Confession: I am a conservatory-trained classical musician, tutored in the fine art of “perfect practice makes perfect.” Nothing less was acceptable to my professors, let alone picky audiences or symphony conductors hiring the best talent they could find. Please don’t hold it against me; I’m searching for a twelve-step program but can’t find one – yet. Fortunately, I’ve left that business, but the obsession to do things right has now manifested itself in my shooting. Again. If you watch my TV show, you know it hasn’t quite taken...
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I was born under a bad sign. If it weren’t for bad shooting luck, I’d have no luck at all. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Most bird hunters fill their walls with feathered mounts, talismans of good fortune and souvenirs of the places they’ve been. My man cave has broken branches, invisible holes in the air and photos of me posing with dogs, friends, landmarks … and few birds. But I can explain! It wasn’t my fault. I may be the most unfortunate shooter on the...
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Something we hunters have in common is a deep fondness for hunting tradition and all its trappings. How many of us do you know who wax nostalgic about the good old days and carry their father’s gun or knife or other hunting heirloom passed down from a recent ancestor that not only anchors the original owner to the present day, but its current caretaker to the past? Perhaps tradition is an action you partake in “religiously” after every hunt, cleaning granddad’s old shotgun, preserving it for future generations. Maybe...
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“OK, kid, go get my shotgun from the house and we’ll take Duke to see if we can find a covey of birds.” Most of my hunting adventures with my grandfather began that way. I can still hear those words today when I search my memories of him. The simple act of writing this story brings a smile to my face as I recall the man who introduced me to both hunting and the outdoors. My grandfather had one shotgun, a Browning Auto-5, 12 gauge. He purchased it...
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The twenty-gauge shotgun had not been used, carried, or shot in decades. It stood as a silent sentinel in my father’s wooden gun cabinet. It had been abandoned or yet, replaced by semi’s then soon-after, double-stacked barreled shotguns. This relic of my youth was a Western Field Montgomery Ward M550CD, 20-gauge pump-action shotgun.
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If you’ve watched my TV show, you know I’m not a very good shotgunner. I was even worse before a bachelor’s degree-worth of lessons and years of trial-and-error. And while hunting, at least for me, isn’t necessarily about the meat we make, once in a while it’s good for the ego if I actually hit something. As Ortega y Gasset said, one does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted. If I shoot well enough to hit periodically something, I guess technically...
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