williams was also inducted into the International Game Fish Association Hall of Fame and shares the rare honor of being recognized for reaching the pinnacle of success in separate sporting endeavors. His contributions to Florida tourism and post-war growth, along with his efforts to save the Atlantic salmon have had an impact felt to this day. ■ The life of Ted Williams can be examined in exhaustive detail in Ben Bradlee, Jr.’s outstanding book, The Kid as well as in autobiography,William’s My Turn at Bat. Both books deservedly tell the story of a baseball legend who would come to leave an indelible mark on the outdoor sporting world.

42 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

PROFILES

Summers would take Ted Williams from his Florida home to the banks of the Miramachi River in New Brunswick in search of Atlantic salmon, a species he referred to as “the greatest game fish that swims.” And while his legendary status as a fisherman is often linked to Islamorada, it was perhaps on the Miramachi that the complicated, cantankerous Williams came close to finding peace with himself. Spending three months each year in New Brunswick, Williams devoted each day to every minute detail of fishing for salmon, whether it be tying flies or meticulously taking inventory of his gear. His fanaticism toward maintaining his equipment perhaps exceeded his attention to the detail of his bats. Only resting to catch a Red Sox broadcast on the radio in the evenings, Williams attempted yearly, usually succeeding, in landing 1,000 salmon. So passionate was his dedication to salmon fishing that it led him to lobby for legislation calling for limits on commercial fishing for Atlantic salmon. Fishing with Ted Williams was not for the faint of heart. His personal perfectionism that he sought in baseball, business and his outdoor endeavors did not allow him to settle for mediocrity. That meant fishing with individuals who were either neophytes or simply did not have the skill level of himself or to which he aspired to be. This may explain why Williams oftentimes opted to fish alone and rejected multiple requests from others wanting to learn from the master.

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But Ted Williams was not content to settle with bonefish. Once he mastered the art, he yearned for another challenge. That led him to pursue tarpon with the same vengeance. Establishing the Gold Cup Invitational Tarpon Fly Tournament, Williams would take honors twice, solidifying Islamorada as a fisherman’s paradise and his own reputation as perhaps America’s greatest living fisherman. And through his radio and television broadcasts, he increased his stature as well as that of Florida tourism. Often fishing alone, Williams’s silhouette would come to define Key’s fishing for three decades.

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The First,Shooterisolatethe systems starting with… you. Not the scope. Not the rifle. The shooter. No rifle can shoot properly until it is operated properly. So don’t be givin’ no bad vibrations. Isolate yourself from the tool as much as possible: solid bench, sandbags and/or front rest tripod. Add a recoil pad over your shoulder if flinching is likely. Use a Lead Sled if you must. The more solidly the rifle is settled, the better. For a convenient platform, I heartily recommend a portable, yet rock solid bench. Next, settle yourself on a solid seat, both feet on the ground for the tripod effect. Lean your chest into the bench (if it’s wiggle free.) This will absorb some heart beats and shaking. Resist wrapping a torque-inducing death grip. Instead align your trigger-hand thumb atop the grip and in-line with the axis of the action/barrel.Onceeverything is settled on target, press back against the trigger shoe with the center of your index finger’s first pad, not the tip nor the hinge. Think about applying pressure straight back to minimize side-to-side torque. And maintain follow through, holding the trigger back after that shot. Do not flick your finger forward at the shot. That leads to slapping, jerking, flinching. Smooth and steady wins this race. You can let light-kicking rifles recoil freely on the tripod or sandbag, but torque from the rifling engraving the bullet will throw harder kicking rifles off and to the side. Find a consistent forend grip on them without touching the barrel (which can alter impacts.) And make sure the sling swivel stud doesn’t snag the bag. You might want to practice all this with a 22 Long Rifle to lock in your technique before expending your limited centerfire cartridge supply. When firing, try to watch the bullet hit the target. You won’t be able to, of course, but trying trains you to call your shots and not flinch (flinching usually involves closing eyes at the shot.) You’ll see where the reticle was when the shot broke. This skill translates to the hunt. You’ll know whether you pulled your shot on that big buck or bull.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 45MAY / JUNE 2021 You want “zero issues” in your Especiallynotrelationships,personalyourrifles.not these days when ammo is harder to find than the buck you’re hoping to shoot with it. Is there a hunter in the world who has not pulled his or her hair while trying to zero a rifle? Why does a 1 MOA scope adjustment move the bullet two inches instead of one? Or none? Why is last winter’s perfect zero two inches high this summer? Why won’t your rifle shoot where it’s supposed to?

Zero Issues BY RON SPOMER

RIFLES

now. Serenity now. Instead of wrapping that rifle ’round a tree like a golf club, seek to understand it. And here’s how:

SerenityAargh!

The WhenRifleyouand your platform are squared away, work on your rifle, including the scope. Be certain bases and rings are tightly seated. Then turn the scope diopter adjustment while aiming at clear sky until the reticle is dead sharp. If you’re reasonably certain your rifle/ scope are near zero, you may skip bore-sighting; otherwise use some kind of bore-sighter or just remove the rifle’s bolt, peer down the barrel (rifle on bags) and center a bullseye in the bore at about 30 yards. Then, without moving the rifle, look through the scope. If the crosshair isn’t roughly over the bullseye, turn the turrets as necessary to get them there. This only works if the rifle isn’t moved during the process. What you’re doing is moving the scope reticle to where the barrel is pointing. Once bore-sighted, you’re almost ready for live fire, but first…check stock bedding. A loose stock can seriously alter bullet placement, and something as simple as changes in humidity can loosen the stock/action connection. First tighten the front bedding screw. Most gun

Burn through this much ammo without getting zeroed and you’d give up, too.

The rear action screw behind the trigger guard doesn’t have to be as tight. Snug should do it. If the rifle isn’t bedded perfectly flat to the receiver, a tight rear screw can bend the action, compromising accuracy.Next,check the barrel/stock joint for pressure points. Some stocks are bedded with a pressure point near the forend tip, some with full-length stock/barrel bedding and some free floating. What you don’t want is inconsistent contact, so slide a dollar bill under the barrel and back through the stock channel. If it slides freely back to the action, it’s floating. It hangs up at the tip but can be reinserted behind the obstruction for a clean slide back, it’s likely pressure-tip bedded. The one thing you don’t want is the stock touching just one side of the barrel at any point. Burning Powder You are now ready to expend one of your precious cartridges, and if you do it right, you’ll only need to waste one or two more after Becausethat.most scoped centerfires first cross line-of-sight at 25 to 30 yards, this is a sensible distance for your first shot. Prevents those maddening 100-yard “missed the whole paper!” mistakes. It also minimizes any wind deflection you’d get with longer distance shots. So follow proper form and ignite liftoff. Did you see where your crosshair was when the shot broke? You didn’t flinch? Great. Now note where the bullet hole sits. Let’s say it’s an inch high and an inch left. That means your scope is “looking” an inch lower and an inch farther right than your barrel is throwing its bullets. To correct this, all you have to do is secure the rifle onto the same bullseye aim you just used to fire that first shot. Then lock it into this position so it can’t move and turn your scope turrets while watching the reticle move over to that bullet hole. Voila! Barrel and scope are now pointing to the same spot. You are zeroed for 30 yards. This will likely translate 3 to 8 inches high at 100 yards. An alternative to this 30-yard first shot is to fire it at 100 yards, but use a really big, clean target just in case your boresighting wasn’t very accurate. A 4x4 sheet of cardboard isn’t too big. The beauty of the 30-yard system is that it circumvents the common phenomenon of dialing clicks but seeing no change in the second shot’s location. A “sticky” erector tube is likely the problem. Here’s what’s going on: when you fire a rifle, recoil shakes the scope’s erector tube held against springs by the windage and elevation turret screws. Under repeated recoil those connection points might gouge and “dig in.” The bit of pressure applied when you dial four to 12 click adjustments might not be enough to break free those galled contact points. So the erector tube doesn’t move. The result is your second shot lands right beside the first as if you made no scope dialing corrections at all. Frustrated, you crank in another four to 12 clicks. And your third shot sails twice as far as you wanted because your second shot jarred the sticky turret connection loose. Your bullet shows the effect of a double move! This kind of inexplicable inconsistency can drive you nuts. Watching the scope’s reticle move as you dial circumvents this.

Once you’ve dialed the reticle to the point where the barrel is throwing bullets, you are essentially zeroed for that distance. But you should finalize a more sensible hunting zero, probably 2 to 3 inches high at 100 yards. Why so high? Because it maximizes your rifle’s point blank range, the distance at which you can aim at the center of your quarry’s vital zone and hit it without worrying about drops or hold over. This usually extends from 250 to 350 yards depending on bullet B.C. and muzzle velocity. To discover your point blank range, run some trajectory numbers on a ballistic calculator (online search will reveal several, free for the using). Enter muzzle velocity, bullet B.C. and your quarry’s vital zone diameter (8 inches is a good average) and the calculator should spit out a trajectory table indicating how high RON SPOMER

RIFLES BY

A solid bench, seat, tripod and rear bag are tools that minimize shooter error when zeroing a rifle.

Finalizing Your Hunting Zero

46 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 builders call for 25- to 35 inch-pounds there, some as many as 65. The precise number probably isn’t mandatory for zeroing, but it’s always smart to maintain consistency. If you don’t know the specs, just tighten until it feels good and solid.

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RIFLES RON spray and pray: If your sight-in targets look like this, you might want to try our one-shot system.

SPOMER

48 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 to zero at 100 yards to reach your maximum point blank range. (Two to three inches high at 100 yards is about right for most standard cartridges used for whitetail-sized game.) With this trajectory table in hand and your rifle already zeroed at 100 yards, you’re ready to finalize your hunting zero. Ink a spot on your 100yard target BELOW its original bull the same number of inches your trajectory chart indicates you should shoot high at 100 yards. Again, lock your rifle on the bench, the reticle centered over the original bullseye. Finally, without moving that rifle, dial the scope to move the reticle DOWN until it is over your LOWER inked spot. Your scope should now be pointing x number of inches below where your barrel is throwing its bullets at 100 yards. That means when you aim dead on a 100-yard target, your bullet should strike x inches high. To confirm this, take another 100-yard shot, aiming at the center bull. If you have sufficient ammo and like to be thorough, shoot a three-shot group, find its center, and if it’s appreciably wide of where it should land, again lock your rifle on the bull and dial the scope until the reticle is centered over your group center. Ideally a hunter should shoot and adjust based on group centers. He or she should also confirm zero under a variety of atmospheric conditions over the course of weeks or months, cold barrel and hot. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, as Emerson wrote, but it’s proof of a rifle’s performance. ■

BY

The Road Through Amarillo

For me, the true West only starts to reveal itself, both geographically and spiritually, when I cross Garrison Creek a couple of miles into Oklahoma on the far side of Fort GarrisonSmith.Creek is the bona fide point of entry, where the landscape first begins to tease you with its western allure as you transition into oak brush country. Soon you succumb to its flaming autumn colors and their insistent summons and exit the interstate and find some obscure little game trail and ease on foot out into this strange low forest to experience from within its sweet seductive charms, where the acorns lie scattered in such profusion that they crunch beneath your soft-soled driving shoes as ever deeper into their clutches you are drawn. But you’ve already been on the road for a day and a half, and there are still two full days of hard driving ahead. You want to make Amarillo by sundown, so you return to your vehicle where your rifles and duffle and big empty coolers are waiting and resume your westward trek. In a few miles you enter the Indian Nations. You stop for an hour at the trading post near Checotah to buy a hand-woven wool rug and small wooden flute, then amble across the parking lot to the little roadside kitchen for your first proper meal in two days. Finally back on the road, Oklahoma City is little more than an extended interruption and, like the Mississippi River, you know it won’t occupy much if any of your memory as later you reflect on this near-holy odyssey across the southern plains and into northern New Mexico on your annual autumn quest for a late season elk. But you will remember crossing the southbound Canadian River and the northbound Chisholm Trail, and by the time you hit the Texas panhandle both the land and your sense of scale have been expanded all out of proportion when compared to the confines of your normal eastern abode. For instead of poplar and sweetgum and rhododendron and sycamore, there is mesquite and sage and chamisa and cholla cactus. Instead of your everyday eastern skyline that dissolves into a not-so-distant diaphanous haze, your vision stretches clear to the horizon 100 miles and more in all directions. And just as your synapses start to adjust and connect with the massive scale of the ever-changing panorama through which you are passing, you realize you’re not going to make Amarillo by nightfall. Darkness descends, and when you pull off the interstate for a much needed break and slip quietly on foot through the night and down the dry wash that leads out into the starlit arroyo, you glance upward and nearly swoon as you behold the scale and clarity and infinite detail of your home galaxy.

The intimate details and soaring landscapes of the West never cease to fulfill the imagination.

If you live in the East and are driving across Interstate 40, the Great American West doesn’t necessarily begin when you cross the Mississippi.

f an adventure ends with good cheer and rich memories, then it must surely begin with eager anticipation and the fulfilling tasks of planning and organizing and gathering all the gear and incidentals that are so integral to the days and weeks ahead.

Whether you’re heading north or south, east or west, the truth of what you are about to embark upon begins to work its way into your consciousness long before you leave home. But only when you finally hit the road or take to the sky does the reality of what you are getting ready to experience start to reveal itself in earnest.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 49MAY / JUNE 2021 RAMBLINGS I

BY MICHAEL ALTIZER

An adventure west begins long before you arrive at your final destination.

The silence is so still and the hush so intense that all you can hear is the sweet rhythmic rustle of your own gentle breathing and the salty whisper of blood as it courses your veins. You’re the only human soul for a dozen miles in any direction, and you kneel there in the moment and pray before backtracking to the main highway and continuing north to the ranch, where your dinner and your friends and your bed are all awaiting yourAndarrival.sotoo, you hope, are the elk. You love hunting elk. Once, in centuries past, elk roamed the hollows and ridges and river bottoms of your home country 1,700 miles to the east. The Elk River flows not 35 minutes from your bed back in the mountains of Tennessee, and you can be in Elk Park or Banner Elk or at Elk River Falls in less than an hour. In the past few decades, elk have been regaining a foothold in a few areas of Kentucky and Tennessee and Virginia and North Carolina. But to hunt them with anything other than a camera, you always headYouWest.remember your last elk. You and Pat had spotted a small group of them at dawn as you glassed the sunrise from the rocky rim of Apache Canyon. They were threading their way south through the oak brush and cedars a half mile below, along a circuitous trail you both knew well and that feeds around the southern slopes of High Knob. It was a two mile uphill haul for them as they circled to the east, but little more than a mile for the two of you if you hurried south. And so you dove off the canyon rim, skirted the far western base of the knob, and had just started circling back north hoping to intercept them when they began pouring around the eastern slopes.

You’re wide awake and back on the road an hour before first light, past the feedlots west of town that are thick with fatted cattle and their acrid aromas.

And as you drop off the rim of the Colorado Plateau and into the high desert of eastern New Mexico, the sun starts to rise 96 million miles behind you.

You’re constantly dodging tumbleweed as you continue west past Glenrio and Tucumcari and Cuervo. You cross the Pecos a mile west of Santa Rosa, and just before reaching Moriarity you bear north into Santa Fe. You stop for fajitas out on the veranda overlooking the Plaza and to visit with your Navajo and Apache friends beneath the ancient colonnade of the Palace of the Governors. You stay the night with Nolene and Frank before crossing the Rio Grande the next morning on your way up through Española and Hernandez and Medanales.Twomiles north of Abiquiu you begin climbing into the redrock country and pause at Mesitos de los Gatos and Jackrabbit Rock, then make a temporary detour west into the desert along a dry, dusty, singletrack dirt road toward the old Benedictine monastery. The flattened summit of the Cerro Pedernal crowns the skyline to the west and south, and you pull over and wander a half mile out into a broad expanse of juniper and piñon and sand and sage and realize that the landscape across which you are gazing probably looked pretty much the same a couple millennia ago.

It’s almost midnight by the time you have dinner and bed down in Amarillo, and you’re hungry for sleep. But sleep comes hard, for your mind is still racing westward to the days and weeks to come and the grand adventures and soaring vistas still ahead and, of course, the elk that are waiting for you there.

You’d initially seen only seven or eight animals from the canyon rim. But now there came a herd of 40 or more, weaving in and out of the oak brush in the pale morning light. Pat gave a single, beckoning cow call and the whole herd halted. Elk filled your field of vision, most of them melding into the thick low-lying oaks of which they were so much a part, milling about and revealing only bits and pieces of their tawny coats as they swept you with their eyes, trying to locate the mystery elk that had just hailed them. But a couple stood open and exposed. You both knew they would remain there for only a few seconds at most. You wereA group of elk pause inquisitively in the dense oak brush of northern New Mexico.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 51MAY / JUNE 2021 RAMBLINGS

BY MICHAEL ALTIZER

After all, that’s why you’d come in the firstAndplace.that’s why you’re on the road to the ranch yet again this evening, seeking your coming year’s provision. Your home lies four days behind you, and now you’ve climbed from the desert north of Abiquiu, through the high valley of the Piedra Lumbre, and into the soaring coniferous country of northern New Mexico. Along the skyline, Chama Peak stands lit by the setting sun like a 12,000foot flame, and the purple glow of the Brazos Cliffs dominates the towering landscape to the east. Soon you’ll be surrounded by your friends at the lodge—along with the elk that ghost through the mountains and meadows and canyons high above. You’ll dream of them tonight and be up three hours before first light to begin this year’s hunt for yet another elk of your own. And when you finally return home with it in a couple weeks’ time, you won’t much remember crossing the Mississippi. ■ AltizerJournal.com. Signed copies of Michael Altizer’s newest book, Ramblings—Tales from Three Hemispheres, along with his previous books, The Last Best Day and Nineteen Years to Sunrise, can be ordered online from Sporting Classics at SportingClassicsStore.com. Click on “BOOKS” or simply call (800) 849-1004. Such grand vistas as this draw eastern hunters to the Great American West. MICHAEL ALTIZER

SPORTING CLASSICS • 53MAY / JUNE 2021 mainly out for meat, and so you waited for an opening, picked the best shot you had, settled your crosshairs center-chest, and lightly touched the trigger. They all bolted at the shot and were gone in seconds, tearing west around the steep southern slopes—all, that is, but one. Without looking, you quickly ejected your spent cartridge and slipped the spare round from the leather-gloved fingers of your left hand and dropped it into the empty breach of your single shot 300 Win. Mag., then set off alone across the 189 snowy yards that separated you from your coming year’s meat supply. And when you got your elk back to base, you skinned it out and let it hang in the bitter cold for two full days before hauling it up to Bernie and Chris in Pagosa Springs for processing. That single elk had completely filled your big coffin cooler, plus the better part of another, and when you eventually got it back across New Mexico and Texas and Oklahoma and Arkansas and home to Tennessee, there was plenty to share with family and friends.

RAMBLINGS BY

ITEACHERSAS

MAY / JUNE 202154 • SPORTING CLASSICS

It starts with the urge buried deep in our own DNA, the bond between predators working in concert to feed the tribe. As old as humanity, that ancient, compelling calculus is still relevant and, if you own a dog, I bet you’ll agree. I became a hunter as I watched my first wirehair work a field. I was confused, intrigued and bedazzled as he coursed back and forth pulled by forces known only to him. When he cat-danced into a point, the hook was set. A flushing pheasant was cream in my coffee, an added gift. I am thankful to this day that a backyard-bred sorta-bird dog changed my life. Dogs are boon companions. In the field we become a team linked by common purpose, a modern version of a wolf pack coursing the uplands for sustenance, literal and emotional. They hold the instinct cards, though, and without them we would simply be hiking. We don’t need the meat, at least not gotten that way. It’s now more ritual, symbol of a shared past where the act of hunting meant life itself to the participants. As meat sustains the body, hunting with dogs nourishes the soul. Taking life to maintain life is never simple. The act is rife with meaning, conflict, boldness and doubt. A companion helps us through the

’ve raised and trained them, watched others handle them, admired them as they worked under the guidance of a skilled outfitter or friend. That’s not counting the hundreds I’ve watched from a field trial gallery or as a gunner at hunt tests and training days. Each has touched my heart.

—Mark

EVERY DOG I’VE HUNTED WITH HAS MADE AN INDELIBLE MARK ON ME. SOME BOLDER THAN OTHERS, BUT ALL HAVE TOUCHED MY HUNTER’S HEART. BE HONEST—THEY’VE TOUCHED YOURS, TOO. BY SCOTT LINDEN more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.” Twain DOGS

“The

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 55

56 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 DOGS AS TEACHERS act, teaching and supportive, indispensable in fact. Blood brothers are made, literally, and those siblings have four legs, and we are better for it. Why we hunt is a pretty deep topic for someone who operates a pooper-scooper daily. The answer is often unknowable, or inexpressible to those who don’t get it. We train, doctor, worry, pamper, feed and house “dumb” animals who magically become the smartest ones once we drop the tailgate. If we’re lucky, we recognize the magic, the melding of genetic memory and primeval senses that make dogs such incredible hunters. We watch their noses lead them, marvel at their fine-tuned abilities. We envy their ability to flip the switch at the end of the day and sleep the sleep of the innocent. Sometimes, their work is the only bright spot in a day of few flushes. Other times, their pain is ours. The connection between their heart and our mind is not literary metaphor, it is visceral. Dog and owner share a frequency, encrypted so no codebreaker can crack it. But until they are given the gift of speech, we have to guess at their needs and wants. “Peak experiences” make our lives richer, say the psycho-gentry. We’re told to pursue them at the expense of relationships, jobs, self-respect. That’s why there is bungee-jumping, fast cars, mid-life crises and extramarital affairs. These faux-adrenaline rushes fill social media, are the stuff of happy hour boasts, they pump up egos and pound down introspection.

Instead, we have dogs. They dazzle us with speed and intensity no video game can match. They take us to the edge of a cliff, top of a mountain, into the darkest woods. Where we go, we might be eaten, drowned, crumpled and poisoned. But we follow them anyway. The bell goes silent, and the deafening hush is only broken by a panting setter. Heart pumping, we creep forward of his nose, senses sharp. The whir of wings sates our ancient hunger. Hunting with a dog is the best drug, the most beautiful mistress. As pack animals, dogs are happiest in the company of others and truth be told, we are too. A solo hunt is cause for self-reflection, but the act of hunting in a gang not only joins canine and human, but it also joins human to human. Watching a dog is the precise dose of distraction for a father and son bonding or saying goodbye on a last hunt. Dogs are the lubricant of social interaction. They take us hunting so we can take others hunting. Our pack becomes stronger, tentative ties bind tighter. Searching for a dog on point, we also seek meaning, ponder the universe or pick our whisky choice for the après-hunt celebration. Many a human hunting partner has spoken truth only while stroking a dog’s back. In the digital age we pretend to communicate with gadgets. But talking at each other via smartphone is shallow, ephemeral and often self-centered. But words and pictures are superfluous on the prairie, where instinct links predators for common cause. Dogs don’t need the gift of speech. If we are listening, we can translate their language and join the chase. We suss out their intent, watch the way a tail moves, high head or low, gait, pace—each speaks volumes. We should be honored when dogs invite us to share the prehistoric thrill of making meat, accepting us as equal. We call on the most basic of instincts to feed our pack and sustain our souls, enabled by our dog, acting as one with a single goal. The act is violent, ugly, beautiful, simple and complex: lives taking life to sustain life. Dogs track every dimension, sharing the joy and the grief, in turn. We know it’s symbolic these days. Neither of us will starve if we aren’t “successful” in the way most TV hosts and magazine writers define the term. The bigger story is a deep unquenchable passion, and if we are lucky, the coppery taint of blood. Ortega y Gassett was right—it’s the potential for killing, not the act. If we’re fortunate, a dead bird

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 57

58 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 DOGS AS TEACHERS is gently presented to us by a dog that did all the hard work. We are mere spectators, asked to make the killing blow. The glory goes to the dog, in it for the deep thrill triggered by alleles and synapses passed down from dire wolves. We who train them are often reminded that dogs never stop learning, curing off our subtleties, watching every move, mimicking our motions. But they also teach us, if we pay attention. We learn patience as they quiver on point, awaiting our arrival. We share (not literally!) the joy of rolling in an unseen stink, a paradise of temporal pleasure. Their earnestness is focused on nothing, and something very, very important in their mind. We are forgiven for our missteps and minor cruelties and are reminded of the simple-but-important things in life when they circle and sigh, dropping into a sleeping curl at our feet. Dogs distill life to essence—there is no joy comparable to a dog with its head out the window. They take us to places sublime and spectacular. The chase is where we find limitless vistas, shiver in primeval forests and marvel at the Milky Way. We gaze at three states from the top of a chukar hill, listen to the trill of a brook while scratching a setter’s head in the grouse woods. Montana’s ocean of grass has a subtle beauty as our dog rides the waves seeking the faint trace of sharptail, somewhere. We reach the summit and revel, because our dog urged us on. A quiet glade brings us inner peace, thanks to a dog drawn by tendrils of scent. Dark forest is lit bright by a dog coursing in front, bell tinkling. We go, led by a nose that can’t resist the impulses of scent and instinct. We ford streams, bake in the desert, wade through the snow and trudge numberless hills for a glimpse of a dog on the skyline. He leads us onward, upward, toward… what? Dogs take us to evidence of our ancient theintoOurAndouradventure,dogusarrowheadscompatriots—glisteningandrockscratchingsremindthey,too,joinedforceswithdogs.Ourliveshavelesstexturewithoutaurginguson.Together,weseektruth,newplacesandtestsofphysicalstaminaandmentalacuity.wefindthem.Alone,weneverwould.journeysdon’tendwhenwepullthedriveway.Whenweinhalefaintscentofsageontheirfur, we re-visit beautiful places and vivid experiences. With their contented sigh, our shooting improves, the weather is better, birds fly slow and low. A dog chin on a human knee is the best memoryjogger. All shotguns are bespoke as our dog’s eyelids slowly lower for a snooze. Friends are smarter and better cooks when our dog whimpers in his sleep, nails clicking on crate wall. They tolerate bad shots, our worthless noses and slow, creaky joints. We join others of our kind to marvel at others of their kind. They become matchmakers, forming a motley pack of two- and four-legged pursuers in search of companionship and camaraderie. At the end of the day our dogs ask little of us. A warm bed, food from a sack. In turn, they forgive missed shots and misplaced anger. They whimper and bound in their slumber, finding all the birds and retrieving swiftly to their grateful owner. Then, they startle awake, searching for their human packmate, assuring themselves we’ve got their back, then dozing off again. They have a lot to teach us, if only we pay attention. ■

B

The basic idea is to shoot birds over your dog’s point. So stuff a sock in it. I’ve snuck within inches of birds by treading more carefully and taking the jingle-jangles off the dog’s collar. Even though I own a dozen e-collars most times I’ll go unplugged. I try to ghost my way through brush, not bulldoze it. Commands are by hand, not voice or whistle. My footfalls are those of an elk hunter, not a linebacker. Just hush

They Also Teach Us Practical Stuff

SPORTING CLASSICS • 59MAY / JUNE 2021

eing a better bird hunter is art andscience,andtheorypractice. Besides inspiration and motivation, a good dog can help us—if we just pay attention. Here are some examples: Let him linger Want more solid retrieves? Remember, he’s called a “bird dog” for a reason— living for the taste of feathers. If you swipe it away the moment he brings back that ringneck that gave him a run for his money, where’s the reward? Short of tearing it to pieces, let him revel in the taste and feel of a bird in his mouth. To him, nirvana. To us, a couple minutes of welldeserved downtime. And his next retrieve will be fueled by the memory of sweet, sweet bird stink, savored at leisure while you praised him. Tape it up Dogs are sorta color-blind. And they see moving objects better than stationary ones. So they’ve got us beat even before we figure out we’re crossdominant. Don’t go there! It means you shoot right-handed but your left eye is stronger than your right, or vice-versa. Face it, you won’t switch this season, but you can improve your accuracy dramatically by putting a piece of transparent tape on the dominant-eye’s lens of your shooting glasses. Place it so when you mount your shotgun, the tape obscures the muzzle and I’ll bet someone else will be buying the first round that night. Through the chaos I’ve put a camera on many dogs over the years. The real revelation wasn’t visual, it was aural. It’s a three-ring circus down there. Brush crashing, wind howling, collar tags jangling, you yelling and him panting—it’s no wonder he seems to “disobey” your commands—he can’t hear them! Use a whistle or hand signals and I’ll bet he becomes more “obedient” instantly. Circle wide Want a steadier pointer? Make a detour. Since the dawn of time, dogs have instinctively run alongside pack members—it’s called “allelomimetic behavior.” When you move in on a pointed bird, a dog’s DNA urges it to tag along as you pass. Instead, circle wide, come into the bird from an oblique angle, and your dog won’t be tempted to break his point. Whether the bird gets shot then is all up to you. Keep it quiet

DOGS AS TEACHERS

I like Monday-morning quarterbacking yesterday’s game as much as the next guy, but when my mouth is shut, my eyes seem to open wider. I enjoy more of the dog work, catch on quicker to his birdiness, savor the scenery and shoot more birds.

MAY / JUNE 202160 • SPORTING CLASSICS BY JOHN SEEREY-LESTER DEVIL T he OF BANGALORE

To prevent an attack from the rear, he had placed a thick layer of thornbushes along the edge of the roof. He had to persuade a villager to cut bushes from the surrounding forest and haul them back to the village, but the man would do this only with an armed escort by Anderson.

he night was warm and still and, although there was no moon, the myriad stars cast a bright glow over the village as the hunter took his position outside one of the huts. He had just arrived in the Bangalore region of southern India where he was waiting for one of the country’s most cunning man-eating leopards.

T

Anderson clutched his rifle tightly, keeping his finger on the trigger while holding a flashlight in his other hand. Intermittently he would scan his surroundings for any sign of movement. With his pipe for comfort and a thermos of hot tea at his side, he continued to sit through the long night.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 61MAY / JUNE 2021

The leopard had been terrorizing the occupants of several villages for quite a while. Making almost nightly visits, the unbelievably clever cat had managed to kill some 42 people, always escaping unseen. The villagers trembled in fear behind locked doors as one neighbor after another had been dragged screaming from their homes by the deadly panther. So determined was the man-eater that one night it burrowed its way through the straw and mud walls of a hut. Frustrated at being unable to carry away one of the occupants, the panther killed and partially devoured every person in the hut. The leopard had been stalking and killing Bangalore residents for a long time, and British authorities, who ruled the region, knew something had to be done to protect the hundreds of people who lived there from the man-eater that had come to be known as “the spotted devil of Gummalapur.” It was this village that Kenneth Anderson, a British-born Indian resident and big game hunter, had chosen to hold his vigil at the request of the District Magistrate, who was desperate to rid the area of the killer leopard. Anderson sat in a chair with his back against the wall of a hut, knowing he was up against a very clever and determined predator. From his position, he had a full view of the dirt road that was the main entrance to the village. Unfortunately, the villagers had not been helpful after his arrival through fear of revenge from the killer cat. At sundown, all of the residents had sought sanctuary in their homes behind locked doors. The hunter sat alone with his 405 Winchester across his lap, staring into the dim shadows of the street before him.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, a wind began to pick up and thick clouds rolled in, obscuring the bright stars. Now Anderson was even more anxious.

Anderson was at the mercy of a killer leopard that was somewhere out there in the inky blackness. He soon realized that even if the animal were a mere yard away, he would not be able to see it. His only hope was to catch a glimpse of the beast in his flashlight and have time to shoot it, or at the very least, the light would scare it away.

The village was eerily silent except for distant muffled voices coming from the many huts. Anderson felt extremely vulnerable, even though he was an experienced hunter. He was more accustomed to being in the forest where deer, jungle cocks, peahens and various primates alerted him to the presence of predators such as tigers or leopards. Sitting in the center of the village, he had no such allies and had to rely on his own instincts.

Anderson grabbed his rifle and hurdled over the barricade as he made a dash for the door, but by the time he got there, the devil-cat was nowhere to be seen. He made a quick search of the street, but found no sign of the man-eater. Once again, it had vanished into the night.

Anderson knew that the leopard was unlikely to return to Gummalapur in the very near future. He therefore decided it would be more prudent to stake out another village.

On his journey to the village, Anderson passed the fresh pugmarks of a male tiger, which he ignored so he could arrive before sundown. Reaching the village, he began his vigil just as the sun was replaced by the thin crescent of a new moon. Once again, he positioned himself on a chair outside a hut that offered the best view of the village. As usual, his back was to the wall of the hut, but this time, the village was adjacent to a jungle where he hoped its resident fauna would provide some warning of an approaching predator.

The next night, Anderson tried the same approach, but hoped for better results. The night began the same, complete with scurrying rats and muffled voices from next door. But soon things changed drastically—a strong wind picked up, threatening to destroy the straw roof and making it impossible to hear the people next door over the roaring of the wind. Nor could he see the dummy now that the light had diminished in the storm.

The villagers were impressed with what Anderson had done the night before on their behalf and were much more communicative that day. They agreed to go along with his idea of hiding inside one of the huts behind a barricade of boxes, where in a chair at the open doorway he would set up a lifelike dummy made of straw, a pillow and an old jacket.

62 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 THE DEVIL OF BANGALORE

Kenneth Anderson was still on the trail of the elusive maneating leopard as he moved on to the village of Devarabetta about 20 miles away from Gummalapur, his previous location. The deadly cat had already claimed five victims in Devarabetta, but because it had not returned in the past four weeks, Anderson felt confident it was due to make another visit.

Then, as the storm eased, Anderson nodded off only to be wakened by a sound coming from the open doorway. Although a little disorientated at first, he quickly realized that the cunning leopard had crawled unseen up to the dummy and was attempting to drag it off the chair.

India Nights by John Seerey-Lester

They also decided that a group of residents would mingle in an adjacent hut and talk loudly enough to convince the leopard that all was normal. Should the leopard decide to break through the walls of the hut next door, it was agreed that the villagers would yell for help as loudly as they could. That evening, from behind his barricade in the corner of the room, Anderson could clearly see the dummy silhouetted in the doorway. But the night passed without incident, except for an adventurous rat that startled the intrepid hunter in his hide.

When daylight arrived, he was still in his chair, much to his own surprise and that of the villagers. Obviously disappointed that he’d not seen the spotted devil, he decided to take a different approach the next night, once he’d taken a well-needed nap.

Suddenly, Anderson saw the lithe form of a leopard spring silently onto the roof of a hut just 20 yards away. All of huts were attached to one another, so he assumed the man-eater would make its way across the rooftops to approach him. It wasn’t long before Anderson heard a rustling nearby, convincing him that it was the leopard navigating the thornbushes he had placed on the roof.

Editor’s Note:

Anderson rose from his chair and stood with his back against the straw and mud wall under the eaves, which protruded about 18 inches. With his right finger on the trigger of the rifle and his left thumb on the flashlight’s button, he anxiously looked all around, expecting the cat to pounce at any moment.

This article is adapted from John SeereyLester’s newest book, Legendary Hunters and Explorers. All of the men and women featured on these pages shared an unquenchable thirst for adventure and a remarkable ability to survive in the face of extreme hardship and dangerous encounters in the wild outdoors. Spanning the years from 1800 to the mid-1900s, the careers of these dedicated hunters and explorers were filled with all sorts of adversity and challenges they somehow managed to overcome.

Anderson switched his gaze to that corner of the hut just in time to see the man-eater leap at him with bared teeth and glowing eyes. The hunter had just enough time to catch the cat in the beam of his flashlight and fire a snap shot from the hip.

Anderson strained his eyes in the same direction, trying to make out what his companion had seen. Finally, he managed to see what was troubling the dog. Something was moving furtively in and out of the shadows just a few huts away.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 63MAY / JUNE 2021 THE DEVIL OF BANGALORE

With work hanging in the White House, as well as museum collections, private homes and assemblages all around the world, Sir John Seerey-Lester was known for his mystical and mysterious animals and was frequently called “The Godfather of Wildlife Art.”

Altogether, these pages relive the most compelling stories of 25 acclaimed hunters and explorers, all complemented by more than 120 paintings of wildlife from around the world.

Anderson had no doubt that the dog had saved his life that night. He named him Nipper, and his new friend became a constant companion for the hunter, who went on to track down and kill eight man-eating leopards and seven tigers that between them had killed hundreds of villagers. ■

Not sure if his eyes were playing tricks, he noticed a movement at the bottom of the street. It appeared to be an animal walking down the center of the road, so he felt it was unlikely to be the secretive leopard.

As the animal drew nearer, it began to look thinner and smaller, and he soon realized it was a cur dog. Anderson offered the curious dog one of his tea biscuits, which it readily accepted. It was probably the only food the poor animal had enjoyed in several days and, now with a bit of food in its belly, it lied down by Anderson’s feet.

The village was now completely silent, and Anderson was left wondering where the killer couldWithbe.his 405 Winchester at the ready, he waited with bated breath for any indication of the leopard’s location. While he was anxiously looking in all directions, the little cur, which had been whining at his feet, suddenly charged into the street and then, looking back at one corner of Anderson’s hut, let out a shrill bark.

The dog rested quietly for some time until the alarm cry of a distant plover with its familiar Did-you-do-it, Did-you-do-it caused the dog to raise his head and prick his ears. Then he began trembling violently against the hunter’s legs as he stared at something down the road.

Though hit squarely in the chest, the leopard’s momentum carried it toward the hunter, who had to jump to one side to avoid being hit. As the leopard crashed against the wall, Anderson finished it off with two more shots. The hunter’s canine companion ran and grabbed the leopard’s throat, demonstrating its faithfulness to his new master.

One of John’s favorite subjects was Theodore Roosevelt, and he was named “The Preeminent modern-day painter of Theodore Roosevelt.” This 208-page book is available in a limited number of leather-bound Deluxe Editions for $90 and in Collector’s Edition for $60. Visit the Sporting Classics Store at sportingclassicsstore.com or call toll-free (800) 849-1004 to order your copy today.

Kenneth Anderson and his pariah dog Nipper, whom he adopted during his hunt for the Leopard of Gummalapur.

As the moon rose, it cast an eerie light on the white sand of the street stretching into the distance before him. Soon, the stillness of the night was interrupted by the loud warning cries of a sambar hind somewhere in the forest, which was followed by the low moan of a tiger. Now Anderson had to be on alert for both the tiger and the killer leopard. With the flashlight taped to his rifle, he carefully scanned the village for signs movement. He knew the light would more than likely scare his quarry, so he used it sparingly.

Anderson had already decided to adopt the cur and, after skinning the leopard next morning, he took the dog home where he bathed and fed the heroic little animal.

FINDING COVERS

64 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

BY TOM KEER

riving along dirt roads during grouse season is a lot like driving in a blizzard. Orange, red and yellow leaves from maples, birch and Aspen blanket the road. They scatter in the woods, too, making it difficult to keep the treads on solid ground. It’s the same when blankets of snow make the entire region one unified color of white. The only difference in bird season is that I drive slowly partly because of the navigational difficulties but also because I’m a rubbernecker. Hidden behind the pine stands or on the west side of the field might be the next Motherlode of covers. Finding them isn’t always easy, but I’m always on the lookout.

D

SPORTING CLASSICS • 65MAY / JUNE 2021

Over the years I’ve smacked the wrought-iron knockers on a lot of doors, but none have been as much fun as when I clanged Mr. Woodstock’s bell. Mr. Woodstock lived in a swaybacked old farmhouse on a big chunk of land. Lichens grew on the roof’s cedar shakes, and his copper downspouts oozed a wonderful green patina. The warped boards on the front porch creaked with my every step and a breezeway connected the kitchen to the barn. It was easy for him to feed the livestock in a harsh winter, especially since he didn’t need to wear so many layers that he’d resemble the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. The barn door was open, and the sweet smell of oats and hay timothy lingered in the air. It surrounded the rusted Willys jeep parked between rows of empty stanchions. Tacked to the back wall were license plates with no letters and only three or four numbers. Something was tucked in every corner crevice; rusty pitchforks, tractor tire chains, milk cans and crates of dusty glass milk bottles bearing the name Woodstock’s Dairy. A thin, tortoise-colored barn cat prowled the perimeter, and if there were any mice, I did not see a one. It took several minutes for Mr. Woodstock to answer the door after I knocked. Before me stood a man who would have towered more than six feet when he was straight. But his back lived a life of hard work and it had him bent over quite a bit. I felt no sorrow for Mr. Woodstock, for the farmer was wiry and full of juice. His smile showed trench-deep creases, his thick, gray hair was shaved high-and-tight, and the sun, wind and snow left several blood vessels broken on his cheeks.

M

I went through the covert and found bird after bird after bird. Several woodcock were in the alders and two broods of grouse busted from the aspen edges. When I returned, I handed a grouse and two woodcock to Mr. Woodstock. I was smiling, but he was frowning. “What did you think of that place?” he “It’sasked.loaded with birds.” “Put that dog in the box and let’s head back to the main road.” “Something wrong?” I asked. “It’s just as I figured,” he said. “You wouldn’t know a good bird covert if it hit you in the face. Get in and drive. We’ll go to the Lost Dog cover. It’s where I buried all of my dogs.”

“You’re not wearing black, so I’m certain you’re not going to hand me The Watchtower,” he said. “No sir, I’m wondering...” “…if you can hunt my land.” “If you don’t mind,” I said. “Well, what are you hunting?” “Birds. Grouse and woodcock mainly but also ducks later on and turkey in the spring.”“Well, you don’t look much like a bird hunter. In fact, you look like you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. I might have to drive around with you to be sure. Alice!” he yelled, “I’m going out.” He grabbed his wool jacket and hat from the hook and hobbled down the steps. I had to help him get into my truck. “Hurry up and drive, Alice will be here quick,” he snickered. “She won’t let me make a move. Thinks it’s too whatever outside. Too cold, too hot, too windy, too whatever. Keeps me hostage in the house, my own dang house! Cabin fever is what I’ve got and it ain’t even winter. See that gate? Go through there.” We drove down to the stream I had seen on the topo map. Alders ran down to the bank, and there was a whopperjawled bridge built from two fallen pines and some scrap clapboard. We rattled across it, and the riverbottom was full of aspen, popple and sumac.

You’ll run into an old foundation. Cut to the right for a few hundred yards until you see the slope and work that flat all the way back. I’ll wait here.”

A stone wall marked the entrance. “We call this cover Rock Garden because of that stone wall. Cut that dog loose and run all the way down to the bend in the river. When you can’t go any more circle back counterclockwise.

y digitally savvy buddies report that technology has many benefits. They are quite adept at finding complete information online. They use a variety of programs that range from Google Earth to Mapquest to commercially available options that provide significant information with the click of a button. It’s cool that Bob has found some covers while sitting in his treestand waiting for a corker of a whitetail to walk into range. John found some while sitting in his leather chair in front of the fireplace. When armed with a three-finger pour of bourbon he’s quite lethal with his phone. They find tax records with owners’ names, property boundaries, streams and seeps, and areas that have been logged. I find that information as well, with mine coming from topo maps, rubbernecking, a stop by the sawmills and knocking on doors. I’ve met a lot of really good people that way.

FINDING COVERS

66 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

SPORTING CLASSICS • 67MAY / JUNE 2021

Parked nearby is an old car burial ground, so we might easily have named it after the parked vehicles. It easily

“Pull over here,” he said, “and back the truck way in. We’ll be hidden for sure. Walk straight in until you find the hillside. It’ll take you about 45 minutes, so keep your dog on a lead. You’ll come to an apple orchard that runs for about as far as you can see. Don’t go in here until opening day, but when you go in be sure to pack lots of shells. Only hunt that spot once a year. It’s not opening day so let’s get outta here.” We spent the next six hours driving from place to place, running some coverts, passing on others that Woodstock said weren’t very good. I saw others along the way that I wanted to check out, so I grabbed my map.

Eavesdropping bird hunters would have a tough time figuring out the location of The Covered Bridge Cover. If they pull out a state map they’d find 115 different covered bridges from which to choose. Of course they could narrow down the options by looking for covered bridges within an hour’s drive from where the conversation took place. If they did that, they’d still find two dozen choices. But here’s the twist; bridges run over a body of water, and we’re hunting grouse, not ducks. We’re talking about the woods in proximity to the covered bridge, so you really have to know how to get there from here.

“What’s that?” “My “Whymap.”doyou need a map?” “So I don’t forget where we’ve been.” He sighed, grabbed a pen, opened the book to pages 28 and 29 and circled away. “These are all the places we’ve visited. I threw in a few more for you to check out later on. Now I’ve got to get home. It’s nearly supper time.” It was quiet on the ride back to the farm, and when we pulled into his driveway, he said thanks. “For what?” I asked. “Permission to hunt,” he said. “I’m obliged. Besides, this might be the last time you ever see me.” “Why is “Becausethat?”Alice is going to kill me.” He slammed the door, held up the birds andMr.nodded.Woodstock grinned and trotted up the porch stairs like a halfback doing high-knees. He turned at the top, waived, and walked through the door. I named the pocket cover visible from his porch Two-A-Days. You see, once we grouse hunters find covers we give them names to keep out the riff raff. By riff raff I refer to anyone besides our grimy selves. Let’s say you and your buddies were eating lunch in a diner. If you overheard another bird hunter say, “let’s hunt the spot on River Road just past the intersection of Route 16 and Route 25. In the spot behind the barn there were a dozen woodcock and six grouse.” Would you go and check it out? Of course you would, and I would, too. But if you called that cover the Barnyard then no one would know where you meant. Cover is often spelled covert for goodForreason.themost part, cover names are unique. Our squad picks them based on the mood of the day. Some come from a characteristic unique to the place, others come from a historical reference, but many come from landmarks, goofy antics or noteworthy experiences, too. Some names are based on fun, others carry the burden of sadness, but all of them bind us to the place.

FINDING COVERS

e drove back through the field, went past the barn and up to the road. He told me about his elementary school buddy named Bobby McKay who took up whitetail hunting “’cause he couldn’t hit squat.” He told me about his neighbor Ralph Morrison, and that Ralph was one of the first in the area to run an English pointer. He told me about things I should do and things that I shouldn’t do, and he told me about each setter he ever owned.

The Spilled Milk Covert got its name from an old milk can I found in between the alders and the white birch run. The Hurricane of 1938 brought an unparalleled water level that rose nearly 40 feet above normal and equipment from adjoining farms was swept away.

68 • SPORTING WCLASSICS

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 69

70 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 enough could have been the Woodie Covert, the Ford LTD Cover or even the Old Tractor Cover. We already had an Old Tractor Cover, so a repeat wasn’t necessary. Spilled Milk it was. It’s common to find old family plots in the middle of the woods. Families moved or died off, and all that remains of their abandoned houses are foundations, wells, stone walls and gravestones. We’ve got to differentiate them, so one is the Cemetery Cover, another is the Marble Orchard and the third one that has a crypt on it is the Vault. Come with us a few times and you’ll know the difference. Cow Skull is where we found a pile of animal heads bleached white from sun. They were the remnants from a dairy farmer who buried old animals in graves. After a big snow melt or a heavy rain, the topsoil washes away and bones start to appear. It’s a flight bird covert, one we share with a turkey hunter and a pair of whitetail men. River Walk got its name during the year of the drought. I’d been eyeballing the cover from my side of the river, but never could quite figure out how to get in to hunt the opposite side. One year I thought about bringing a canoe so I could paddle across and check it out, but that idea required dragging a canoe through the woods for a half mile and then back. It was too deep for hip boots, but Jeff and I got across during that year of the drought. Low water exposed a series of rocks, and each rock top was worn flat from the current. We were dry when we hit the opposite bank, and the dogs paddled along. They were cooled down when they climbed the bank, and they were ready to roll. And roll they did, for there were three broods of grouse all within an hour’s hunt. There were a few less when we left.

A few Octobers ago, I met another bird hunter at a gas station. He was tall and thin, and he had worn the wax off of his frayed chaps. His shirt was torn and tattered. He had several cuts from raspberries or bittersweet tangles and there was a dog box in the bed of his truck. We eyed each other with suspicion.

I“Three.”wanted to know where he had been but more importantly where was he going? From the mud on his tires and based on where we were at that moment I suspected he had come from what I called the Good Shepherd Covert. I gave it that name because when I knocked on the owner’s door, he gave me permission to hunt. He also had three gorgeous and salivating German shepherds. I said my thanks and got out of there quick. It didn’t take much to figure that at one time the cover was a dairy farm. After a good rain the low point in the road collected the water and when I rolled through it my truck smelled like cow manure for a week. But those cow pies made the land fertile, and everything grew up perfectly. There were birds in there, woodcock by the river, and grouse in the back. The grouse numbers were always strong because sumac rimmed the entire field. There was plenty of winter feed for them until the snow melted in the spring. This guy concerned me. Anyone running more than one dog is trouble because it means that he’s capable of hunting all day. If he’s hunting all day, then he’s covering a lot of ground. In doing that, he probably hunted some of my spots. That’s just my view from ringside, ’cause to him he believed I hunted his spots.

If we had met at a bar a few hundred miles away, we’d probably be fast friends. But being in this place at this time we had a mix of camaraderie and competition coming from the proprietary nature of our coverts. While he looked like a good guy, I did not want to see his truck in an area I hunted. From the frown on his face, I could tell he felt the same. I nodded in his direction. “How’s it goin’?” he asked. “Fine,” I said. “How ’bout you?” “Pretty good. Finding some birds?” “A few. You?” “Here and there.” “What kind of dogs are you running?” “Setters. You?” “Setters, too,” I said. “How many in your“Two,”string?”hesaid. “How ’bout you?”

Finding coverts takes a lot of time and effort. In the end, we don’t want to share ’em with anyone outside of our squad. But then he spoke. “Wanna run some dogs together?” he Iasked.thought about it for a minute. “Sure,” I “Great,”said.he said. “Let’s run your covers first and then we can hit some of mine.” That’s the oldest trick in the book. I didn’t bite and we went our separate ways. Covers come and go. Sometimes new owners don’t cotton much to hunters, while other times the young forests simply mature. Though Mr. Woodstock has been buried in his family plot for a long while, and though there are more whitetail and turkey in the grown-up woods than birds, we still bell the dogs for a run. When a grouse or woodcock tumbles from the sky, I smile. And on my way out I always place some feathers at the base of his headstone. ■

FINDING COVERS

SPORTING CLASSICS • 71MAY / JUNE 2021 FINDING COVERS

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Quail have held a reverenced spot in the hearts of many. Now not as plentiful as in years past, they do remain prized among hunters.

O

A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN BY TONY KINTON

SPORTING CLASSICS • 73MAY / JUNE 2021

ver there, to the southeast and on low horizon, a 6:30, end-of-theyear sunrise emerged. This sunrise was one of those generated only by prescribed conditions, specific peculiarities not often available— late year, rain probable, skeletal trees framing muted pink, pale gray and scattered clouds rimmed by darker edges and the slightest hint of orange. The firmament appeared a triangle, that emerging orb a bullseye. Everything pointed to that sunrise. I stood transfixed, giving thanks for this moment of reverence. And I, for some reason not fully understood, thought of that boy.

He was a curious sort, that boy, with scant chances and prodigious dreams. In fact, dreaming seemed his downfall, the primary element that caused some to consider him less than promising. They, the ones who saw him as lacking potential, were not all ogres. Some were simply defeated, closed to possibilities. These latter were aptly described by Thoreau when he wrote about resignation and quiet desperation. But in their defense, times were different back then. I found myself vacillating somewhere in the middle of their disordered opinions. One propensity I admired about the boy was his reading. At every opportunity, constantly it seemed, he read. Seldom loquacious. But he could drop names with ease when determined necessary—Babcock and Buckingham, Jack O’Conner and Warren Page, even

I hunted with him from time to time–squirrels, rabbits, the occasional wood duck in quiet sloughs along a nearby creek. And of course, quail. The boy was determined to become a master of this alluring magic, certitude ever present. And he was a good hunter, even in those tender years of youth. He had been trained well in the elements of safety and could be trusted to conduct himself properly. Additionally, he was never selfish, preferring his companion get a shot rather than he. Singlebarrels being the norm, the boy was most likely to hesitate until he heard Friendship, bird dogs and quail make the perfect blend.

The rip-rap skidded to a stop, tail erect, body stretched as tightly as a new fence. Then a covey rise. That boy mimicked the grace and exactness of a Rembrandt. Fluid detail. The .410 proffered a diminutive pop. Feathers scudded on a north wind. “Well, I’ll declare,” one was heard to say. He followed, “Is that calf uh yourn fattenin’ up some?”

74 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN

My friend and I took note and hoped that boy out there in the distance would eventually amount to something but concluded, based on those scholarly pronouncements of our elders, that he likely would not. Still, we hoped. Silently.

I recall one day standing with a friend at the window of his grandfather’s house and looking out over an adjacent field. Several naysayers, all older and more experienced than my friend and I, were gathered around a wood stove. Biting chill rode disagreeable gusts that winter day. “There he goes again,” one noted. “Won’t never amount to nothin’.”

Hemingway on special occasions. The boy knew Bo Whoop. Still, I never interpreted any of that as a portrait of conceit. To the contrary, he spoke of those and others gently, with admiration. “I wish I could write like that,” he’d often say. The boy read. I plowed an aging mule named Grady. Grady and I were well acquainted, the time we spent paired extensive. I, at the beginning of our relationship, brushed up on my pedagogical skills and set about with tutorials. Looking back, I see the futility in such doings. Grady knew all he wanted to know and summarily disregarded my most well-intentioned toils. He would roll a suspicious eye, flutter disgust through moist nostrils and simply continue plodding. Blasphemous it was. Never effervescent, Grady. But I learned from him. The most important dose of wisdom Grady imparted was that I should put my trust in God, not in the collected personalities that surrounded this obstinate equine and me and certainly not in an old gray mule and a Georgia Stock. I have never quite isolated and identified the system by which Grady taught, but he did. The lessons took. And there were a few good times–for me anyway. I was never convinced Grady celebrated. The most prominent among those lighter moments was when I hitched a ride in the ground slide, precariously perched on its thick oak-board side rail. Axe and hammer and hoe and plow points rattled at my feet. A thick glass pop bottle—its mouth stuffed with a tattered rag; its body filled with once-used motor oil for nursing a heel bolt. These rode with me. That ride, somewhat common during hoe and plow season, was accomplished in that timeframe separating pre-dawn country ham and biscuits from a sideharrow uprooting obstinate grasses in poor-dirt cotton. Grady performed minus complaint. But back to that boy. Though his experience and tutelage would never suggest such a designation, he considered himself a quail hunter. He had a couple years back acquired a bird dog. Donated, not purchased. “Rip-rap”

The boy was not given his earned acknowledgement.ButInoticed.Admired even. The boy, this juvenile phantom of reverence and resolve, exhibiting a peculiar demonstration of class, seemed to float through the frigid mist of morning with an execution that more aptly spoke of opulence than of austerity. As I watched, I imagined his musings flitting about and filling his head with thoughts of fine bird dogs and exquisite shotguns and philanthropy. He was a generous sort. Would give you his Christmas toy if asked. I imagined him imagining unfamiliar environs and yet-unlived experiences. He was a dreamer, after all. And though he was a sprout without baubles from this very soil, an offspring of a strong but spartan family just down the road, he was never afforded proper acceptance. Despite the fact that he and that family grubbed through dire straits as did those clustered around the wood stove, he was viewed with skepticism. This boy was simply too different.

I think the skeptics labeled her. As best I could discern, that term applied to a pup resulting from an unintentional mixing of two breeds. Such blends occasionally showed up in those days when bird dogs were also yard dogs. “Hardheaded,” most said about her. “That boy can’t teach that dog nothin’.” Still, his efforts were gallant. And he shot a .410 singlebarrel, the only shotgun he possessed early on. “Can’t hit nothin’ with that little ole thing.” Discounting was the norm among those who refused to see.

Kinton lines up on a quail that flushed from left and moved quartering right, the ideal shot for a lefty.

Sunrise focused its rays on frosted grasses and leaves, and that mysterious puff of winter breath drifted upward from chilled nostrils and open mouths as we navigated tangles and ditch banks and fanaticized of game aplenty bursting from woods and fields surrounding us. Later on, down along the creek and its small sloughs, there might be wood ducks. I had left my single 20-gauge in the corner and borrowed my dad’s 870. Wood ducks were serious doings for two countrified lads. Lady became static, the tip of her tail, now boasting a red spot generated by her enthusiasm in a briar patch, the only movement offered. She held in convinced dedication. One element about Lady deserves some development here before this story progresses. She was one of those rare bird dogs who lacked that obnoxious mindset of pointing only birds. Lady was more gifted than that. Presently, a fat cottontail bounded from its form at Lady’s nose. My shot from the 870 missed, but the boy played clean-up in fine fashion. Our hunt was off to a grand beginning. Farther down, near the creek and denuded oaks that lined its serpentine banks, a small slough, formed by the creek’s meanderings, bowed out and away from that creek and touched a shaggy pasture that had seen little use in recent years. Lady approached with caution and became birdy. Three woodies squealed and vaulted—two drakes and a hen. My dad’s pump proved efficacious, even in the hands of one not fully familiar with it. A drake dropped. This one was followed by another, the collection of the boy’s .410. Those were the days of lead shot.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 75MAY / JUNE 2021 the rumble of a comrade’s 12 or 20 before his own joined the choir. I much enjoyed his company. Apparently, he and I shared parallel sensibilities. If an often-dysfunctional memory serves me adequately, hunts then were less regimented than now. There was seldom a venture launched during our eager years with a specific intent of anything in particular. We just went hunting. When game encountered fell within the parameters of legality, we detoured from specifics and pursued whatever presented. There were no deer in our isolated world at that time. And transportation, as well as income, precluded travel to anywhere we couldn’t access via shank’s mare.

A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN

I recall a perfectly splendid morning when the boy and I left my house and began walking toward the creek. Lady, that rip-rap and now with enough age to host an arthritic hip, followed dutifully.

Two triggers. Practically beside himself with anticipation, he was. Tattered overalls were of no consequence.

Highly pleased with our collection, the boy and I concluded it was time to head home, but we took another route out in the event that something else not disturbed by our initial approach might lie in wait. Lady hit her stride in a patch of broomsedge and locked in perfection. A covey rise. Two quail fell from the flurry, one to each of us. A grand morning, frost now missing from all but the most shadowed and quiet spots, was behind us. A morning that reigns supreme in the desires and sentiments of this old hunter. I am sure the boy feels likewise. And there was that day, admittedly now seen through foggy recall, I looked up from some farm chore or another and saw the boy coming, riding a ragged bicycle and holding a shotgun across the handlebars. He was grinning. “A doublebarrel,” he announced with great pride and pleasure as he handed it to me. “It is the epitome.” The boy liked big words. He outlined his tactic for acquiring it and spoke in elevated pronouncements and high hopes regarding how he would employ this new acquisition. He had, according to him, made the money for this purchase by scrapping cotton. Now for those minus the knowledge of scrapping cotton, it was the phrase we used for picking cotton—by hand during our tenure as farmers— that had already received its first, most productive and timely gathering. After this first, some residual was left; perhaps even some late bolls had opened. Without scrapping, this scrappy cotton would remain in the fields and go to waste. Whether scrapping was a profitable enterprise was often debated, but the boy—and others of his ilk—were pleased to have the income, whatever it might be. The boy had worked quietly and diligently in this pedestrian pursuit for three years. He bought the shotgun. A Stevens 20-gauge, modified and full.

I still wonder about the specifics even after these many years. But I didn’t completely lose track of him; we stayed in touch, to lesser degrees each year but in touch. He would pass through the area on occasion, through my memory far more regularly. I would get a call from him, allowing that he was headed for British Columbia or had just returned from Africa or was considering an excursion to Kodiak Island. “Even if I decide to

Hunting, laughing, planning. But that planning, as we soon came to see, was fraught with alarm. Time was short before we recognized that those plans would impede the routes we customarily claimed in a world that was growing smaller each day. He, then, went his way; I went my way. Lady was buried beside a sweet gum back in the pasture.

76 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

I held the gun and liked it thoroughly. I there elected to get an identical unit whenever possible. And the boy came to treasure his even more after using it the following four years of our fraternity than he did that day he rode up on the bike and allowed me to give the double a once-over.

A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN

Those were idyllic times. The boy and me—each of us eventually with Stevens double 20-gauges, gamboling about the countryside with nary a care.

And what became of the boy?

SPORTING CLASSICS • 77MAY / JUNE 2021 Static perfection. Dogs on point are a captivating sight. pass on the shot, there’s a big bear up there I want to see,” he once told me. The boy sent me a copy of his first book. I often saw his byline in some publication here and there. Remaining the quiet sort and revealing the depth and roots of his upbringing, he never congratulated himself. He simply went about his business of what I conclude was at his very core back in those days of scrapping cotton and shooting a Stevens double and trailing a skinny rip-rap and being a friend, misunderstood by the majority back then. Living his dream, I surmised. During our scarce visits and gradually diminishing phone calls, I would listen, enthralled by tales of his adventures. He was a schooled storyteller. But in each encounter, he would conclude with a rich observation: “I had rather be in that broomsedge field down by the creek than anywhere in the world. It is home.” That gave evidence that this was the same boy from my youth. But those arenas of intrigue we hunted in were no longer available. The creek had years earlier become a channeled affair, now nothing more than a steep-banked ditch. Those sloughs were conquered, sod misplaced by creek adjustments filling them. That broomsedge field where the boy took a single from the covey with his .410 and I with my dad’s 870 was transformed into a handsome but sterile pine plantation. I was aware of all this but could never bring myself to tell the boy and dampen his desire to once again visit. And now, a major heart issue and disturbing diagnosis of another malady behind me, here I am–60 years from the boy and two hours from that reverent sunrise earlier mentioned, standing beside a Brittany frozen in promise.

I am dressed for proper presentation: lace-up leathers broken in to perfection, canvas briar chaps, waxed-cotton jacket. My hat, a stylish affair, is festooned with a wide blaze-orange band encircling its crown. All far outclassing the boy’s faded denim and patched rubber boots. I tote a lithe and nimble .410 O/U, partly for sentiment, partly because of its effective but gentle disposition. Then a covey rise. The .410 proffered a diminutive pop. Feathers scudded on a north wind. The Brittany made a practiced and perfected pick up. That boy would have provided his smile of silent approval and appreciation were he here with me. I remember the boy. ■

A BOY, A DOG AND A SHOTGUN

78 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

Upon receiving this news, Michael became a bit manic—he couldn’t avoid the reality that transitioning to fatherhood meant letting go of his childhood. He would be a working man, a husband, a father. It felt as if the weight of this responsibility meant the suffocation of the life he had before.

ichael wiped the sweat from his brow with an old grease towel from his grandfather’s workbench and slumped to the floor. He had been rummaging through the annex for hours now with no luck in finding what he came for—his grandfather’s 20 gauge. It was a modest Ithaca field grade with a walnut stock and bird dogs etched into its sides—the beloved gun from his childhood that hadn’t seen the light of day in years.

The Ithaca that landed many a squirrel, quail and dove in the past was the only tangible thing left that encompassed those cherished memories. Now, more than ever, he wanted nothing but to bring it home. Michael swore to himself that he would track down this heirloom to pass down to his own child as he was the only one in the family who considered the gun to be of any worth. When his grandfather passed, no other family members gave the gun a second thought. But Michael couldn’t get it off his mind, especially now with this baby on the way. It wasn’t enough for the stories to live in his mind alone—if they were to truly survive, she would have to know them, too.

MLOSTLEGACIESANDFOUND

At a naïve 25 years old, Michael learned he was soon to become a father.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 79MAY / JUNE 2021 BY EMMA MCCRACKEN

As if that wasn’t daunting enough, three months into his wife’s pregnancy the doctor announced the baby was a girl. He would be the father of a daughter.

As he tried to process his inevitable future, memories of boyhood and innocence flashed to the forefront of his mind. One image in particular he could not shake—his grandfather, dressed in Levi’s and smoking a pipe as his grandmother flipped a smoking squirrel on the charcoal grill. Young Michael would wheel around the dirt driveway in his John Deere tractor tricycle until supper was ready. All he could think was I’ll never have that again.

Melting in the Carolina summer heat, Michael let his mind wander. He imagined taking his daughter shooting for the first time someday. Would she be jumpy? Would she have a knack for it? Will she grow up to hunt with her daddy or sit pretty like her mama? Both? No other gun would be enough. She had to have that one—the same one that once brought her young father so much delight as he cultivated his lifelong appreciation for all things wild, all things free. It was destined to be hers, along with the stories that came with it.

80 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

LEGACIES LOST AND

FOUND

“Mama Molly, I have to find this shotgun,” he said. “Where else could it be?” “Let’s try the attic.” The attic wasn’t any cooler. Michael peered inside the door to see mountains of boxes and old junk that smelled of mothballs and mildew.

“Well, get a good last look, dear. It’s scheduled to be torn down next month,” Mama Molly said. “Such a shame.” “How can they do that? It’s a historic structure. Can you imagine the stories shared around that chimney 200 years ago? If that chimney could talk….” The thought of another relic being demolished in the name of something new and shiny lit a fire in him.

For the gun’s sake, I hope it’s not in here, he Hethought.rifled through boxes and storage containers, pausing in reflection each time he found something from his youth.

A shoebox of G.I. Joes—he and his brothers would strap them to rockets and watch them whistle and soar until landing in the fronds of a palmetto. His book of baseball cards—Grandaddy and Mama Molly gave him a new pack in a stocking every Christmas. With each find he felt more defeated, that was until a bright flicker caught his eye. The afternoon sun forced its way through the wooden blinds of the tiny attic window. The flash of silver came from a small crack in the antique pie safe on the other side of the room—his last hope. He waded through the junk scattered on the floor, pushing his old trinkets and toys aside, threw open the cupboard doors

The tire swing was gone now, as were the chicken coop and the dog pen. Centered in the last vacant lot of the farm property was a grey tabby chimney made of crushed and whole oyster shells.

Michael trudged back to the front porch of the main house where his grandmother still lived after her husband passed. “Mama Molly,” he called her as he walked up the porch steps to see her rocking on the porch swing and fanning herself with the day’s newspaper. “I can’t seem to find the damn thing.” “Oh, darlin’,” she said. “Come here and cool down a bit.” She patted the cushion of the seat next to her. “What do you want that old gun for, anyhow?” she asked when her grandson plopped down next to her. “I doubt it’s in shooting shape.” Michael shrugged. “I want some sort of legacy—something to pass down, you know? Some of my fondest memories were out on this farm shooting cans and squirrels with Granddaddy. And you make the best fried squirrel,” he nudged his grandmother. “I want this daughter of mine to be a part of that somehow. And this is just my way of doing it.” “Your granddaddy always did love that gun,” Mama Molly said with a reminiscent grin. “I never thought it was much of a looker, but he’d sit for hours cleaning and polishing it up to look its finest. He’d bring it out whenever you came to visit on holiday knowing ya’ll’d be squirrel hunting. And you’d just light up when you saw him carrying it because...” “...’Cause I knew we were about to have big adventure,” Michael chimed, the recollection bringing that child-like gleam back into his eyes. His gleam quickly faded as he looked out across the farm. It wasn’t a farm anymore. It was a lively, buzzing subdivision filled with coastal cottages and fancy cars lining the freshly paved streets. Michael squinted toward the sun and tried to reimagine the quaint, Lowcountry farmland he knew from boyhood.Hetook a breath of salty breeze blowing off the river, finally cooling the air a bit. Though the sight had changed throughout the years, the scent was the same as it always was—warm salt air and pluff mud. Michael loved the smell best when it was mixed with a bit of gunpowder. He widened his eyes and was thrust back to a blaring and harsh reality—rows of mailboxes and kids riding electric scooters and TVs flashing bright through windows at dusk, horns honking in the distance.“Youknow, my child’s not going to be growing up in the same world I grew up in,” Michael “Certainlysaid.not,” said Mama Molly. They sat in silence, aside from the honking horns and the tinny radio music coming from the neighbor’s garage, as Michael looked out across his family’s land in desperate search for something familiar, something he could hold on to.

“I shot my first squirrel by that chimney,” Michael remembered.

With the nomadic upbringing of an Army brat, Michael spent years overseas, thousands of miles away from where he felt truly at home, where he could live tied to the land, even just for a little while. He waited with anticipation for every holiday or summer season when he would get to visit Mama Molly and Granddaddy on the farm, whether to swim in the river with the dogs or trap rabbits in the woods. Or to help Mama Molly collect chicken eggs or shuck oysters for a pie. Or, especially, to shoot squirrels out of trees with Granddaddy’s Ithaca. Over by the chimney was a hotspot for squirrels frolicking through the ancient live oaks.

Michael could hardly see it anymore as weeds and vines fought to reclaim it. Mama Molly saw his expression soften as his eyes met the old chimney. “It’s got be…almost 200 years old now,” she said. “Early 1800s.”

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 81 of the pie safe and there it was, in all its humble glory, Grandaddy’s gun. Michael grabbed the cupboard door for balance—teetering on the fine line between boy and man, man and father, between his past and his future. With his grandfather’s old towel, he wiped droplets of sweat, or maybe tears, from his eyes. He wiped his hands well, too, as if to protect from dirt and oils this gun that was so forgotten by others, and gingerly brought the gun back into the light after it sat in darkness for so many years. It was just as he remembered it— the beautiful side-by-side from his childhood, though now it felt smaller in his hands. Without realizing, Michael swiftly brought the gun to his cheek, targeting imaginary doves that he could almost hear flutter through the attic. “You look just like him,” he heard a soft voice say from the doorway. “Oh,” Michael said with a chuckle, embarrassed that he didn’t notice Mama Molly standing there before. “Well, he taught me everything I know and love. I wish I could have learned more from him before he passed.” Taking the gun outside for a better look, Michael saw it was in worse shape than he remembered. In his memory it remained pristine. Finally in his hands once again, the gun showed its wear, its age—a cracked stock, water damage, surface rust. He ran his thumbs over the worn walnut stock to feel the indention where Granddaddy carved his initials into the side. For a brief moment he considered restoration, remembering the gun in its glory days. He looked across the farm and remembered his own glory days. One in the“Aresame.you planning to get her fixed up?” Mama Molly asked as if reading her grandson’s mind. “I do wish it could shine like it used to. I would love it to be something my daughter can take pride in,” he said. They looked across the farm once more together.Mama Molly’s face scrunched as she surmised, “You know, someone had

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■

The old chimney, never restored, left untouched for decades, maintained its charm, history, mystery as it stood amongst the modern homes that left nothing to the imagination. To Michael, it was a true treasure. Maybe his daughter would feel the same way about this old gun—finding beauty in it for exactly what it is. It would be an honest gun if there ever was one. The following weekend, Michael took the gun afield for a test run. Granddaddy never lived to see Michael shoot anything more than cans and backyard squirrels.

This was it. The call he knew would soon come but one he could never fully prepare“Honey?”for.

Michael panicked, overwhelmed with the unexpected myriad emotions that followed that call. Light-headedness, nausea, elation, fear…past and future collided and Michael felt the impact. He couldn’t move fast enough. The only thing between him and meeting his newborn daughter was the key to his truck. So that’s all he grabbed when he rushed to leave. Everything else in the world could wait. He turned the key and flooredMichaelit. only made it a few yards down the field before he felt a thwump-thwump underneath him with an unmistakable cracking sound that snapped him out of his trance. He knew immediately what it was. “I’m sorry, Granddaddy,” Michael said to the rearview mirror as he watched the old 20-gauge sink in muddy tire tracks. He accelerated again—driving full speed into the unknown, abandoning the symbol of his youth there in the dirt.

the bright idea to ‘restore’ this land… make it new again, breathe life into it. Seems there is a fine line between restoration and reconstruction.”

Michael heard his wife say through the phone, “I think it’s time.”

The next 12 hours were a blur.

To honor the one man who instilled in him a love for the outdoors, Michael was determined to take the gun out for a real bird hunt in the upcoming season, though he had never been on a real bird hunt before. No one ever took him. He had a lot left still to learn, and Granddaddy would never again be there to teach him. So I’ll have to teach myself, Michael decided. He packed a few granola bars, his newly purchased hunting books, sporting clays and a thrower and headed out for practice. Michael raised the gun to meet his stubbled cheek and pulled it in close. Gun loaded. Shooter ready. He launched the first clay when a buzzing from his back pocket demanded his attention, and the intact clay grazed the dewy grass.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 83MAY / JUNE 2021

He didn’t think of the gun again until that night. His wife slept, the hospital quiet, as he held his baby girl in his arms. Her little eyes blinked open and she looked right at her father. Father, he thought. It had quite a ring to it. A weight to it. He stared at her for who knows how long. She was so new, so perfect. No scars, no broken pieces. He was sure the old shotgun was destroyed, but, to his own surprise, he didn’t care. If he had no guns at all, if he had no clays, if he had no books, no grandfathers, no land…it didn’t matter. Not anymore. He had every memory, every story. He had within him his own potential to learn and to teach. But most of all, he had the epitome of heritage, of love, in a seven-pound, pink-blanket-wrapped bundle right there in his arms. “Everything you need to know,” he whispered to her, “I will teach you.” His words didn’t satisfy him. He thought for another moment. “Everything else,” he added with a kiss of her forehead, “I will teach you to learn forHeyourself.”owedher that. After all, though they just met, she had already taught him a priceless lesson: she is the only legacy he needs.

LEGACIES LOST AND FOUND

For a brief moment he considered restoration, remembering the gun in its glory days. He looked across the farm and remembered his own glory days. One in the same.

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HOW A TROUT BROKE A FRIENDSHIP

If I were an angler there would be no story, but I shall wish all my days that I had been a fisherman when I think of how my lack of experience refrigerated the nature of my old friend Joel.

BY FREDERIC REMINGTON

Events having slowed down a bit, Mr. Joel began to observe things more closely. As he ran his eyes curiously over the activities on the water, they

t was early spring in Canada, and Lake Edwards was ice-water. I was camped on a point of rocks in company with three “Complete Anglers” and three French-Indians. A chilling rain had fallen incessantly for days—the fish would not be suited by any fly in our books. Everything was soggy and mildewed. An ill-tempered little box-stove smoldered and helped Mr. Walker’s creation to keep our miserable bodies alive. Our minds were becoming jaded by a drawpoker game that seemed to have had no beginning. As I view the situation from afar, I can perceive how carefully tilled was that ground to bear the seeds of trouble.

They were all friends of mine, with strong mutual sympathies in many directions, but they were fishermen, while I was not. They were men who at home have sacred dens in their houses, and in them they worship a heathen god in the form of a glass case full of dainty rods. They have hundreds of flies, suited to all kinds of moods of all kinds of fish. They have stuffed bass and wadded trout, colored artificially as falsely as a rose on Indian trade calico. There are creels, reels, silver ammunition flasks, rare prints of the forefathers of the lure, books of tall stories so dear to the craft, and things that you and I could not call by name.

CLASSIC A TROUT BROKE A FRIENDSHIP

SPORTING CLASSICS • 85MAY / JUNE 2021

At this point my rod doubled into something like a figure eight, then it acted like a whip-snake having a fit—it was near to parting from me at times—the reel sang and the line hissed about in the water. The Frenchman stood up in the boat and poured Lake St. John French into me in a Maxim rumble. While this was at its height, Mr. Pennsylvania hooked the mate to my whale, but he knew his business. There was a great splash in front of me, and I only glanced long enough to see that Joel had won his bet.

Joel—he of the rocks—tipped backward and forward, laughing until the forests echoed with his roars, all his way.

SPORTING LITERATURE: HOW

Presently, one of our party, a gentleman from Pennsylvania who must have encountered a disappointing “jackpot,” emerged from the tent and, calling a guide, began to cast from a boat not far away. The poker game evidently languished, since the capitalists came out in the rain and gazed about in a yawning way. They guyed Mr. Pennsylvania and me, who is no fisherman. Then they espied a bark canoe that was one of the “quickest” boats I ever saw. They remembered having recently seen an Indian stand upright in the tottlish craft—a balancing-feat that was the inherited trait of ages of canoe-living ancestors. This inspired a five-dollar sporting proposition that one of them could do what the Indian had done. He pushed out in the canoe, while my friend Joel stood on the rocks amusing himself with thought of the easy five dollars.

I

In such places these men gather— through the tobacco smoke the lakes blow softly, the ponds wait idly and the brooks bubble pleasantly in imagination. These fellows mix fish up with their dessert and coffee, and in importance to them old Leonard is to President McKinley as a million to one. So things to fish with to these men, things of wood and silk and steel, are invested with souls almost. They are like Japanese jugs or early English portraits to otherTheenthusiasts.troutofLake Edward floated idly beneath the boats, and if they looked at our bait they did no more, in consequence of which the anglers sat on boxes and dealt five cards round on the top of a trunk, and stub-flushes took the place of “cockie-bondhus” and “yellow sallies.”

The swimmer tried to board Mr. Pennsylvania’s boat, but was told to get away—not to bother his fish—that human life was nothing now—to “swim to the rocks”—“don’t be a d— fool.”

The Cannuck French of my guide was beginning to tell on me. I was almost willing to let the fish go while I threw the Frenchman overboard. I was so hot at him that I grew cooler toward the fish end of my troubles, and no doubt was doing better reel work for it all.

Having been ruined by the last “jackpot,” I got up and trod forth into the rain, which was beating the lake into silver. I was listless—tired of the eternal “three-card draws”—tired of the rain and dreaming of elsewhere. I sauntered down toward the water and passed a shed under which were hung a great number of rods, all strung with reels, lines and flies. Why not fish—we came here to do that— that was our theory? Suiting the action to the thought, I took down a rod at random, called a Frenchman and got into a boat. We two sat there, the guide holding us a short way from the point of rocks. The rain poured in jumping drops on the flat water while the pine forests faded softly into its obscuring sheets.

Now my affrighted friend walked the rocks like Mrs. Leslie Carter in the third act of Zaza. He nearly turned handsprings; he gesticulated and roared for a boat or a deadly weapon. Steadily through it all surged his quick-chosen words of rebuke to me.

There were tears streaming from the rod-owner’s eye which rivaled the rain. “Can’t you check him easily, there now! Do you think you have got a bean-pole? Easy, don’t get excited! Baptiste, back that boat ashore.” “If you back this boat ashore, I’ll murder you! By St. George, I’ll burn you alive, Baptiste!” I shouted, and nothing wasJoeldone.coached, more carefully now—more intelligently—and my divided interest in the trout cooled me down until, under able direction, I finally landed a five-pound trout on the rocks, and I was no fisherman. It was one of the mistakes of my life. Joel took his rod amid my apologies. He cared not for the latter. It was not the seventy-five dollars. It was that the clumsy hands of a bean-pole, wormbaiting, gill-yanking outcast had taken the soul out of Leonard’s masterpiece. No longer would that rod look out to him from the middle of the glass case, seeming to say, “Your hands and my subtle curves—what, Master—what can we not do?” He sat around the tent and cast wolfish glances at me, and public sentiment sat stolidly by him. I carried an open jack-knife in my outside coat pocket. I sat alone there, deep in the forest, with men whose sense of right and justice had been outraged to the breaking point. They did not even say goodbye to me at the railroad station. The moral of this unfortunate occasion is that if you are going to play marbles with Paderewski you had better take a few lessons on the piano. ■

Seeing that his present methods would never get the rod ashore without the fish, Joel changed his scheme quickly, as an able tactician should. He stood still, and, beating like the leader of an orchestra, he said, “Reel him in. Slowly, now, slowly, slowly. There, let him out, don’t hold that rod against your belly.”

I now regretted the whole thing, but I couldn’t let go, and the fish wouldn’t. The seventy-five-dollar bamboo was getting action for the money, and the Frenchman knew that war had been declared.

Spring Fishing in Canada —A Good Day’s Sport drawn by Frederic Remington

This article originally appeared in the September 1900 edition of Outing magazine.

86 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 alighted on my rod. He gazed hard, earnestly, knowingly, at my rod. It was now in a figure eight, now bent this way, now that, being pulled half under water, and Joel raised both hands high above his head while he yelled, “You have got my rod! My seventy-five-dollar Leonard rod! Cut that line! What in... do you mean by taking my best rod?”

CLASSIC SPORTING LITERATURE: HOW A TROUT BROKE A FRIENDSHIP

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 87 Trout, Reel and Net Richard LaBarre Goodwin (1840–1910) Oil on canvas 36 x 25½ inches

Although he only made 650 rods in his lifetime, he was a talented craftsman whose work was unique. His small production is sought today by almost everyone who wants to own a fine collectible fishing rod.

BY HOAGY B. CARMICHAEL

This article originally appeared in the 1981 Premier issue of Sporting Classics magazine.

88 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

ALL-AMERICANRODMAKER

STORIES FROM THE ARCHIVES CLASSICS Classic

n 1927, a young man in Yonkers, New fisherman,HeforbamboofashionedYork,someshaftshisgolfclubs.wasalsoaandhesoon attempted to make fly rods, most of which were thrown out. No one at that time knew what was to come, but before he died in 1975, he would be recognized as the foremost rodmaker in America. Perhaps of all time. His name was Everett Garrison.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 89MAY / JUNE 2021

Although for almost all of his life he worked full-time elsewhere, and only built about 650 rods in his lifetime, he was a talented craftsman who developed methods to make his work unique. He was the only man who hand-planed the bamboo strips with block planes to matchless tolerances. He wound the guides himself, made his own cases and cloth bags, developed his own hardware and, most importantly, devised his own unique tapers with a series of mathematical formulas. The tapers he formulated are his most important contribution to the craft of rodbuilding, and I think most fishermen, after just one afternoon with a Garrison rod, will agree.

I

Garrison knew, however, that spar varnishes never really dry because of the oils and gums they contain, so when the new polyurethane coatings were introduced in the late 1940s, he tried to find one that suited his method of dipping the rods with his motorized system. He settled on Pratt and Lambert’s “Varmour” and used it for the rest of his life.

All of Garrison’s earlier rods were held together with animal hide glue, much the same mixture used by his good friend Jim Payne. But just after World War II some newer adhesives were available, and he turned to a new product called “resorcinol.” This glue is 100 percent waterproof and appealed to Garrison’s sense of structure. Some collectors prefer the hide glue rods because resorcinol leaves a thin dark line between the facets of the rod joints. That’s a matter of taste, of course, but there is little question that the two glues mark a change in the appearance of Garrison’s rods. Each look has a following. Varnish was something else Garrison changed about the same time he was experimenting with glues. For years he had used a product called Super Valspar, made by the Valspar Corporation. The owner of the company, a Mr. Valentine, was a friend of Garrison’s, and “Garry” once told me that Mr. Valentine used to doctor the varnish a bit to suit his needs.

The Idyl of Split-Bamboo.the “... a book for Winter evenings and the fireside, and for workshop.”the

ALL-AMERICAN RODMAKER

The Depression came and, like so many other young men, Garrison lost his job on the railroad. Their small family moved to the second floor of an uncle’s flat on Staten Island, and there Garrison began making rods in earnest. He began marketing his rods in 1932, and had we been there then, we could have bought a new Garrison rod for $45.

The result was a dark orange finish on the rods that gave rise to the name “pumpkin Garrison’s.” This varnish gave the rods a rather stunning and rich appearance.

Because the two men lived in the same town, they were able to spend a lot of time together, and the young Garrison’s proficiency grew rapidly. It was not long before his engineering background helped him improve on the good doctor’s concepts.

All but two of his rods that I know about are dated with a number. The letter UN stands for 1932 and the letters follow the alphabet through 1959, at which time they began over again until his death in 1975. I have never seen an “N” rod of the first series but I know they exist. The surviving undated rods were some of his very earliest. In the later years he began adding the actual date to the third flat of the butt section, after his name, taper and coding system.

W hen Garrison began to make rods, he worked with his good friend, Dr. George Parker Holden, who had recently published his now famous book, The Idyl of the Split-Bamboo.

When Garrison first began making rods, he had no knowledge of how to use a metal lathe and therefore could not make his own hardware: case caps, reel seat parts, ferrules and the various other pieces of metal work. In fact, the first lathe that he owned was a foot treadle model that was adequate only for turning the cork grips and the wooden reel seat when needed. So for the first 12 or 14 years of Garrison’s work, he used sliding bands and butt caps made by the Cross Rod Company. They also made locking reel seats for salmon rods, and Garrison mounted a number of those until he began to make his own. The Cross sliding bands were distinguished by a narrow knurled band around the edge of the ring facing the cork handgrasp. I have seen several bands that Garrison mounted with slight traces of the Cross nameplate still visible in the cases where he was unable to completely remove the engraving. He bought case tube hardware from one of the Hawes brothers and many are those who can spot a vintage Garrison from 20 feet away by the Hawes copper knurled caps and sleeve.

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The soft pumpkin glow of the earlier Garrison rods was gone forever, but in its place was a finish that would not stick to the cloth bag during prolonged idleness. Synthetic varnishes also will not craze and crack if applied properly, and the finish is considerably harder than other varnishes. Again, there are those who prefer the darker Garrisons and, frankly, I would not attempt to change their minds, if only because the combination of the light natural cane and the orange varnish give a touch to Garrison rods that I have never seen on any other fly rod. The trick is to find one in original condition that has not either stuck to its cloth bag or melted (and I mean melted!) while in the unventilated rod tube inside a warm closet, thus harming the original finish. It is not uncommon to see people pay a premium for a “pumpkin Garrison.”

Garrison 206 fly rod 7’9” 2/2 #5: Garrison often refused to sell a rod to a person he thought would not make good use of his hours at the workbench. Had we been there, we could have bought a new Garrison rod in 1932 for $45. Few would disagree that rods made by him are among the most collectible pieces in the sport of angling. With the advent of the second World War, materials were hard to obtain. Hawes had long since gone out of business, as had the Cross Rod Co., and Garrison was finding it ever more difficult to purchase hardware for his rods. At this point, he decided to design all the components needed for his rods. Aluminum was also very scarce in the mid-’40s, and I have seen several square wooden cases made of pine that Garrison made for his rods. This period marks an important transition for the rodmaker because one who owns a Garrison rod made after the war will have a rod with Garrison’s flare for design throughout the rod. In essence, it is a complete Garrison product, and the rods made during the years following this transition are among the most desirable for collectors. It was also during this period, 1948 to be exact, when Garrison began to use the famed Super Z ferrule. Prior to then he had purchased ferrules from Jim Payne and George Halstead. When Garrison obtained the first Super Z, he knew its advantages from the standpoint of strength. After that year, he never used any other ferrule on his rods...except in

SPORTING CLASSICS • 91MAY / JUNE 2021

Kienbusch bought an 8'0" 212-E from Garrison for the grand sum of $500. He was proud of that, because it was $50 more than he had ever received for a rod, and although it was 1974, nobody was selling rods for anything near that price. But time has changed all that.

■ ALL-AMERICAN RODMAKER

92 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 very rare examples. Also, with the advent of the Super Z, Garrison stopped bluing his ferrules for some unknown reason. In the last years of his life, long after the Super Z Company went out of business, Garrison began to run out of ferrules in sizes that fitted his most popular models. He was forced to make several sets of ferrules of the “Swiss type” design out of Evedure bronze, and those ferrules are found on only a handful of rods dating around 1971 in sizes fitting 7'0" to 7'6" rods. In this day of lighter lines and shorter rods, it was inevitable that collectors would gravitate to shorter rods. [Then-] current prices certainly reflect that trend.

Garrison died the following winter and his small production is sought today by almost everyone who wants to own a fine collectible fishing rod.

Holden’s The Idyl of the SplitBamboo offers a chapter titled “Cultivating Silkworm-Gut At Home” by Edwin T. Whiffen. An instruction on harvesting silk for use in making leaders, it includes the care and breeding of Polyphemus moths. A Master’s Guide to Building a Bamboo Fly Rod by Everett Garrison with Hoagy B. Carmichael

Garrison made rods from 6'9" long to his longest salmon rod, a 10'6" model. He made only six 6'9" rods, including the one that he made for his friend Dr. Holden in 1931. Those rods are very scarce, to say the least, and command the highest prices one can pay for a fly rod. Fortunately, he made a considerable number of 7'0" rods, even back in the 1930s. His lightest line model was the 201, and it handles a number four line like the two had been born together. When Garrison died, he only owned two of his own rods, and one of them was a model 201. It was his favorite and is one of his finest tapers. The 7'0" rod was made in four tapers; models 201, 201-E, 202 and 202-E. The lower the number, the lighter the taper, and given rods of equal condition, the rod with the taper designation of 201 is more desirable from the standpoint of collecting, even though Garrison made more of them than he did the model 202-E. For most who want to own or collect a Garrison rod, his classic 8'0" 212 is a fine example. He made a lot of those, and was able, in fact, to fashion 50 of them in one year to help pay for the down payment on his new house. Both the 212 and 212-E in the 8'0" length are classic examples of the Garrison rod. Finding a nice Garrison in one of the shorter lengths is not an easy task, and finding some models is almost impossible. There are a few around, however. One of the rarest is the 7'3" model. I know of only two and one is fitted with a set of ferrules of his own make! That rod was designed in models 204 and 202-E, and I have seen one of each, although I suspect there are several others.

hishoursmakehetoInrespecttotowerefirstGarrisoninthemadewouldThereproduction.arefewwhodisagreethatrodsbyhimareamongmostcollectiblepiecesthesportofangling.wouldbethetoshakehisheadifhealivetodayandableseewhathashappenedtheafter-marketwithtohisfishingrods.fact,heoftenrefusedsellarodtoapersonthoughtwouldnotgooduseofhisattheworkbench.Shortlybeforehedied,goodfriendOttovon

Garry also made a 7'9" three-piece model. Normally he did not like three-piece rods in the shorter lengths because he felt the ferrule was well situated in the middle of the rod, in terms of action, in models of 8'6" and under. But he did make exceptions, and those are the rods that are very rare and thus very collectable.

One can also find rods that have three tips, especially rods carrying the 212 taper. I have seen several examples of Garrison rods with a third tip added to give the angler an action that would turn over some of the larger flies used in the early weeks of the season. Otto von Kienbusch even ordered a rod with three tips...all with different tapers! Those examples are very desirable, for obvious reasons, and fortunately Garry did make a number of them, especially in the earlier years. There are two tapers that, for their given length, are light-line models and also rather rare. The normal taper designations for Garry’s 7'6" rod was 206 or 206-E. Those models carried a number five line in most hands, but he also made a model 204 that handles a four weight with ease. Those light-line models exist in lengths of 7'9" (model 206) and 8'0" (model 209). Garrison did not make many lighter models, and therefore, one must be prepared to pay a premium for such examples...if you can find them. So why all the fuss over the Garrison rod? The answer is simple: the supply of and demand for flyrods in general, and the uniqueness of the Garrison product. Garry worked alone during his entire career, and for many years had a fulltime job that left him little time for rodbuilding. A total production of 650 rods is not very many to parcel out among the growing number of rod collectors in America and other countries. One could spend a lot of useless energy contemplating the probable number of two-tip, original condition rods that are still in existence out of that seemingly small

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94 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 FLORIDA-STRAIN BASS ARE THE LARGEST OF THE SPECIES AND THE SUNSHINE STATE OFFERS ANGLERS MORE THAN THREE MILLION ACRES OF PRIME FRESHWATER BASS HABITAT TO HUNT FOR YOUR DREAM FISH.

BY JOE COOGAN

A small, isolated patch of cattails appeared ahead of the boat a good, long cast away. It looked like an ideal place where a bass might ambush bait or maybe fan a bed, so I whipped a weightless Senko out to drop a few inches away from the outside reed. I watched the line as the plastic worm undulated its way to the bottom. More often than not, if a bass is within sight, it cannot resist the subtle life-like action and it is quickly inhaled.

THE HUNT BUCKETTROPHYFORMOUTHS

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 95

My fascination with bass fishing came relatively late for someone who grew up in Florida. During the 1960s, my family lived in Cocoa Beach, located on Florida’s eastern Atlantic coast. All of my early fishing activity centered around saltwater species such as spotted sea trout and redfish that were common in the Banana River and Indian River Lagoon systems. But to be honest, back in those days, most of my outdoor interest was aimed at a variety of hunting opportunities available to us. Seasonal duck and dove and nearby quail populations were all accessible within short distances from our homes, either by boat or car. Fishing, on the other hand, was something we did when word leaked out that fish were biting. We rarely hunted for fish with the same enthusiasm and dedication we did for game birds, but were happy to join the fun when the catching was easy. My hunting passion was truly realized when my father’s job with Pan Am took us to Kenya, East Africa, in the late ’60s. I spent the next 20 years after college conducting seasonal safaris in Botswana, returning to Florida each year for two or three months during southern Africa’s rainy season.

Among a wide variety of North American freshwater fish, the largemouth bass is king, or should I say, queen, because the largest and most impressive of the species are females. Bass can live up to 16 years on average and, in comparison to age, a female bass can grow more than twice the size of the males, which rarely reach a weight of six pounds. Aptly named, largemouth bass can swallow prey as large as 50 percent of their body length and almost anything that fits in their mouths.

S

When I thought about it, I realized that I’d never actually caught a largemouth bass (Micropterus salmoides). So, seeking advice about where to go bass fishing, I learned that Lake Kissimmee, Florida’s fourth largest lake holding nearly 35,000 acres of surface water, was the place to go. This legendary bass fishery is located south of Orlando, and with more than 24 miles of shoreline and a multitude of grassy islands, offers some of the state’s best bass fishing. It’s also large enough that from the middle of it, you’re almost out of sight of land.

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mall waves radiated outward from where the worm slipped into the water when suddenly the line jerked. I didn’t feel anything, but I knew a fish had just sucked four inches of salty plastic into its maw. I reeled up the slack as the line moved through the water steadily away from the cattails. Give a bass too much time with a Senko and they’ll swallow it, so to avoid gut-hooking the fish, I quickly reeled up the slack and when the line tightened, I snapped the rod back in a sharp strike against something solid and immovable, like I’d buried the hook in a log.

Just as suddenly, the rod throbbed and the reel’s drag began to give up line. I knew I’d hooked a good one and held on, keeping the heavily-bowed rod high and cranking down on the fish when I could. I could feel her shaking her head and fighting angrily with the hook in her mouth. All I could do was keep pressure on her and hope the hook and line stood up to the size of her fight. Fortunately, she stayed down, swimming straight for the sanctuary of deeper water and pulling the light bass boat with her. As the line sliced through the water toward the morning sun still perched low on the horizon, it caused the water’s surface to dance with golden sparkles and dark silhouettes. When the line began rising through the water, I pointed the rod tip down knowing she was about to breech like the “white whale.” As her head came out of the water, from behind me I heard my fishing buddy, Jim Marek, gasp, “My God! Look at the size of her!” He needn’t have said it for my sake as I could see her wide-open mouth and flared gills as she wallowed with half of her body out of the water. Shaking her head furiously, you could easily see that her mouth was big enough to swallow two man-size fists. It was a vision straight out of a dream.

THE HUNT FOR TROPHY

Back in 1978, just after Christmas, Mark Muller and Hazel Wilmot, two friends from Botswana, came to Florida for their first U.S. visit. Mark happened to be a keen fisherman and was quick to mention his interest in catching a Florida bass. He’d read and heard about Florida’s bass fishing back in Africa. In fact, Mark was ahead of me, having caught bass that were introduced in Kenya’s Lake Naivasha when he was a youngster.

Of the various bass strains, the Florida-strain attains the largest size, reaching a maximum-recorded overall length of 29 1/2 inches. There is virtually BUCKET MOUTHS

SPORTING CLASSICS • 97MAY / JUNE 2021 no body of unpolluted freshwater in Florida that doesn’t hold largemouth bass and a large variety of prey species including bluegill, shad, shiners, crayfish, frogs, lizards, salamanders and even small water birds, baby ducks and hatchling alligators, all of which a Florida bass relishes. Contributing to their potential for reaching super-size, in addition to superior genetics, is a year-round growing season, allowing a Florida bass to thrive and grow large on prolific prey in warm waters.

Florida in the Wild But a cold front wasn’t our worry shortly after sunrise back in 1978 when four of us pulled up to Camp Mack in a cloud of dust, equipped with nothing more than a naïve notion of spending the day bass fishing. It was soon obvious that without knowledge, boat or tackle, any hope of catching a bass was purely a pipe dream. Back then, Camp Mack, located off a canal running between Lake Hatchineha and Lake Kissimmee, was a typical ramshackle rural Florida fish camp that looked like something out of a low-budget swamp movie. We were greeted by the kindly sneer of a crusty old, tobaccochomping purveyor of live bait, limited tackle, sodas, snacks and sundries shelved in a sagging, weather-beaten, tin-roofed shack and shaded by ancient broad-trunked oak trees. Fearing the old guy’s response, I murmured that we hoped to go bass fishing. He eye-balled us up and down and then squinted at our car that was not hitched to a boat. Then he spat a long stream of brown tobacco juice and asked, “Where’s yer boat and tackle?”

As I learned back in the late ’70s, the biggest largemouth bass live in Florida and the Holy Grail of bass fishing is a fish weighing 10 pounds or more. That’s good news if you happen to be fishing in Florida, but the bad news is that they’re not always easy to catch. In spite of their voracious appetites, Florida bass are renowned for being picky eaters and can be seized with a case of “lockjaw” at the slightest provocation, usually caused by a shift in weather, temperature or barometric pressure. That makes them much more difficult to catch than their northern relatives, especially during the winter months when fast-moving cold fronts can shut down the action in a hurry. Ironically, this is the same period of time when pre-spawn and spawning activity takes place and when the largest bass are likely to be caught.

The best topwater action for bass usually happens early, so being on the water at sunrise can be productive. Summertime fishing in Florida means getting out early and late to avoid the mid-day heat.

“Haven’t got any,” I answered sheepishly. Then he threw his head back and had a good belly laugh. “Well, I ken rent ya a coupla boats with 10-horse kickers,” he said with a toothless grin, “but ya ken ferget ’bout bass. You need a guide fer that—and they’s all booked!”Aswestood absorbing this disappointing news, the old geezer then added, “Take these minner buckets and minners and these cane poles with ya. Run these boats out to Twin Palms

THE HUNT FOR TROPHY BUCKET MOUTHS

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A year later, as I drove north to Jacksonville with my girlfriend to visit my sister and her husband, I stopped at Palatka’s original Eastside Bait and Tackle store on the east bank of the St. John’s River, the self-proclaimed “Bass Capital of the World.” When I enquired about who was the “best” bass guide around, I was handed the business card of Billy Peoples. I phoned Billy, who fortunately had an opening a couple of days later. Billy explained that if I wanted a shot at a 10-pound bass, Rodman Dam was the place.

Rodman, located west of Palatka near the middle of the state, is where Billy took his fishing clients because everyone wanted a 10-pounder. I’d heard of Rodman, which back in its heyday in the ’70s, produced more outsized bass up to 17 pounds than any other body of water in Florida. It sounded like I’d found the right place with the right guide. HUNT FOR TROPHY BUCKET MOUTHS

Bass guide and tournament fisherman Ron Veal holds a 13.6-pound bass he caught in Lake Kissimmee. This size of fish would qualify as a Hall of Fame bass in the FWC’s TrophyCatch program.

In 2012, Florida’s Fish and Wildlife CommissionConservationintroduced the TrophyCatch program to promote the state’s superb largemouth bass fishing. Besides providing biological data for scientists, the program features anglers who catch, document and release trophy bass of eight pounds and larger in state waters. Anglers must have a Florida fishing license and use hook-and-line gear. Since its inception, the annual 12-month program has registered more than 10,000 bass catches throughout the state.  Bass are ranked by weight category with those between 8 and 9.9 pounds going into the Lunker Club, those between 10 and 12.9 pounds in the Trophy Club and the super giants weighing 13 pounds and larger (called “teeners”) qualify as Hall of Fame bass. It’s free to sign up and the season runs from October 1 through September 30, during which time, an assortment of prizes are awarded for entries that meet the 8-pound minimum. island and anchor this side, ’bout 100 yards offshore, and ya’ll catch a mess o’ specks (Florida term for crappies).” Mess was right. If I remember correctly, I believe the limit was 50 specks per person back then and we caught four limits within a few hours of fishing. Every fish we caught was kept, so we spent more time cleaning fish that evening than we did catching them. Although we didn’t catch a bass that day, it was far from disappointing. We just happened to have ringside seats in the middle of “bass central” where we heard the rumble and witnessed the flash of shiny bass boats with large outboards, racing back and forth across the lake from one bass spot to another. That’s when I realized there’s a lot more to this bass fishing than I’d ever realized. It was fascinating watching the high-speed action taking place. My curiosity was piqued, and I promised myself to delve further into the mystique of bass fishing. After purchasing some basic bass tackle, I began fishing local lakes and ponds from the bank, but the more I didn’t catch fish, the more determined I became. I wanted to gain the knowledge and master the techniques for catching bass, but I still had a long way to go to get the “hang” of it. I realized that a bass guide would certainly short-cut the process and level the learning curve.

Florida’s TrophyCatch Program Spotlights Quality Largemouth Bass

THE

This trophy bass weighed just under 10 pounds. Releasing large female bass like this is important for securing the future of quality bass fishing and maintaining a healthy, productive gene pool.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 99MAY / JUNE 2021

100 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 THE HUNT FOR TROPHY BUCKET MOUTHS

As line fed off the reel, Billy urged, “Okay, turn the reel’s handle and when the line gets tight, strike that bass with everything you’ve got!” She cranked the reel until the line tightened and when the bass suddenly surged, it nearly yanked the rod out of her hands, but she held on causing the bass to literally set the hook on itself. A few exciting minutes later, that widemouthed, indignant bass was brought boatside where Billy netted and lifted up a beautiful, big 8-pounder. It was her first bass, and she was quick to think there was nothing to catching a “big bass.”

Plenty of action and excitement followed for the next few hours, with that first fish taking “big bass” honors for the day. Just watching that fish get brought to net made me realize that bass of that size and bigger are a different animal.

Fishing with Billy that day gave me an opportunity to pick his brain on all things bass and he proved to be an encyclopedia of bass knowledge and information. I was particularly interested in learning about the plastic worm, undoubtedly the most versatile, productive and weedless bass lure ever designed, and Billy was a master at imparting an irresistibly mesmerizing action to a dead piece of plastic. But even given the benefit of the expertise and experience of a “big bass” aficionado like Billy, it still took me more than four years of dedicated fishing to catch a bass that matched the weight of my girlfriend’s first bass. My first “big bass” actually bettered hers when I landed a 10-pound 4-ounce bass on Lake Kissimmee, where my initial bass interest had all begun. In spite of her thinking big bass were easy to catch, I wouldn’t trade anything for the time and effort it took me to tackle the challenge and the feeling of satisfaction it brought.

When you heft an 8-plus-pound bass, you’ve stepped into a whole new fishing arena that leaves you trying to match wits with a special category of bass that’s older, wiser and bigger than anything else. Once you’ve landed a trophy-size bass, you want to capture that feeling again, which means fishing where every cast offers the possibility of setting the hook on a lunker, hawg, bucketmouth or whatever term of endearment you choose to call those extraordinary fish.

The mouth of a bass is designed to accommodate large meals and enables the fish to eat prey as large as half its body length in size.

Using live bait has the advantage of

After breaking the 10-pound “ceiling,” big bass came a little more readily to me, but never easily or predictably. Since then, I’ve come a long way in terms of knowledge, experience and ability, and now, more than 40 years later, I look back at some incredible days spent on Florida waters in pursuit of big Florida bucket mouths. In the simplest terms, if you want to catch big bass, you must go to where big bass live. Understanding bass behavior and knowing what and when they’ll eat is equally important and moves you closer to catching the bass of your dreams.

It was on a down-jacket-cold day in late January when my girlfriend and I met Billy Peoples at the Kenwood boat ramp. He was towing a shiny 18-foot, green-sparkled fiberglass bass boat with a 150-HP Johnson outboard engine on the back of it. Just sitting on the trailer it looked like it was doing 60! I was impressed even before wetting a line. Targeting Rodman’s large bass, Billy utilized super-sized live bait in the way of wild golden shiners up to 10 inches in length. His tackle included stout 7 1/2-foot rods fitted with Abu Ambassadeur 5000 baitcaster reels spooled with 20-pound test monofilament line. Terminal tackle included a simple 3/0 Kahle shiner hook and a small fluorescent-green or orange Styrofoam float, positioned about 18 inches above the hook. Billy maneuvered the boat to within 30 feet of a turn in the old river channel where floating hyacinths had amassed to provide a solid mat of overhead cover for bass waiting to ambush prey. There, he positioned the boat with two heavy anchors. Next, he netted a medium-size, 7-inch shiner from a large aerated live-well designed to accommodate as many as six dozen shiners and keep them oxygenated and lively all day long. He quickly and deftly hooked a squirming shiner up through the lips and side-arm cast it out to splash down at the edge of the hyacinth mat. He then tweaked the shiner this way and that with the rod tip, inducing it to swim under the mat. With that stratagem completed, and being a gentleman, Billy handed the first baited rod to my girlfriend and instructed her to “watch the float!” He then turned his attention to baiting the second rod and had just netted another hefty shiner for hookup when my girlfriend shouted, “Hey, the floaty-thing just went down!” Billy dropped the shiner back into the live-well and locked his eyes on the hyacinths edge where he could see the line moving steadily underneath the mat. He then issued orders like a drill sergeant with no room for misunderstanding his intentions. As he had explained to us, “Every Rodman bass holds the potential of being the next world’s record, so you don’t want to mess up landing a fish like that!”

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Word of the excellent fishing has spread through YouTube videos and word-of-mouth, establishing Headwater’s reputation as one the state’s best bass fisheries. ■ For more information about fishing and guiding on Headwaters Lake go to FloridaTrophyBassFishing.com or LegendaryLakes.com. Email coart@gmail.com or call (970) 769-9135.

Florida’s Hottest New Bass Water! If there was anything good about 2020, it happened in August when the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission (FWC) finally opened the boat ramp at Headwaters Lake, allowing power boaters access to more than 10,000 acres of prime Florida bass fishing. The lake’s name relates to its close proximity to the headwaters of the north-flowing St. Johns River. Headwaters Lake is located near the town of Fellsmere, along the county line between Indian River County and Brevard County, due east of Stick Marsh/ Farm 13. All state freshwater fishing regulations apply to Headwaters Lake. The practice of releasing larger bass is encouraged in the spirit of respecting and maintaining the high-quality and productivity of the fishery.

The author holds an 8-pound bass he caught in Headwaters Lake, Florida’s newest and hottest bass lake.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 101MAY / JUNE 2021 THE HUNT FOR TROPHY BUCKET MOUTHS presenting what bass actually do eat, and in such a way that keeps the shiner within the strike zone longer. But working an artificial lure is a more dynamic method of fishing that is extremely satisfying when you match correct technique and action with bass behavior to catch and land a trophy-size fish. Looking back, everything came together correctly in a classic way when that outsized mama bass took the Senko worm I’d tossed toward the cattail patch. It felt like striking gold when I reared back with the rod against “big mama” as I came to respectfully call this formidably large lady bass. She reacted to my strike with a fierceness that, without the hook anchored solidly in her hard mouth, she would be lost. So, in the blink of an eye, when she broke the surface creating a washing machine disturbance with her head shaking, she spat the hook and a piece of torn plastic back at me and took her departure. She sounded to sulk in deep water and contemplate the impudence of a worm that “bit” back. I stared at where she’d just been with my own mouth wide open and felt overwhelmed by the hollowest of empty feelings. The only sign of her now was a widening circle of silent ripples where it looked like a washtub had just been slammed into the water. “Big Mama” had bested me. How big was she? Well, I’ve caught her kind up to a little over 12 pounds, and I won’t say she was that big, but she could’ve been, or maybe bigger… maybe even a “teener!” She’d only begun to fight and without having had the pleasure of battling her to the boat and actually hefting her up in my hands, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that I had to sit down to calm my nerves before I cast again, repeating to Jim and myself, “Did you see the size of her?” We caught another dozen bass that day, mostly small buck bass guarding beds or vying for the attention of a lady bass. But mainly we tried to imagine where “Big Mama” might be and figure another way to present her with a tantalizing, tastylooking artificial morsel. Unfortunately, we never saw sign of her again!

102 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

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We walked the boat ’til we ran out of water, 18 inches. Gibbes worked an oar into the bottom, secured the skiff with a loop of line, leaned my way and whispered, “Come out of them hip-boots. We headed up into the high marsh now. You can’t sneak up on a dead man in them things.” I swapped out my boots for brogans, laced tight to keep the mud from sucking them off my feet. It was February and the water was cold. Gibbes had killed a hundred wild hogs and counting, most of them with a longbow, most of them here along the New River. I was in good hands. We went up the creekbank on our bellies like otters, revolvers in our gun hands to keep them clear of the mud. Once up into the marsh, the walking was easy once again, the cane and drama were head high.Plastered from stem to stern, Gibbes looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I reckon I looked the same. No need to camo up. But I was happy. I have hunted the alphabet, Argentina to Zambia but give me a sandwich, a sharp knife and a big-ass pistol and the New River marsh is my favorite place on earth. But it is not for the faint of heart.

BY ROGER PINCKNEY

Everybody hates them but me.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 103MAY / JUNE 2021

gurgling low-water side creek, me and Gibbes walking the skiff along. Mud to left and right like chocolate pudding, but the bottom of the creek was sand and the walking was quiet and easy.

“Which one?” You never seen such.

PIG TALES

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There are rumors of panthers skulking about and the bugs are as bad as any place this side of the Congo, I mean 57 separate species of mosquitoes—look it up if you think I’m lying. You might see half an alligator floating down the tide. What ate the other half?

MAY / JUNE 2021104 •

They grew rice here in slave times and the landscape is a checkerboard of dikes and canals some places. But a series of back-to-back hurricanes breached the dikes and let in the sea, poisoning the fields for a generation. By the time they sweetened again, agriculture was becoming mechanized and this pungo mud would not support the first steelwheeled tractors, roaring and snorting beasts that resembled steam locomotives rather than agricultural equipment. Rice cultivation moved to Arkansas and Texas and these fields are wild marsh again, the domain of the bobcat, the whitetail deer, the moonshiner, the pot farmer, the occasional bear, enough alligators to satisfy most anybody.

The New River is so crooked it makes Congress look straight, so crooked it passes the same spot three times. Heading up from the sea, you first pass that tank farm on Elba Island off your starboard quarter out in the Savannah Chanel. Elba Island. Maybe you know about the Waving Girl, the Elba Island’s lighthouse keeper’s lonely sister, seduced by a Portygee sailor who swore he’d come back in a marrying mood. He didn’t and she met every incoming ship, flag by day, lantern by night for the next 40 years. There’s a statue of her down on River Street and the locals say, “She waited on that old boy ’til she petrified.” But I Anotherdigress.lazy bend in the channel, the tanks are dead ahead, a third long looping turn, those same tanks are to port. It’s only 11 miles as the fish crow flies from the sea to the first highway bridge, by river it’s every bit of 36. Trackless marshes to north and south, so vast they seem to stretch to the edge of the world, and they do, like looking out to sea, no land in sight.

“On that island where the revenuers chopped that liquor still all to hell.” “Which one?” “You know, where that old rice canal cuts right through that island.”

There are also wild hogs, too, lots of wild hogs and they will eat you alive if you annoy them and lose your footing. And unlike whatever ate that gator, they won’t stop at half, nothing left but your backbone in your Orvis jacket, somewhat abused.“Pinckney, where’d you kill that skanky old boar?”

Tail end of the pig killing, I still had a ladder stand left in the woods. A buddy was heading up after some redfish and I asked him to bring it home when he returned. He did and dropped it off the next“Howmorning.arethings on the river?” I asked. “It’s gone entirely to hell,” he said. “Why? What happened?” “You know how in 36 miles you could only see one house?” “Now“Yep.”you can see two.” Pig tales: Eddie, Robbie, Jimmy and Stew. Eddie was our fire chief. Not many fires to extinguish, his men rode with the EMTs and there was plenty of that, snake bites, broke legs and such. We got to jawing one night. “You know I used to live catch hogs?” I didn’t but he was perfect for the job, five-eight, wiry and fit. Even at 60 you could still see the young man he had been. “We’d loose the hounds, follow up the bay on foot. I carried a surplus field jacket. We’d harry the boar ’til it charged, then I’d throw the jacket over the boar’s head at the last second and tackle him. We’d hog tie him, throw him in the pickup and sell him to those rich Yankees to turn loose and hunt.” ’Bout time I was fixing to call him a liar, he peeled his britches, a scar a quarter inch wide from ankle to where I could not seeEddieanymore.played bass in a blues band in his off time, so I should have known he was telling the truth. A man can’t bullshit a guitar.And then there was Robbie. He was hunting hogs on some rich white woman’s land and she didn’t like killing but wanted the pigs gone. They livecaught a 100-pound sow, tied it up, threw it onto the floor of the suburban but it got loose when they were in afternoon traffic on US 278. By the time they got shut of that hog, Robbie’s hind end looked like a double helping of lasagna. Jimmy was fixing to walk up a pig in the rain. Easier than you think if there are pigs about. The pigs lay up in heavy cover, but the rain washes your scent out and muffles your approach and you can get close enough to kick them in a ham if you dare. Jimmy was seriously strapped up, a short-barreled pump shotgun stuffed with double-ought over one shoulder, a revolver on one hip, a long blade on the other. “If I get tangled up with a boar down in some wax myrtle thicket,” he explained, “one of us is gonna get some relief.”

His wife was feeding the chickens when the boar broke loose. When she went to shoo him back into the pen, he dropped his head and snorted. Wifey called Stew at work, “Come on home and pen this damn boar, he’s scaring me!” Stew reckoned to patch the pen first and was driving staples with a 20-ounce framing hammer when the boar took exception. Stew laid block for a living and had a good strong right arm. He wound up and hit that boar square atop the head with that framing hammer, gave it all he had. The boar went to his knees but came up quick and cut Stew from his ankle bone to his crotch. I wasn’t there to see it, but I heard about it once the mud settled.

The EMTs saw his femoral artery, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Another quarter inch and he would have bled out before 911 even got the call. The boar was so worked up, it took seven shots to put him down. Nobody wanted to eat him after that, the only wild pig I ever saw go to waste. Pig tales. Been pigs in these swamps since 1539, when Desoto lost his livestock crossing the Savannah River, 70 or 80 miles upstream. They were joined by escapees from colonial plantations and finally by Eurasian boar turned loose by highrolling Yankee plantation owners after the War of Northern Aggression. Outside of warthogs and African bush pigs, maybe some Chinese obscurities, every pig on earth is the same species, Sus scrofa, but this genetic diversity has resulted in a super-pig, lean, mean and indistinguishable from the Russian strain, big heads, sharp tusks, heavy on the front, light in the hams and when they run, it looks like they are always running uphill. A boar can cut you like some crackhead with a pawnshop knife, so uphill or down, you pray he runs the otherDidway.Imention the armor plate? Boars got a layer of cartilage up front. It’ll stand there all by itself once you got him skun out and it has been known to deflect bullets. Leave that .243 at home. There are six million a-hoof in the South and West, give or take a few hundred thousand—half of them in Texas

Author’s buddy Ila Hanks with a boar she took with a knife when following hounds on horseback.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 105MAY / JUNE 2021 PIG TALES

Illustration for Winchester by Maynard Dixon, circa 1898

Stew had relations in the north Florida palmetto and pin oak hummocks. He and a bunch of cousins got all tuned up and live caught a dozen piglets and Stew brought four home, fattened them with kitchen scraps, chicken feed and corn. He’d knock ’em over one at a time for the table ’til he was finally down to one boar, long of tusk and short of humor.

“Damn,” Gibbes said, “don’t you miss?” I holstered the Blackhawk. “You been knowing me half my life. You know I miss plenty.” He grinned. “But not today.”

106 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 and half the rest in Florida, Georgia and South Carolina. They are adjudged a plague upon the land. Pigs can’t climb trees, but they eat anything and everything beneath, turkey and quail eggs, mice, rats, ’possums and ’coons and I’ve seen a boar put one hoof in the middle of a diamondback rattlesnake and start eating, snake bites be damned. He’d toss the writhing and increasingly scant remains into the air, catch them on the wayHeredown.inthe marshes, they root up clams, crunch them like popcorn and their scat sets up like concrete. Everybody hates them but me. The USDA estimates “feral swine”—as they are officially known—destroy a billion and a half dollars’ worth of crops every year. As they are “exotic and invasive,” not game animals, there are few statutes regulating their pursuit. Night or day, no license, no season, no limit. Just ask yourself one question: Is it cool enough to hang a hog? Sneak on ’em like me and Gibbes, still hunt over corn baits from treestands, chase them behind hounds on foot, chase them behind hounds on horseback, kill them with shotguns, rifles, pistols, bow and arrows, spears, lances or even a blade. The meat is heirloom pork, what our ancestors ate, moist, about the color of a turkey thigh with a marbling of fat like beef. Assuming you don’t get hog cut, wild pork comes with a single great disadvantage: Once you hang your lip over a plate, you’ll forever be dissatisfied with store-bought pork. But you dassn’t eat it, oh hell no! Any number of agencies will remind you feral swine hosts nearly 300 diseases, most you likely never heard of, two-dozen transferrable to Besthumans.justshoot ’em to get rid of them and let them rot and go buy your pork from the store like you’re supposed to. They do that out in Texas, taking them from helicopters with night vision-scoped rifles and most recently from hot air balloons.

The National Pork Board couldn’t have said it better. They are a government agency, entrusted with four cents of every $100 worth of pork or pork product raised or imported, over 100 million domestic pigs each year. They sweated all the fat out ’til a pork loin has less fat than a boneless, skinless chicken breast, whoopee.Andthen they had the gall to brag about it with a slogan, “the other white meat,” which they boast as one of the most successful ad campaigns in history. But brothers and sisters, I am here to testify. One hundred million tame hogs versus six million wild ones, there ain’t no competition. And I have hunted wild hogs 50-odd years, every which-a-way they can be hunted, excepting by helicopters or balloons. I have eaten them ’til I almost foundered, by the pound, by the 100-weight, maybe even by the ton, whole hogs, sides of hogs, racks of ribs, hams, boiled, broiled, barbequed, roasted, broasted, grilled, smoked and fried. Only thing I ever caught from a wild hog was a burp and a serious grin. But back to the New River Marsh.

“No, not today. We got enough ice for both of these?” “I think so. We got us some mighty fine eatin’ there, bub. Let’s get the guts out of them.” We looped the entrails into the creek. “Come on,” Gibbes said, “the ’gators will be all over these guts on the rising water. Let’s get the hell out of here.” We did. ■

PIG TALES

I carried a long-barreled Ruger Blackhawk .357 that day. It was beat up from any number of dustups, but it would do its duty if I did mine.

Gibbes threw down corn along a high marshy point the week before. A hog will eat a pound of mud to get a few grains of corn and there was a half-acre churned up as surely as you’d worked it with a disc-harrow or rototiller. We came up on it from downwind, slipped right up on a fat sow and a half dozen 40 pounders. The sow snorted outrage, blinked in myopic disbelief, then bolted for the bushes with four pigs in tow. Two more pigs were off in the canes to our right and I rolled them both with two quick shots as they crossed open ground.

tip: If charcoal is nearly out, you may finish in oven preheated to 300 degrees.

3) Mix ingredients thoroughly, rub generously on both sides of the pork quarters. Set quarters in refrigerator overnight.

• 107MAY / JUNE 2021 PIG

5) Remove pork, let cool until meat is comfortable to handle. Bone pork and place into turkey roasters. Mix in three bottles of commercial barbeque sauce (Kraft BULL’S-EYE is a personal favorite). Cover pork with roaster lids or tight-fitting foil. Put roasters back on grill, close lid and warm one hour, stirring occasionally until no pink meat remains.

serving suggestion: Serve over steamed basmati rice or on quality hamburger buns, adding more barbeque sauce as desired. Fang it, gang! ■

SPORTING CLASSICS

1) Clean and quarter one medium-sized wild pig (about 120 lbs. live weight), to yield about 40 lbs. of meat.

2) Prepare rub as follows: 1 lb. coarse ground sea salt 1 lb. dark brown sugar 1 oz. garlic powder 1 oz. onion powder 1 oz. lemon pepper

WildFangPinckney’sTALESItGangPorkontheGrill

4) Secure large charcoal grill with tight-fitting lid. Fill with 30 lbs. charcoal. Place pork on grates above charcoal when ready. Close lid. Cook three hours, open grill and turn meat with pitchfork. Close lid and cook another three hours.

108 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING CLASSICS • 109 SOMETIMES THE BEST WAY TO FIND YOURSELF IS TO GET LOST... IN THE JUNGLE, NO LESS. BY CHRIS DORSEY PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOHN MACGILLIVRAY, DORSEY PICTURES

ready for myriad species ranging from peacock bass to catfish that can swallow you whole.

In search of river monsters—plying the waters of the Rio Travessao means

AMAZON PRIME being

I

110 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 AMAZON PRIME

am living the experience through the eyes of my twin 14-year-old boys, a childlike adventure that could have been concocted by Zane Grey or Jack London. As the plane fitted with floats careens off the air pockets wafting from the canopy of the Amazon below, I pan to my sons, wondering what must be running through their minds as we’re about to touch down in one of the planet’s most remote fishing waters, as exotic an environment as exists where the mascots include jaguar, anacondas, macaws and Lord only knows what else.

The braided river course provides a labyrinth of fish habitat along with one of the most exotic ecosystems on Earth—resplendent with all manner of jungle bird and animal life ranging from macaws to jaguar.

Amy Dorsey prepares to do battle with a 60-pound redtail catfish.

Our destination is a hidden camp situated on a spit of an island in the midst of the Rio Travessao, a massive waterway home to too many species of fish to count.

The location is a mix of Swiss Family Robinson and Gilligan’s Island, a series of huts on stilts with comfortable beds and hot showers…and the occasional tarantula doubling as a doormat. We have come to see about catching the region’s giant catfish—paraiba, redtail and leopard—and any others willing to play along, including peacock bass, wolf fish, bicuda, pacu and the world’s largest piranha. The character of this river is very different than the prime peacock waters of the Rio Negro that draws most of the foreign anglers.

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This is a place for wilderness explorers looking for surprises, for there’s no way to know what you might reel up out of these murky depths. For 14-year-olds (including my spirit), solving the mystery of what lurks beneath will contain much of the intrigue of this journey. That and watching the boys live their River

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Monsters dreams, potentially taming creatures larger than themselves.

My wife Amy and I situate in our hut while the twins have one of their own. After two days of travel to get here, the boys are as eager to explore as a pair of birds dogs fresh out of the kennel. Nate and I load up a mix of what look like stout saltwater spin rods and reels as well as a nine-weight fly rod. We’re armed with all manner of nasty lures that look like they’re built to attract some kind of prehistoric beasts leftover in these

Nate Dorsey hoists a peacock bass caught on the fly. Once hooked, these fish spend more time airborne than they do underwater and are a prime draw for visiting anglers.

112 • SPORTING CLASSICS AMAZON PRIME forbidden waters. Amy and Luke have similar rigs and hop in a boat of their own for the day. We’ll see them again late in the afternoon when the camp will undoubtedly be abuzz with plenty of fish tales, some of them perhaps even bearing a resemblance to truth. As a parent, you try not to generalize too much about your kids because their passions for sports and pastimes often change quickly, but Nate has long had a fascination with fishing and fish in general. About five years ago, his love of all things mechanical morphed into an obsession with catching fish. His epiphany brought a simple clarity to his existence with these basic questions forever in need of answering: What fish live here and how do I get them to bite?

This trip is much about Nate and unleashing his piscatorial passions in waters where seemingly catching anything is possible. Our shoulder-height aboriginal guide, perhaps 30-something— though it’s tough to tell with this tribe— steers our boat to the mouth of a small creek feeding into the main channel of the river. These confluences are fishy the world over, but unlike finding a brown or rainbow on the Big Hole or the Madison, we’re not altogether certain what might lie beneath the surface here.

The guide hands us each rods, points to the calm waters under some overhanging vegetation and directs simply, “Cast there.” Nate flips his wooden lure with all manner of hooks and spinning parts exactly where instructed. The lure looks like a blender working its way across the surface until a peacock bass interrupts the retrieve and begins cartwheeling through the air as if it’s being electrocuted. Streaks of yellow and green shoot into the sky as the fish seems utterly terrorized by the prospect of being hooked. It’s Nate’s baptism to these waters and a sturdy seven pound fish at that, a species that was breakdancing before it was cool. We take turns catching these gamers, coming to understand all the hype about peacocks. Simply, they are a species that calls into question their relationship to gravity, as if they may have evolved as much from birds as anything aquatic. Despite the common name, they’re not closely related to bass at all, but rather are cichlids, which few know is Latin for ass kicker. While they’re found in far greater abundance in the Rio Negro and other Amazon tributaries, there are enough of them here that they provide one of the main courses of a very diverse menu, which is the unique appeal of this river. We return to camp and Amy and Luke greet us with Cheshire cat grins on their faces, owing to having met peacocks of their own. We chug cold beers—Amy and I, that is—on the banks of the river below camp. For a moment, I muse how far we are from a small trout stream that she and watch the action It’s easy! Just scan this code with your smartphone’s camera.

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The author wins his tug-of-war with a giant redtail catfish, one of the main attractions to this stretch of the Amazon.

left: Camp is a mix of Swiss Family Robinson meets Gilligan’s Island, located on a spit of land in the midst of the river. Delicious meals, cold beer and a dining room with a view all combined to make the experience ever-more memorable.

I once fished in the Ozarks when we were courting lo those many years ago—before kids, mortgages, responsibilities and the like. There’s something about staring at a river with a beer in your hand that raises the muse. Should it not respond, add moreWhatbeer.will the currents of time bring the twins? Health, wealth and wisdom… or something else? A great love…or heartache? How much time will we have together? Do we have miles to go before we sleep, as Frost suggested…or will the trail end before we know it? What I do know is that we could not be spending our time together better, and I’m grateful for the moment. As the great bard of rivers, Sparse Gray Hackle cautioned, “The trout don’t rise in Greenwood Cemetery.” The next morning Luke and I head to a large, deep pool, maybe 30 minutes upriver. We stop and anchor to a long, naked tree stem that has fallen from the bank and juts into the river like a streetlamp knocked askew. Our guide puts chunks of paku on baseball-sized treble hooks and hands the rebar-like rods to us to begin casting in the midst of the current, a two-pound lead sinker attached to the rig. Either we are fishing for Volkswagens or there are fish down there for which we should have brought a rifle. Then we wait. And wait some more, occasionally recasting to get the bait back into the hole the guide is convinced will produce a fish. Just as we’re about to leave, my rod slams to the rim of the boat. The question is, what is on the end of my line? Paraiba? Redtail? No, a leopard catfish, a 25-pound specimen with a dark brown body that looks as if someone used chicken wire as a stencil to create the intricate pattern on its skin. I hoist the beast to the boat after a 15 minute fight, the final cranks of the reel feel like the last turns opening a sardine can. It’s an incredibly strong fighter that has no interest in reaching the surface, seemingly as light-shy as a vampire. With our catfish fight over, Luke and I head farther up river to a shallow bay off the bank in a section where the flowage is more than a half-mile wide. Luke begins flipping his topwater lure toward shore, bringing it back as fast as he can reel. Two casts in, the lure is smashed by a peacock, the kind of violent strike that is the hallmark of the species, which is its great attraction to anglers. He catches several more peacocks before we move farther to find a fresh pool of undisturbed fish. This time, we wind our way into a tributary, the over-hanging branches

114 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 giving it the feel of some obscured waterway you’d see in a low-budget horror flick leading to a lost tribe of cannibals. Overhead, macaws fly kitelike, squawking their protest at our intrusion. A wild muscovy duck flies head of us, as if leading the way upriver. We’re not sure where we’re heading but reckon that there must be a good reason for detouring so far off the main channel.

With my hook baited again, I pitch the rig into the pool as advised by the guide. There isn’t a great deal of conversation given the language barrier but there is a clear understanding of what to do and when. The why is a bit murky, however. Nevertheless, we cast on blind faith and wait to see what is delivered. This time, I get another hard pull on my line, the rod bouncing up and down as something hefty and testy is making a run with my hook. I fight back, bending the stout rod in half and pumping the reel like some kind of blue water behemoth is at the end of the line. Instead, I pull up an utterly prehistoric looking wolf fish, a toothy, semi-evolved leftover from the primordial

The author uses a Boca Grip to subdue one of the wolf fish that protests its invitation to dinner.

AMAZON

The Amazon version of the classic shore lunch, consisting of the primitive wolf fish whose flaky white meat is among the best tasting fish on the planet. Fillet, grill and serve on a banana leaf with a beer...or maybe two.

After the half-hour run, we pull to the edge of a 60-yard-wide pool and drop anchor. It feels as if we have a reservation, the guide doesn’t hesitate when he reaches the hole. In case you’re wondering, they don’t use electronics… there are no fish finders or sonar, no GPS or the like. The tribes who live in this bioreserve have simply been fishing these waters for generations, discovering the addresses of various fish species by learning from their elders and knocking on watery doors for decades.

Another full day of exploring, catching and feasting on the books, it’s Amy’s and PRIME

ooze. We snap a few photos and I’m about to release it when the guide intervenes.

“No, no, no…lunch…we eat for lunch.”

I’ve enjoyed shore lunches from the wilds of Alaska to Quebec salmon rivers but I had the feeling this one was about to be a bit different. We wind our boat back to the main channel of the river and find an open sandy beach to pull in and build a fire. Soon the fish is scaled and steaming in banana leaves, their preparation as matter-of-fact as a hotdog on a grill. When it comes to hunger, mankind has been adept at converting all manner of wild protein into lunch or dinner since the arrival of early man to theseMywaters.guidehoists a small cooler out of the back of the boat with seasoning and a sweet chutney-like fruit sauce, the combination making for some of the best fish I’ve ever eaten…anywhere. The flesh of the wolf fish is almost halibut- or barramundi-like, a dense yet moist white meat. Lunch wraps with a nap on hammocks that are quickly strung between trees to keep you above any slithering visitors that might arrive from beneath the everpresent leaf litter. It’s a mid-day ritual that is its own variation on siesta.

We head far up river, getting a look at this amazing environment with its never-ending jungle, diverse bird life, caiman along the bank and densely woven vegetation lining the whole of the waterway. About the time we are wondering if our passports are still valid here, our guide slows the full throttle of the motor to ease to the end of a large pool, rigs up a massive treble hook and points to where we are to shotput the weighted bait. Amy does just that and within a couple of minutes her rod is contorting

Rocky outcrops in the river provide perfect lairs for numerous species that use the shielded pools as ideal locations from which to ambush prey.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 115MAY / JUNE 2021 my turn to fish together and we are eager to find the famed redtail catfish of the region, the 50-plus pound giants with their white underbellies, dark backs and striking red tails. “If you really want to catch them,” says Wellington, the camp manager, “we’ll need to make a long run up river.” “What’s a couple of hours given how far we’ve already come?” I say with a smile. Loosely translated, Of course we want to catch them, why would you even ask? I think to myself.

AMAZON PRIME

The Collector's Edition of Casting Call and companion DVD can be purchased for $85. Visit the Sporting Classics store at SportingClassicsStore. com or call toll-free (800) 849-1004 to order your copy today.

Editor’s Note: This essay is adapted from Chris Dorsey’s new book, Casting Call. From one of the world’s most widely traveled fly fishermen and the largest producer of outdoor television in history comes the first of its kind celebration of the planet’s greatest fly angling. Chris Dorsey’s new book and film set takes readers and viewers to epic fly waters from the American west to Alaska, across Canada, to the fabled flats of the Bahamas and Belize to the jungles, marshes and highlands of South America and many points in between.

and so is she, giggling with the nervous anticipation of what, exactly, might be fighting on the other end of the line. Maybe 20 minutes pass and the basketball sized head of a redtail catfish finally emerges from the depths, tipping the boat as our guide hoists it out of the water. My bride emits a kind of giggle— which the twins dubbed the “figgle,” fish plus giggle—each time she catches a fish, it’s an involuntary reaction to getting hooked. The intensity of the figgle is directly proportional to the size of the fish, so it’s in overdrive as this buffalo of a catfish breaks the surface. Pictures taken, fish released and happy wife…check. My turn to see if I can do the same. As if they cued the twin to Amy’s fish, I hook a redtail almost instantly after she completes her catchand-release process. The rodeo begins anew, the incredibly strong cat feels like I’m reeling in cinder blocks…several of them. This isn’t finesse fishing to be sure, but there is something wholly satisfying about subduing a heavyweight leviathan in a game of tug of war as old as Jonah and the whale. As family vacations go, we’ll likely never come to appreciate any wilderness as much as we did the Amazon and its people. With much of the planet having succumbed to electronics and conveniences that replace connections, it’s nice to know a piece of our world has remained unchanged. At the end of the day, so have we…sometimes we must remind ourselves of that and disconnect from one world to plug into one another. ■

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BY MICHAEL M. DEWITT, JR.

IN(ANDSALTWATERREDFISH)MYBLOOD freshwater enthusiast discovers the joys of saltwater — and the mighty redfish.

“What are you, The Redfish Whisperer?” I retorted.Bonesthought about that for a minute. “You don’t quite get it. You will soon, though.”Onechannel downstream and my first official red was a modest guy, but he fought like two bass. I reached for lips as I boated“Don’thim.do that!” Bones said. “These bad boys eat crabs and pretty much anything they want. Stick that finger in his mouth and you’ve had a bad day.” Advice taken, I boated another. And then another. All legal keepers. All perfect eatingRedemption.size. It was a beautiful thing. But inside, something was happening.

“Don’t do it!” Bones yelled. “Don’t do it!” I caught one glimpse of him at the surface: a monster. But it was too late. I had let the bull take the line where he wanted it, somewhere up Savannah way, and even the stout braid was no match for his prowess as the tight line touched the stern and we parted ways with some hurt feelings and some salty barbs from my so-called fishing buddy. “I put you on the fish,” Bones mocked. “I practically put the fish on the hook for you. And you still let him get away.”

Bull reds are 27 inches and greater and the largest red on record topped 94 pounds. These amazing fish can live up to 40 years. I wish I could say that my first redfish was a coveted bull, but that would be a fish tale. Oh, I hooked him all right. For a moment, I was the one doing the fishing. The bull struck, and then he was in charge. He had me. This was no farm pond largemouth. This fish was a gangster. No one ever fed this guy floating catfish food — this fellow worked for a living. It was like trying to snatch a cinder block from the sticky bottom — until it decided to run.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 117MAY / JUNE 2021 “You can’t see it, but there is an oyster bed right over there,” Bones says, his face obscured by tenacious, clinging darkness and a skull-and-crossbones gaiter. “And that’s a sand bar right in front of us. You don’t run full throttle here if you don’t know this river. We’ll wait for the sun.” The weatherman said the rain and wind would clear off at daybreak. The weatherman lied. The channel widened, and then rowdy waves rose up as if to greet the soon-risen sun. My pilot made sure to keep the bow into the waves and not broadside. And then the water got rough. “If a wave comes over the side, use your hat or shirt and get out as much as you can as quick as you can. Because there’s another wave coming.” Was he joking with me? You ain’t back home in Granddad’s freshwater bream pond anymore, old boy, that’s for sure, I thought. You don’t just float on a saltwater river — the river envelops you as its own. The mist coated my skin and speckled my glasses, the pungent smell filled my nostrils; I could smell every fish, every oyster, every ray or dolphin, with a healthy mix of salt mudflat for extra flavor. I asked Bones how he would describe that smell if he were writing about“Home,”it. he said. Then the sun decided that it had teased us long enough and reluctantly slipped a toe out of bed, the edge of the world lit the heavens just enough for two South Carolina boys to avoid danger, and it was time to cross the Coosawhatchie. “Turn your hat around and hang on.” The throttle was shoved forward, the bow lifted, the motor gunned and we were planed out atop tide and current and adrenaline, speeding and bouncing toward a hot date with what I fear might just become my new main squeeze — the beautiful redfish.

The heart of a fighter: We found them. Redfish, speckled trout and even a flounder, up to the same mischief we were — looking for a fish dinner. But while the redfish lurked about the oyster beds, mud flats and spartina marsh islands in search of an easy meal, we were hoping to fight forAndours.fight we did. Berkeley rods and Abu Garcia reels. Fifty-pound braided line with a 30-pound mono leader. We bounced Electric Chickens and Vudu Shrimp and big spinner baits off the oyster rakes, or drug them carefully through the flooded grassy flats. We tried to cover ground because the clock was ticking. Unlike my favorite bass ponds, here life changes every six hours with the tide, then changes again. All creatures here, above and below, live by it, running on an unstoppable schedule as old as the earth and the moon itself. Our targets hunted with the current and the tide, ganging around the islands and shorelines where the baitfish were hiding, waiting patiently for the escaping tide to flush them back out into the open, all the while keeping a wary eye out for predators such as bottlenose dolphin.

Welcome back to the real word, little fellows, “Big Red” must think. We’ve only got a few hours. Let’s eat.

Dawn is only minutes away, and yet we wait. We dare not ride. The light teases us off east toward Beaufort, land of “The Prince of Tides,” and the Evinrude idles, puttering us forward with a lazy chop through a mist of salt and cold.

The redfish: a fighting beauty that tastes great and lives 25 minutes from home. Where have you been all my life? After the saltwater was rinsed off the boat and trailer and the gear stowed away, Bones and I enjoyed a Scotch and grilled redfish on the half shell over glowing oak and pecan coals. Leave the scales on the filet, brush the grill with olive oil, season with only sea salt or Lawry’s seasoned salt, coarse ground black pepper and garlic powder, and scrape the filet off the skin when it’s done.

Getting to know an old friend:

Hooking and landing a bull red is like trying to snatch a cinder block from the bottom of the river – at first. Then when Big Red decides to run for it, it’s like doing battle with a gangster.

The Coosawhatchie River region was home to the Coosaw, or Coosa, Native Americans who roamed between Charleston and Savannah. They lived among the Yamasee, the Combahee and the Edisto, hunting, fishing and trading until they were almost completely wiped out or scattered by around 1750, leaving behind only artifacts and place names.

The King’s Highway ran through here, and Gen. Robert E. Lee made Coosawhatchie his headquarters during the early years of the Civil War. Lee’s troops dug massive earthworks along her banks to stop Federal gunboats from steaming north. Seven creeks converge to give life to the Coosawhatchie. It is born dirthumble in poor, rural Allendale County, but gains girth and respectability as it gains salinity. The Coosawhatchie flows southeast for 50 miles through four Lowcountry counties, transforming itself to brackish and then into a salty, tidal force of nature near Highway 17. It merges with the Pocotaligo River to form the Broad River, then joins forces with the Chechesee and the Beaufort rivers to form the Port Royal Sound and empty into the mighty Atlantic.

Lying in bed that night, my stomach and memory banks full of redfish, I finally got it. I understood what Bones had been saying. No matter how good you are, you don’t whisper to the fish. That sound, pulling you back in with the ebbing tide? That’s the redfish whispering to you. ■

When landing a redfish, be sure to know the laws and limits (every state is different) and don’t just trust your eyes: measure the fish to make sure your catch is legal.

But I knew none of that as a child, nor would I have cared, because to me the most important stretch of the Coosawhatchie meandered modestly along the “Back 40” of my grandfather’s farm. “The Swamp,” as we called it, was the setting for most of my childhood. We grew up hunting deer and squirrel along its banks, plying its waters in canoes and aluminum War Eagles for red breasts, jack fish and swamp cats, dropping a trap in the spring for the crawdads. In dry years, we would wade across her and search for arrowheads, or slip loose the ’coon dogs. The river Coosawhatchie has long been a friend of mine, but as is too often the case, sometimes we don’t really, truly know our friends. I knew her as a gentle, freshwater childhood companion, having never tasted the sweet saltiness as she matured downstream. Now that I have, Making a new friend: With his reddish-bronze color and tell-tale black tail spot, Sciaenops ocellatus has more names than Carter has little liver pills: redfish, red drum, spottail bass, puppy drum and channel bass. Big Red ranges from New England to northern Mexico, his hangouts range from beachfront property to tidal creeks and rivers, and he is easily the most popular inshore species in the Southeast. Redfish have a firm, moderate flavor and are not oily — a diner’s dream. But sometimes the winner of a popularity contest can lose big. In the 1970s and ’80s, a Cajun food craze swept the nation and restaurants couldn’t get enough blackened redfish. Commercial fishing for reds using gill nets and purse seines exploded to satisfy diners from New Orleans to New York and after years of severe overfishing, the fish became imperiled.Outdoor writers have called it “The Redfish Wars.” Concerned recreational anglers banded together to form the Gulf Coast Conservation Association (now the Coastal Conservation Association) and states including Texas and Florida passed laws protecting the red drum. My home state of South Carolina began protecting the species in 1986. Commercial fishing for reds was banned in federal waters, and in 2007, President George W. Bush issued an Executive Order designating the redfish as a protected game fish. Today a South Carolina angler can keep only two redfish per day, 15 to 23 inches only, and only six per boat. The redfish is lucky to be here today in such numbers, and we are lucky to have it. Because of this conservation success story, novice saltwater fisherman have come to love and respect this marvel of a fish, and one day my kids can appreciate and enjoy him.

You’ll fall in love and catch yourself writing sonnets to a fish on the back of your napkin, I promise.

MAY / JUNE 2021 eat this, buddy: Redfish, as well as speckled trout and other inshore species, will often go for artificial baits such as Vudu Shrimp, Electric Chickens or buzz baits, but if all else fails tie on a cork and hook up some raw shrimp. Even if you get “skunked,” you can still go home and eat the bait!

SPORTING CLASSICS • 119MAY / JUNE 2021 SALTWATER (AND REDFISH) IN MY BLOOD

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SPORTING CLASSICS • 121MAY / JUNE 2021 FOR JL AND SA  BY GENE LEE ANDROS Shallow Pursuit by Mark Susinno LIMITED EDITION OF SIGNED AND NUMBERED PRINTS AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY AT WILDWINGS.COM

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S

“Jim Standing“Yes?”Tate?”up from the table, he turned to see a Bahamian dressed in a light blue fishing shirt, a pair of blue jeans with the legs rolled up at his shins and his hand held out to be shaken. Taking this outstretched hand Tate added, “And you are?”

“And Howard? Just call me Jim, OK? None of that Mr. Tate, or sir “Howstuff.”’bout Jimmy? OK, I call you Jimmy?”

“I heard that, mah’n. Yes, I heard that. You come to Andros you want to enjoy. Now that I can understand very well.”

“Sure,” Tate replied, unable to say no to the huge smile on the Bahamian’s face. “Jimmy will be just fine.”

hortly after one o’clock that Sunday afternoon as the plane began its approach into Andros, the first thing Tate noticed was where the deep water met the shallow bank of the coast. There, plainly visible on the white bottom beneath the clear, light green water, were what looked to be perfectly round, solid blue craters—blue holes coming from somewhere far out in the ocean ending up in the shallow waters of the islands of the Bahamas. “Mr. Tate?” Four hours later he was sitting with a Manhattan at one of the tables scattered around the dock fronting Fresh Creek harbor behind Frank’s Joint, the lodge where he was staying. Nursing his drink, Tate watched the tide just starting to come in from the ocean, turning the water of the little harbor from listless brown to a light green you could see the bottom through.

A good way to start the week, Tate thought later as he was sitting down in the main dining room of Frank’s Joint for dinner. The dining area was a wide-open room with wooden tables covered by checked tablecloths placed carefully here and there. The wooden walls, painted a worn gray, were lined with photographs of Frank as a much younger man than the 80 he was now, dining with various people Tate didn’t know. A mounted marlin hung on the back wall bordered by framed maps of Andros and the rest of the Bahamas chain. Absent from this comfortable space were the plush furnishings, candelabra and shining silverware Tate remembered from the lodge outside of Hope Town on Abaco where he and his brother Phil had stayed 15 years before.

Hopefully this trip would turn out better than that one, the last time he had been to the islands. They had come to celebrate Tate’s 50th birthday. Some celebration. It had started off good enough with excellent fishing the first two days and swimming in a blue hole on the third day—all of that was amazing. But the night of that third day they had argued the way brothers could sometimes when heavy drinking was involved. And as those sorts of arguments could be, it had started over something stupid—something Phil’s wife had accused Tate of and that was not true. Words were said, punches were thrown, the end result being that when Tate woke up the next morning, Phil was gone, having caught the early flight back to Fort Lauderdale, except the plane never made it, crashing just after takeoff and killing all aboard. But the drinks on the dock, meeting Howard and the good food at dinner, helped push that bad memory aside and Tate slept like a baby that night, and when Howard pulled up in the driveway

“Please, Howard, let’s not come up with anything bad relating to the fishing. I can find plenty of that just by staying home.”

“Howard, sir, and I be your guide for the next week. Mr. Frank told me you were down here, so I come to introduce meself. Mebbe see if we can figure out what is good, or mebbe bad,” said Howard flashing a grin Tate couldn’t imagine anyone not liking. “You know, mah’n, for your fishing?” Howard looked to be in his mid- to late-forties, but he could have been years younger, or even close to Tate’s 65; it was hard to tell. He was built strong, that much was certain, probably from his years of the hard work of being a guide in the Bahamas.

“I like the sound of that.” Tate had never considered big fish the be-all, end-all of any fishing trip, but he wouldn’t mind catching one, either. “Like it a lot, actually.”

SPORTING CLASSICS • 123MAY / JUNE 2021 outside of Tate’s room at eight o’clock sharp the next morning, Tate was up and ready. “Come along, mah’n.” Howard grabbed Tate’s gear and stowed it in the boat hooked up to the truck. “We got a bit of a ride ahead of us.”This “bit of a ride”—almost to the tip of the north end of the island—took more than an hour, Howard perpetually smiling as he drove, one hand on the wheel the other waving at every car going by the other way. They went past little settlements dotting the Queen’s Highway, that, for the most part, consisted of some sort of ratty looking store, a few rundown houses, more than one of them with a tired looking old man sitting on the front steps while a rangy looking dog lay out in the ragged yard. The bigger settlements had actual commercial buildings, maybe a gas station, bank, cell phone store and a bar down by the water. These settlements were a reminder of how hard life could be on the islands unless one lived in one of the more built-up towns such as Nassau or Freeport. All of these settlements, big or small, were a not-so-subtle reminder for Tate that, though short in miles perhaps, he was a long way from home. “Not far now, Jimmy,” Howard said as they crossed a wooden bridge over Stafford Creek. “We be fishing the Joulters today, mah’n. Plenty of bonefish out there, Jimmy. Some big ones, too.”

“I make no promise, Jimmy,” Howard said. “If I see one of those big fish, I’ll do my best to put you on it.” He shrugged, flashing his big grin at Tate. “But after that, mah’n? After that it’s all “I’llyou.”do my best, Howard.”

“I know you will, Jimmy. I know you will.” Soon afterward they were on the water, the flats skiff up on plane and Howard at the wheel as they ripped across Lowes

Sounds toward the scattered keys to the east that made up the Joulters. Other than some thunderheads to the west, behind them the sky was blue and empty, the unfiltered sunlight lighting up the white sand and waving grasses in the blue-green water beneath the speeding boat. As always, Tate was amazed at the ability of these shallow-draft skiffs to run in such skinny water, sometimes in less than a foot of draft. Once he saw no way they wouldn’t run aground on what looked to be a sandy beach that Howard either didn’t see or didn’t care about, but was coming up quick right in front of them. At what had to be the last possible moment to do so, Howard, without backing off on the throttle, pulled the wheel hard to the right. In the next second they were

ANDROS A Tricky Situation by Chet Reneson, acrylic, 28 X 42 inches

The rain started shortly after Howard left and Tate spent most of the morning on the porch with coffee and one of the books on bonefishing in the Bahamas he’d brought along for down time. Finally, late in the afternoon, the rain slacked off a little and, tired of reading and dozing, Tate put his slicker on and walked up the hill into Fresh Creek proper. With the skies still heavy with the promise of more rain to come, the homes and stores on the main street of town looked deserted and gloomy in the gray light of the day. Few people were out and about other than children home from school and eager to play outside, despite the lousy conditions. Even the one funky old bar next to the town’s lone grocery store seemed to be empty. Loud music from a boom box playing somewhere deep inside came reverberating out into the street with only Tate, it appeared, there to hear it. John Rogers Fowler

“That’s funny, Jimmy. I did! A different tide and we’d be pushing this boat off for sure!”

ANDROS Tailing Bonefish .30 by

Tate struck the fish, seeing it as he did so. A decent fish, hard to truly judge with it in the water and still 50 feet or so away, but lifting the rod tip he could feel the mass of it as it bolted away, safely hooked. The fish ran for deeper water off the flat in the distance; Tate laughed as the fish peeled fly line off the reel until all of it was gone, only the backing running off the reel, with the fish somewhere out there, maybe 100 yards from the boat. Tate could not see the fish, but knew it was there from the pressure on the rod bent at a 90-degree angle toward the horizon.

124 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 across, the outboard growling as Howard trimmed it up, the prop dragging sand, true, but they were in the deeper water on the other side of the sandbar, Tate still gripping hard to the side of the boat as it continued on its way.

“You think we not going to make it, Jimmy?” Howard asked, his smile flashing wide in the sunlight. “Never doubted it, Howard.”

“One o’clock, mah’n,” Howard said from the poling platform. “Eighty feet, so give me a long cast.” At just that minute another cloud came overhead and Tate lost the fish in its shadow. He cast anyway, letting the fly settle gently into the water where he hoped the bonefish still was.

“Nice cast, Jimmy, now strip!” Howard said.

Tate, after unhooking the fish, turned to Howard kneeling next to him, hoping the smile on his face was as big as the one on Howard’s, and said, “Thanks, man. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Jimmy!” Howard high-fived him, black palm against white in the light of the morning flowing across the flat. “You did all the work, mah’n!” That night as he drifted to sleep after another fine meal at Frank’s Joint, Tate thought back on the day of the fish he caught and the ones he lost—looking very much forward to the next day he leaned over and turned off the bedside light. But the next morning, and as it would the day after that, the day dawned black and thick with rain. Howard was outside Tate’s room promptly at eight o’clock, and Tate was ready for him, even though he knew fishing for the day was probably a wash—a fact Howard quickly confirmed as he came up on the porch.“No fishing today, Jimmy. Sorry mah’n, but I see you tomorrow.”

“Go nice and steady, Jimmy. He a good fish and we don’t want to lose “No,”him.”Tate said. “We certainly don’t want that.” He reeled, gaining some of the backing back onto the reel, feeling the pressure. The fish was nowhere tired enough to give up and burned off again, taking half of the line Tate had regained. He bent to the fish, rod pointed straight out toward where it was running, and when the fish slowed after this burning run, managed to reel the line back. Finally, after two more runs from the fish, neither of them quite as intense as the one preceding it, Tate had the fly line back on the reel and knew the fight was coming to a close. Just a little way to go, and then he could lift the fish into the boat, unhook it and gently release it back into the elements from whence it came.

Stainless steel, 28"L x 10"W x 20"H

Tate did, one, two, three short strips of the fly line between the fingers of his left hand, but there was nothing. “He turned away, mah’n. Cast again, same place, three more fish behind him. There you go, nice cast, now strip, strip, strip one more time, stop, long strip, now! Yah, mah’n, he’s on it. Hit him!”

Five, maybe 10 minutes later when they were off the tip of a scraggly cay, Howard shut the boat down. Lifting the push pole from its holders on the port side of the skiff, he clambered up on the platform over the outboard. “You up, Jimmy,” he said, pointing at the bow fishing platform. “Bonefish coming around the point right now!” Standing on the front casting deck, stripping line off the reel so as to be ready to cast, Tate couldn’t see the fish Howard was talking about. A cloud overhead covered the white sandy bottom stretching out from the key with its shade. Then the cloud moved away, and there they were, bonefish, looking like dark torpedoes moving across the flat, a big school of them, too, Tate thinking as he looked at them, How can I miss?

After maybe an hour, give or take a little, Howard turned the boat in toward the coast. The mouth of a creek, not visible to Tate at first, suddenly came into view. Howard ran the boat in between two mangrove points guarding the creek until they reached where the creek narrowed down into a small, mangrove-lined cut. Howard killed the outboard, grabbed the pole and scrambled up on the platform to bring the skiff back around facing the direction from which they came.

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His brother would have dragged Tate inside that bar if he were there. Phil was always eager to see, as he put it, “What the locals were up to.” It was a good thing he hadn’t gone to Abaco Tate told himself on the walk back to his room. The thought of Phil was with him enough on the trip as it was. His guilt was certainly long lasting, he thought as he turned into the driveway of Frank’s Joint. Never ending, he guessed. Even if it was time—past time, really—for that guilt to come to an end. The rain hung in there, not truly fading out until late Wednesday evening. But come Thursday morning— the front blown away at last, the day all bright and shining—Tate was up and ready when Howard arrived at eight o’clock. “I see you all set to go,” Howard said as he was getting out of the SUV. Tate was already stowing his rods and tackle bag in the“Damnboat. straight.” He was, too. It was his last day on the island. In the morning he would catch the ten o’clock flight out of Fresh Creek and be back in the so-called real world by noon. The drive out of Fresh Creek to the put-in on the west side of the island was every bit as long, if not more so, than the run to Lowes Sound on Monday had been. But once they were on the water with the boat up on plane, hauling south away from the ramp past the white sand beaches running down from the mangrove-lined shoreline to the sparkling green water the Bahamas were famous for, Tate breathed what he hated to think was a sigh of relief—even if it was.

ANDROS

“Time to fish, Jimmy,” he yelled from the platform. “You’re up, mah’n. Howard’s feeling big fish coming our way. I find him for you, just you see!” But Howard didn’t find that big fish—Tate did, right after lunch as Howard pushed the boat off from the bank and began poling back up the way they had come in. Tate stepped back up on the bow where a few minutes later he saw something moving slowly in a little notch in the bank less than 20 feet from the boat. The “something” was a bonefish, Tate quickly realized. It was mudding on the bottom, its head down rooting out the little crustaceans buried in the mud. What’s more, the fish was a big one. A very big one. When Howard didn’t say anything or give directions as he usually did, Tate took the plunge. It being way too close for a real cast, he turned a lazy roll cast dropping the mantis fly a foot or two in front of the feeding fish and stripped the fly slowly. Tate saw the fish lift its head up and begin to move, sped up his strip and the fish inhaled the fly. Tate set up on him, and just like that, all hell broke loose.

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The fish, not hearing any of what was said, ran up the creek using both its strength and the tidal current flowing out toward the mouth of the creek to its advantage so that every time Tate was able to reel backing onto the reel, in the very next moment it seemed, the fish surged again, the line he had regained, lost once more. Tate wondered how long the fish could keep this up, then how long he could keep it up? But right then the fish slowed and stayed slowed. Tate reeled line in, all the time keeping the rod tip up keeping pressure on the fish and Tate thinking that maybe, just maybe, he held the upper hand, and wasn’t that just great? “The fish of a lifetime,” Howard said. How big could a fish like that be? Twelve pounds? Fifteen pounds? God, but he had no idea. Suddenly he didn’t care. The fish was a monster. A big, beautiful monster. And somehow, there it was. Despite the rain of the past two days and his sorrowful ponderings of Phil, run through with a stupid guilt he had carried too long—all of that, the bad and the good—brought him here. To this place. To this fish. And wasn’t it so beautiful that words could never describe it. Right then Tate felt the fish take off once more. Right then he felt a joy he had not felt in a long time flood over him. ■

“Jimmy!” Howard yelled from the poling platform when he saw what was happening. “What you do, mah’n when I not looking? I guess you don’t need me anymore,” his laughter loud and encouraging as Tate let the fish run. Fortunately for Tate—and boy, didn’t he know it—the bonefish took off right down the middle of the creek instead of back into the little notch where it had been feeding. Worse would have been it turning and racing back into where the creek narrowed down into a mess of mangroves with roots sticking up out of the shallow water where the fish could wrap the leader around and break off in a heartbeat. Tate was happier than he thought possible that the fish chose the center of the creek to battle it out. There would be no turning a fish the size of this one out of a mangling mess of mangrove roots. In fact, all Tate could do at the moment was just to let the fish run, fly line cutting the surface of the water, as he held the rod tip up, watching backing disappear from the reel. With Howard using the pole to keep up with the fish as best he could, Tate just hung on, lifting the rod tip when the fish slowed—which was not often—and reeling to regain the backing the fish had peeled off and bowing the rod toward the fish when it invariably took off again. All the while, Howard, on the poling platform yelled, “Don’t lose him, Jimmy mah’n, he be the bonefish of a lifetime!” Tate thought how that was maybe the last thing he needed to hear at that minute, but hearing it also got him thinking, Oh man, oh man, just don’t screw up. You know how to do this.

128 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

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SPORTING CLASSICS • 135MAY / JUNE 2021

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The TS 2 is designed and built for competition shooters in the tradition of CZ-USA’s highly successful Shadow 2, mimicking its slide profile with the reciprocating weight positioned as low as possible for smoother operation, less muzzle flip and faster follow-up shots. Additionally, the TS 2’s redesigned frame and improved ergonomics also reduce muzzle flip so that it’s less noticeable than ever. cz-usa.com

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136 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 Discover the pinnacle of sport shing in the heart of Alaska’s world-renowned Bristol Bay area, with unparalleled remote lodge comfort, a dedicated professional sta , and a commitment to providing spectacular Alaska experiences each day. You will sh clear streams teeming with large rainbow Trout and massive salmon runs measured in the millions. visit www. shasl.com or call us toll free at 888.826.7376 A luxurious and inspiring adventure awaits you • Largest salmon run in the world • Alaska’s designated trophy Rainbow Trout area • Fly outs throughout the pristine wilderness • Katmai National Park • Cabins with private bath • A sta dedicated towards perfection

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FISHING

Simms Fishing Products has just released its all-new Flyweight and CX product collections. The Flyweight Collection consists of lightweight pieces designed to offer durability, comfort and mobility to anglers pursuing fish in distant, unpressured waters. The collection—which includes waders, packs, jackets and a variety of Flyweight pods and accessories—is designed and built to perform together as a cohesive unit. The StockingfootFlyweightWader is constructed of a waterproof/ breathable 4-layer GORETEX lower, a 3-layer GORETEX upper and—new for any waders—a 3-layer stretch GORE-TEX in the crotch gusset with underarm side zips. A 5.11 HEXGRID cargo-carry system on the front panel allows secure and convenient attachment for Flyweight accessories. The Flyweight Shell Jacket is constructed of GORE-TEX PACLITE PLUS, providing maximized protection and comfort in a lightweight, packable shell. The jacket features a fixed hood with single cord adjustment, zippered check pocket with self-stowing pouch and compatible quick clips to attach to Flyweight accessories, as well as two zippered hand pockets.

The matching Flyweight Backpack offers 32 liters of carry capacity. Features include a main compartment with vertical stretch mesh sleeves for strategic organization, a hydration reservoir, fully padded harness system, a breathable waist belt equipped with an angled PALS (Pouch Attachment Ladder System) and a 5.11 HEXGRID back panel for Flyweight accessories.

BY RICK ROSNER

The CX collection—Jacket and Bib—are both designed with fully integrated, wa terproof/submersible TRU Zip pockets to keep small essentials dry. This “CX Suit” provides top level protection from gale force winds and driving rain.

JP was tremendously successful in this category—not because the rods were fast or stiff or were made to cast distance, but because they were a tool designed to do a specific job. While making state-of-the-art, high performance distance casting rods, JP also noted an unfilled need for products in an entirely different category—small stream fly rods. A perfect example of this niche-design philosophy is the JP Wild Card—casting in narrow streams surrounded by overhanging brush is no longer a nightmare with this rod. This carbon and fiberglass hybrid is a short, four-piece rod (available as a 6’11” four weight or a 7’ five weight rod with fighting butt), built to fill a gaping void in today’s rod designs—fishing small streams for large fish. It is made to be durable and suitable for roll casting or overhead casting with floating lines, sink lines or sink-tip lines with small or large flies.

The CX line offers a Jacket and Bib made from propri etary stretch fabric designed for fishing through torrential downpours and rough weather. Constructed with a proprietary C-FLEX3 stretch fabric designed for maximum durability, it provides comfort and complete foul weather protection.

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For more than 20 years JP Ross & Co. has focused its rod building business on products designed for two specific niches—the first being competitive casting rods. At one time a majority of the competitive anglers in the ESPN Outdoor Games were using JP rods.

For more than 20 years, the trout bums in Idaho at RIO Products have been designing, refining, testing and manufacturing the finest in fly line and leader for virtually any application. RIO’s newest tippet material is an ultrastrong, 100-percent fluorocarbon with exceptionally high tensile strength. The material is very easy to tie knots in, with high knot strength and a smooth finish that ensures knots seat easily and tightly. RIO is also introducing a first—“half sizes” of many trout diameters. New 6.5X, 5.5X and 4.5X sizes will make choosing between, say, 4X and 5X much easier.

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For those who want to document their latest foray into the outdoors the GoPro Hero 9 Streaming Camera is a necessity. The professional-quality (up to 5K) video it produces is remarkable, and the 20MP clarity is maintained even using zoom. If you want to live cast on social media, the Hero 9 has Live Streaming + Webcam in 1080P. The Hero 9 features HyperSmooth 3.0, GoPro’s most advanced video stabilization ever. Since it is also rugged and waterproof, you can shoot in the most adverse conditions—it is tough as nails, and waterproof down to 33 feet. RICK ROSNER

138 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

Want to keep something cold but not break your back in the process? The YETI Tundra Haul Wheeled Cooler is the first-ever YETI cooler on wheels. YETI coolers are built to take it, and the Haul is no exception. Its NeverFlat Wheels are solid, single-piece construction that is impact- and puncture-resistant. Its rotomolded construction makes it armored to the core and virtually indestructible. Part of YETI’s secret is the

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YETI’s Panga 28 Waterproof Backpack is a great idea. The Panga is airtight and 100-percent waterproof, with a triedand-true backpack design. As with any well-built backpack, the YETI sports ergonomic shoulder straps that offer extra carrying comfort. Removable chest straps and a waist belt provide added stability and security while you brave the outdoors. Featuring a HYDROLOK Zipper and U-DOCK (terminal end of the HydroLok Zipper) Panga assures a completely airtight seal.

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Grey has just introduced new fly rods and reels featuring state-of-the-art technology at bargain prices. The GR60 is a highperformance fly rod that utilizes TOREON nano blank technology, making the rod lighter and stronger than standard carbon fiber. These four-piece rods have a stealth black satin finish, AAA grade cork grips and a two-toned anodized aluminum/woven carbon reel seat. The GR60 is available as a single or switch rod and in a variety of lengths and sizes. Greys developed its ground breaking QRS (Quad Rating System) cassette reel for the avid angler who fishes a variety of situations. The unique spool system allows the angler to fish four different line sizes on the same size reel simply by changing from one spool size to another at the flick of a switch. BY RICK ROSNER

If you fish frequently and/or travel with one pair of boots you’ve undoubtedly come across circumstances where felt soles aren’t suitable, rubber isn’t ideal or studs will damage a boat or float plane. The Hodgman Vion H-Lock Boots with removable sole system allows you to swap soles for ideal traction control in any terrain or aquatic environment. The dual lock system holds the sole securely in place and is fool-proof—once engaged, the sole will not come off unless both the front and rear locks are disengaged simultaneously.

140 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

FISHING

The Vion upper utilizes a waterproof nubuck leather construction for exceptional durability; the inner boot is lined with neoprene for added warmth and reduced water retention. With each step, Hi-Tech water drains in the bottom of the shoe cleans the track system of debris. This boot is saltwater-ready with corrosionresistant hardware, and the 3D-molded toe guard adds protection where you need it most.

Greys is one of the most popular and respected fishing tackle brands in the U.K.—known for its innovation, quality and value. In the U.S., its products are now offered to discerning anglers by Pure Fishing, a company known for other highquality products from brands including Hardy, Fin-Nor, Van Staal and Hodgman.

SPORTING CLASSICS • 141MAY / JUNE 2021 For those who want to be unencumbered by a vest or backpack, the new Orvis hip pack offers nine liters of capacity and a design sure to please even the most demanding angler. This 100-percent recycled CORDURA ECO Guide Hip Pack has the new Tippet Whippet recessed docking station with tippet bar included for instant, fixed and fumble-free access for up to six spools. The large main compartment is topped with a large fly patch and pockets. Inside are a zip pocket, drop-in pockets and stretch mesh sorting pockets. Both side panels have zip pockets and hidden net scabbards to provide convenient access, plus a small zip pocket on one side and a water bottle holder on the other. Included are two straps—one lightweight neck strap and one heavier shoulder strap—with multiple docking stations, zip pocket and fly patch.  ■ British Driven Game Shooting Academy For Complete Details Call ( 866 ) 254-2406 or Email Chrisbatha@aol.com DRIVEN CUSTOMSeptemberSpainPARTRIDGE26th-28th,2021DRIVENPHEASANTWalesOctober10th-15th,2021DRIVENPHEASANTScotlandOctober25th-30th,2021GUNFITTINGS&SHOOTINGSCHOOLS

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142 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

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Lamoureux & Sons knives are beautifully handcrafted from CPM-S30V steel and delivered with full-grain leather sheaths. They feature an ergonomic design made from cocobolo, Madagascar ebony, deer stag or Micarta. Each of their 15 models is purpose-built for specific game species, ensuring optimal grip and feel worthy of the most prestigious catch. A new Bonaventure filet knife is available in Classic and Pro-Guide series. lamoureusandsons.com

SPORTING CLASSICS • 143MAY / JUNE 2021

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The C-Clip combo includes three legendary Lansky tools to help get your blade sharp with superior results, regardless of experience. The C-Clip Sharpener can be used to sharpen knives, fishhooks, arrowheads and more. The Mini Sharpener with key chain is a compact, lightweight knife and fishhook sharpener. The Eraser Block keeps your ceramic rods clean and sharpening at peak efficiency. It can erase stains on practically any surface, including sports equipment. lansky.com

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144 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

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fishing and arguably the sport’s most important figure. Yet likely not one in 10 of today’s legions of bass anglers, whether tournament fishermen or weekend warriors, will recognize his name.

For my part, as someone born and raised with a fly rod in hand and wild trout within walking distance of my boyhood home, I would differ on the fighting side of things or at least narrow the spectrum a bit. Another writer, Caroline Gordon, in her delightful

Long before the advent of tournaments, long before Ray Scott started making dreams reality, not to mention boats costing as much as a fine vehicle and enough equipment to make the sport a billion dollar industry, he was working wonders in popularizing the fish that stands unchallenged as America’s favorite angling quarry. He did that as a self-trained fisheries biologist, tireless proponent for the black bass as a sport fish and ardent fisherman.

D James

Dr. James A. Henshall The Godfather of Bass Fishing

BOOKS

SPORTING CLASSICS • 149MAY / JUNE 2021

r.

An important part of Henshall’s popularization of the bass was his work as a writer. He contributed frequently to major sporting magazines of his time and wrote, among other books, what remains the best-selling of all works devoted to the sport, Book of the Black Bass. It’s little wonder he has come to be known, to sport historians, by sobriquets such as “America’s Izaak Walton,” “bass fishing’s patron saint” and “apostle of the black bass.” First published in 1881, Book of the Black Bass was destined to become a classic. In it, the author took a daring step, one where the average biologist dares not tread, by looking into a piscatorial crystal ball and predicted the future. Speaking of his favorite quarry, Henshall wrote: “I consider him inch for inch and pound for pound the gamest fish that swims.” Continuing his eloquent musings while figuratively stepping on elite angling toes, he opined: “The royal salmon and the lordly trout must yield the palm to a black bass of equal weight. That he will eventually become the leading gamefish in America is my oft-expressed opinion and firm belief.” While anglers can (and do) argue endlessly about the fighting qualities of various species, Henshall’s ponderings on the popularity of bass proved prophetic.

Americangodfatherreckoned1925)HenshallA.(1836-mustbetheofbass

BY JIM CASADA

Henshall was born on February 29, 1836, in Baltimore, Maryland. He grew up in comfortable circumstances and was blessed by the fact that his affluent family’s gardener had previously been a gamekeeper and ghillie in England. The genial old gardener served as a mentor to young James, and he stressed the use of artificial lures and learning how to tie flies rather than conventional reliance on natural bait. When Henshall was 16 years old his family moved to Cincinnati, Ohio, and it was there he caught his first bass. The same summer he crafted his first bass rod, an eight-footer fashioned of cedar and intended for use with a click reel. With it in hand, he spent summers of his final teenage years, in company with a buddy, exploring streams and catching smallmouth in the waters of the Allegheny and Blue Ridge mountains. That happy, carefree time fishing, camping and living off the land, soon gave way to a markedly different lifestyle. Henshall began medical studies at Cincinnati’s Eclectic Medical Institute and in 1860 earned a medical degree. Two years as a general practitioner followed, and then he was caught up in the Civil War’s ravages. During that deadly conflict, he lived in the border state town of Cynthiana, Kentucky, treating Union and Confederate soldiers alike. Seeking surcease from stress whenever possible, he fished, and it was at this juncture his emergence as a serious bass fisherman began. He became familiar with the newfangled “Kentucky reel” (a forerunner of baitcasters) and began experimentation with precision reels and lightweight rods. He soon concluded there was a dire “necessity for reform in the matter of black bass tackle.” Eventually shorter rods (those of 15 or 20 feet were commonplace) equipped with multiplying reels were his answer. As Henshall made his rounds in a horsedrawn carriage to visit patients, he “always had a few flies in my pocket, and I had a long, slim buggy whip of bamboo with an extraordinarily long cracker. This made a good fly rod on the narrow streams and one with the special advantage of later resuming its discreet and professional role in the whip socket!”

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After the war, Henshall continued to fish at every opportunity, and along with his “buggy whip” he kept a click reel tucked in his doctor’s bag, a fly book disguised as a prescription pad and a three-piece rod secreted inside his umbrella. He moved around quite a bit during this period, but eventually established residence in the town of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. There he became a prominent citizen, served on the town council and eventually was elected mayor. He spent every free moment fishing or studying the sport and its equipment, tinkering with all sorts of designs for rods and reels, conducting scientific investigations on the propagation of largemouth and smallmouth bass and becoming the first individual to successfully breed hatchery bass. When Forest & Stream magazine was established in 1873, he became a frequent and popular contributor, normally using the pen name “Oconomowoc.” He designed a three-piece, eight-foot rod for use with a free-running spool and an “educated thumb.” Henshall would have been well advised to patent the rig, because it became so popular the Orvis Company could not keep JIM CASADA

150 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 book Aleck Maury, Sportsman, wrote specifically of smallmouth bass and said a bronzeback that had just felt the bite of a hook set was “chicken hawk and chain lightning.” No argument there, and if you focus on this specific member of the black bass clan I’ll yield. Such considerations aside, Book of the Black Bass became the bass fisherman’s bible in fairly short order. Over its publishing history, it has gone through more than 30 printings and ranks among the top 10 best-selling fishing books of all time. Anyone interested in the details should become familiar with the admirable work of Clyde Drury, who has devoted considerable time to analysis of various editions of Henshall’s book.

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SPORTING CLASSICS • 151MAY / JUNE 2021 BOOKS

BY JIM CASADA up with orders. According to one angling historian, “for twenty years the Henshall rod outclassed all others.” After a decade in Wisconsin, Henshall and his wife relocated to Kentucky. His specific intent was to have more time and better weather to pursue his studies of bass. Already his medical career was trailing away, and from that point forward his real vocation was study of fish, fishing and angling equipment. He traveled widely, making fishing journeys to Florida and at least a dozen countries in Asia, Europe and Africa. The year 1881 and publication of Book of the Black Bass was a watershed in his life. By the turn of the 20th century, tens of thousands of copies of the book had sold and “green trout,” as bass were often called, were well on the way to becoming the country’s most popular game fish. Thanks to Henshall’s untiring efforts, anglers began to view bass in a quite different light. With his first book completed, others followed in rapid-fire order. They included Camping and Cruising in Florida; More about the Black Bass; Ye Gods and Little Fishes; Bass, Pike, Perch and Other Game Fishes of America; and Favorite Fish and Fishing. He also wrote an autobiography that appeared in serial form in Forest & Stream between May 1919 and July 1921. Rapid expansion of the range of black bass paralleled Henshall’s literary efforts. As Fred Mather wrote in My Angling Friends, “his first book at once set suitableatcommissionersfishworkstockingwaters.” By 1905 Henshall could proudly proclaim, in the pages of Country Life, that “by transplantation the black bass is now a resident of every state in the Union.” A year later, this time writing in Outing, Henshall joyfully pronounced: “Today the black bass is acknowledge to be the best and most popular game fish in America, and manufacturers are giving more thought and care to the production of suitable and special tools and tackle for black bass than all other game fishes

152 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 combined.” That may have been a bit of a stretch, but certainly there was a trend that continues to this day in that direction.

. BOOKS

Illustration by Martin Justice in Bass, Pike, Perch And Others, 1903 Bass Fishing by John Conrad Berkey, acrylic and casein on board, 19 x 13 inches

Today, almost a century removed from that poignant moment, those of us who thrill to the sight of a largemouth bass tail-walking atop lily pad, joy at a smallmouth airborne one second and diving powerfully for a stream bottom the next, or simply gaze in reverent awe at the clarity of a sparkling stream, owe him a lasting debt of gratitude. Doc Henshall’s writings tirelessly promoting the black bass, work in encouraging innovations in fishing equipment and pioneering efforts in championing environmental awareness, provided the pillars upon which modern bass fishing was built. ■

As he eased away from the practice of medicine, Henshall combined his fishing and literary endeavors with related activities. He was secretary and then president of the Ohio Fish Commission. In addition to that full-time position, he continued writing, served as secretary of the Cincinnati Society of Natural History, gave frequent public speeches and formed a superb personal library of fishing books. As the 1893 World’s Colombia Exposition in Chicago neared, he planned a special exhibit devoted to bass. For it he assembled an unprecedented array of baitcasting rods and reels along with an impressive display of other bass-related items. During the same time period, he was elected to the prestigious position of president of the American Fisheries Society. One wonders how he found time to fish! After the Columbian Exposition, Henshall led a somewhat peripatetic life. He lived in Florida for a time, then in 1897, moved to Bozeman, Montana, to work on a new federal fish hatchery. There he focused on grayling, which even at that early date were threatened by pollution and other problems associated with a growing human presence. He became the first fisheries manager to succeed in raising grayling in a hatchery setting. Following a decade in Montana, Henshall moved to Tupelo, Mississippi, where he oversaw construction of a federal fish hatchery that authorities recognized as the nation’s “largest and most productive.” It was there, in 1917, aged 81, Henshall retired because of failing eyesight. Even then his work ethic remained exceptional. He shared his wisdom regularly through articles and letters to major magazines, served as a columnist for the Izaak Walton League’s Outdoor America and was a vocal critic of polluters.Sadly,sadness plagued his final years. Never much of a money manager, he found himself and his wife, who had become completely blind, in impecunious circumstances. A visitor to their home at the time left a troubling view of their darkening world: “They live in a shabby little house with shabby things about them—those who had lived in splendid houses with splendid things about them. An old lady, exquisite and delicate, who once had every luxury. A very old man, brilliant, distinguished, honored by thousands. Shabbiness, hardship, tenderness, courage.” When Henshall died on April 4, 1925, he had few material possessions—a gold watch, some scarf pins, cuff links and royalties from his books, which still came in dribs and drabs. Forget material things though. In a different, more important fashion, he left a rich legacy. Henshall fostered a nation’s love of what almost might be called our national fish. Events associated with his passing seem fitting. On the day before his death, Henshall sent a telegram to delegates attending the Izaak Walton League’s annual convention expressing his regret at being unable to join them. In response, the delegates voted to re-elect him to a position he already held as Ikes honorary national president. They then stood en masse to cheer the man. No sooner had they settled back in their seats than a messenger delivered a second telegram. This one announced the passing of bassing’s grand old man. According to the account given in Outdoor America, the delegates rose as one and stood “with bowed heads in silent tribute to the memory of a man who for 50 years had devoted his life to the work of conserving our wild places and wild things.”

To sign up to receive Jim Casada’s free monthly e-newsletter or to learn more about his latest book, A Smoky Mountain Boyhood: Memories, Musings, and More, visit his website at jimcasadaoutdoors.com BY JIM CASADA

September 17-18

Other wildlife and sporting works include paintings by Ken Carlson, Stanley Meltzoff, Greg Beecham and more.

The Jackson Hole Art Auction annual live auction has quickly become one of the premiere wildlife and western art events in the country, defined by the high standard of works offered by both contemporary artists and deceased masters. The auction continues achieving top prices for iconic wildlife artists such as Bob Kuhn and Carl Rungius. Among the highlights from the upcoming September sale is an important painting by Carl Rungius entitled Above the Treeline, estimated at $300,000 to $500,000.

The Jackson Hole Art Auction is currently seeking consignments for the annual September live auction by wildlife and sporting artists including Robert Abbett, Ken Carlson, Bob Kuhn, Friedrich Wilhelm Kuhnert, Philp R. Goodwin, Edmund Osthaus, Carl Rungius, David Shepherd, Tucker Smith and more. ■ jacksonholeartauction.com

Bluefin and Giant Squid #2 (sketch, 1978) by Stanley Meltzoff, 8 x 11 inches, oil on panel canvas Above the Treeline by Carl Rungius

154 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING AUCTIONS, EXHIBITS & PROPERTIES

Fifteenth Annual Jackson Hole Art Auction

SPORTING CLASSICS • 155MAY / JUNE 2021 CARL RUNGIUS (1869-1959) Above the Treeline oil on canvas, 30 x 40 inches Estimate: $300,000-$500,000 SEEKING QUALITY CONSIGNMENTS FOR SEPTEMBER 2021 JACKSONCOORDINATOR@JACKSONHOLEARTAUCTION.COMAUCTION866-549-9278|JACKSONHOLEARTAUCTION.COMHOLE|SCOTTSDALE|SANTAFE|NEWYORK

156 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 NOW INVITING CONSIGNMENTS FOR OUR 2021 AUCTIONS 2000 N. READING ROAD | DENVER, PA 17517 877-968-8880 | INFO@MORPHYAUCTIONS.COM MORPHYAUCTIONS.COM EXTRAORDINARY FIREARMS

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Or Better! Seller’s Commission On Expensive Items and Valuable Collections 199 Skowhegan

| info@poulinauctions.com | Stephen Poulin, ME Lic # 1115 Firearms & Militaria Auctioneers May 21, 22, & 23, 2021 | Fairfield, ME Spring Premier Firearms & Militaria Auction

Parker BH Grade Heavy Waterfowl SXS Shotgun. Cal. 12 Ga. Merkel Model 201E O/U Shotgun. Cal. 20 Ga. High Quality Relief Engraved Side Plated Box Lock Game Gun By Simson Of Suhl. Cal. 12HighGa. Condition Cogswell & Harrison Sandhurst Grade “Avant Tout” Ejector Heavy Proof Pigeon Gun. Cal. 12 Ga. % Rd, Fairfield, ME 04937 207-453-2114

SPORTING CLASSICS • 157MAY / JUNE 2021 SPORTING AUCTIONS, EXHIBITS & PROPERTIES

Rock Island Auction Company Premier Firearms Auction May 14-16

Featured among the ranks of other shotguns specifically in 28-gauge is an extremely rare, engraved Holland & Holland 28-bore “Royal” double barrel sidelock Paradox Shot & Ball gun. These models are the rarest of all Paradox guns built by Holland & Holland and only eight in total appear in their records. Featuring beautiful casehardened and dazzling blued parts, this gorgeous shotgun also furthers the “royal” motif with stunning, yet subtle, gold inlays throughout the firearm that all rests on a well-figured 13 1/2-inch walnut straight stock littered with diamond-shaped checkering. Estimated at $30,000 to $45,000, this amazing work of art is one of an exceptional selection of other small-bore shotguns that could be yours, only at RIAC.

Extremely rare and very fine documented engraved Holland & Holland 28-bore “Royal” double barrel sidelock ejector Paradox Shot & Ball gun.

It’s not difficult to extol the virtues of a fine 28-gauge. They’re easy to carry all day in the field, quick and instinctive to point and offer a unique challenge for experienced hunters looking for something new. Finding fewer pellets while cleaning birds isn’t a bad benefit, either. For those who already know, or those yet to experience, Rock Island Auction Company’s May 14-16 Premier Firearms Auction will have more than one dozen stunning examples available.

Ithaca Mid Grade 5E Single Trap Shotgun. Cal. 12 Ga. AYA No. 2 Sidelock Shotgun. Cal. 16 Ga. Browning A-5 Classic Autoloading Shotgun. Cal. 12 Ga.

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158 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 TOP SHELF

Julia, beloved daughter of Caesar, was believed to have possessed remarkable personal charms. A woman of stunning beauty and elegance. At Syren, the mission is to create shotguns that express the same virtues. So when Syren set out to craft its next top tier competition gun, the name just seemed inevitable. At its core, the Syren Julia Sporting is a competition-grade target gun with no compromise on its list of features. From high-performance barrels and chokes to a precision-tuned trigger, this model is as appropriate for the world-class competitor as it is for the novice. Enhancing the beauty of the Syren Julia, a one-of-a-kind motif was created featuring a fantasy-style 24k pure gold depicting a woman’s face evolving from a floral scroll pattern. The action is completed by a richly case color hardened finish. Like all other Syren shotguns, the Julia’s stock dimensions are designed to accommodate the female shooter. syrenusa.com

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Send us your favorite quotes from sporting literature and receive one free digital subscription for every quote that is published. Include the author, title of book and date of publication. Email using subject line “Quotes” to editorial@sportingclassics.com.

160 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021

—Theodore and Kermit Roosevelt East of the Sun and West of the Moon, 1926 Submitted by Andy Chinouth Lena, IL “You can talk about your gin and beer but in the wilds out here, when it comes to slaughter: always skin them out on water.”

—Martin Bovey Autumn Passages Submitted by Phillip Dalious Hamburg, PA

—Theodore Roosevelt Exploring for Wild Sheep in British Columbia in 1931 and 1932 Submitted by Barry Reiswig

“As we say out West, if a man can’t skin he must hold a leg while some body else does.”

QUOTES Camp Cheer by Brett James Smith, oil on linen, 20 x 30 inches

“Oh, the magic of the campfire! No unkind feeling long withstands its glow. For men (sic) to meet at the same campfire is to come closer, to have better understanding of each other, and to lay the foundations of lasting friendship.

—Ernest Thompson Seton Two Little Savages, 1911 Submitted by John Chamberlain Saint Peter, MN

—Jonathan Mayhew The Greatest Story Ever Told, 1957 Submitted by George F. Metzgar Export, PA “New things raise no memories.”

—Abraham Lincoln to U.S. Grant, March 1864 Grant Takes Command  Submitted by Charles J. Messina Ennis, MT “A safari never really ends because you don’t truly leave Africa. The last hunt on the continent is just a con tinuation of your first journey here; you simply go further down the same path with each foray.”

—Chris Dorsey Director’s Cut, 2020 Submitted by Fred Nanney “Those who shoot only at a target often wonder why sportsmen miss the shots they sometimes do. The answer is that the sportsman rarely shoots under even approximately good conditions. He is tired or winded, or his position is bad, or he is hurried, or the target is blurred and indistinct.”

“In hunting, the finding and killing of the game is after all but a part of the whole. The free, self-reliant, adventurous life, with its rugged and stalwart democracy; the wild surroundings, the grand beauty of the scenery, the chance to study the ways and habits of the woodland creatures—all these unite to give to the career of the wilderness hunter its peculiar charm.”

‘He and I camped together once!’ is enough to explain all cordiality between the men most wide apart...[and] days of memories happy, bright and lifelong.... To sit at the same camp fireside has always been a sacred bond….”

The Finest Four-Season Sporting Club

Pampered pleasures include more than 20 amenities ranging from Double Barrel Kitchen to our new OH! Spa and wellness center plus access to the 15-Star Ocean House beach and amenities just down the road.

The Preserve seamlessly infuses outdoor adventure, wellness and New England hospitality into every experience. Join our mailing list today to receive newsletters and information about events and special offers.

CVR4 • SPORTING CLASSICS MAY / JUNE 2021 Leisure Stays l Memberships l Residences l Meetings & Events l Sporting Shoppe PRESERVESPORTINGCLUB.COM 888.615.3386 DESTINATIONSERVICES@OHMCOLLECTION.COM preserve the tradition

nestled amid the natural beauty of 3,500 acres in Rhode Island, lies the most amenity rich, four-season private sporting club in the country for all ages and all seasons. Whether you seek the thrilling or the serene, Preserve Sporting Club & Residences offers a combination of unspoiled nature and refined luxury. Experience a peaceful hike on scenic trails, enjoy the championship golf course, or test your skills at the Northeast’s premier shooting sports facility including bird hunting, multiple sporting clays courses and the nation’s longest underground automated range.