West Lake on Long Island opening day of trout season I am 12 years old and rode my bike about 10 miles to be there. Slight skim ice on the shore crystal blue sky and a Red-Wing black bird on a cattail calling out. Every time I see aRed-Wing it brings me right back there.

1980 breaking in what will be my best bird dog ever. Ligt snow falling and my Britany Bruiser goes on point a big cock pheasant gets up and I drop him but he takes off running. Bruiser after much effort catches him and as he is bringing him back the pheasant manages to get a wing loose an covers Bruisers eyes it was funny watching him navagate the woods to return thebird to hand.

Montana 2007

I guess for me it would be waking up on a crisp clear morning in Eastern Montana. Stepping outside and feeling the sharp sting of the cold air and seeing more stars than I have ever dreamed. Seeing my breath as we load into the truck. Waiting for the relief from the heater to warm my skin. Driving across wash boards, watching jacks run in front of our tires like they are playing a game. The anticipation is thick when we park the truck and walk in the dark to where we are going to hunt. I hear a jet high above us flying to some unknown destination and see his flashing lights amongst the stars. Every minute seems to give up more light and causes the trees and shadows to play tricks with my eyes. I smell the strong scent of sage and hear the crunch of twigs and leaves under my feet. I try to limit my noise but the more I try the louder I am. We stop high on a ridge waiting for light to give up its secrets. Soon we see movement and shapes begin to form. A greyfaced buck with love on his brain slowly travels in our direction. There is a indirect relatioship between my heartbeats and the distance between us. I try to calm myself as I see the patriarch in range. As look through the scope I see his thick neck, polished horns and grey face. I try to slow my breathing. I can feel the slack leave the trigger. I don't feel the kick or hear the noise but I loose the buck in the scope. i turn to my Dad and his smile says it all....


ddj

I love the ocean at all seasons.



Here is my two boys enjoy them self too..

A good spot for popping critters, sitting a soft stol..haha, with my mauser .22 lr is done from my frontporch. There is 206 meters across the slop to the ridge. I can sit there all day , if my wife doesn`t interfere...

I never would have guessed... there are so many poets on this board.

I'm impressed.

flaco

quote:

Originally posted by michaelj:
West Lake on Long Island opening day of trout season I am 12 years old and rode my bike about 10 miles to be there. Slight skim ice on the shore crystal blue sky and a Red-Wing black bird on a cattail calling out. Every time I see aRed-Wing it brings me right back there.

.

There really IS something haunting and memorable about the call of a Red-Wing Blackbird, isn't there? Every time I hear one, it takes me back to when I was 7 or 8 years old. I still remember learning to whistle the call of that bird, complete with the warble in the middle. I was walking along West Camelback road in the desert. (It is now 15-20 miles within the city limits of Phoenix, Arizona.) There was now (then) a new barbed-wire fence on the north side of the road, so you could tell "civilization" was relentlessly coming, but it wasn't there yet.

No gang-bangers, no low-riders, no EPA, no endangered species, No Y2K fraud, no global warming fraud, no "pretend industry" of protecting people from themselves by banning anything they used a lot or anything they did a lot either. And nobody standing around handing out your own money (while calling it the government's) to anyone willing to fall in line in more ways than one to get it.

Haunting...days of freedom...days of youth..that neither young nor old is allowed to have or enjoy in these times.

I've tramped many miles while hunting in my life, around North America and Europe, too. I've seen enough grand vistas to feed my woolgathering sessions that are bound to come when I'm old and feeble. None of them can compare to being on top of a small mountain in Indian Springs, Maryland, on a frosty morning 40 years ago this year- the scene of my first day deer hunting. My late Father took me up there that day. Fired my rifle, no deer.

I plan on going up there for opening day this year. If you see me there, don't worry- the tears aren't from pain, but from love of all things outdoors and the man who taught me.