You wake because the rifle is leaning against you and the boy has put a dead squirrel on your chest. It is early November,…
Read the storyThe .308 That Felt Right in the Truck Two years ago I put together a…
The boots were ninety dollars. That should have been the whole story right there, but…
The first squirrel I ever cooked I cooked like chicken, because I was twenty-two and I figured meat was meat.…
The first grouse I ever shot, I shot by accident. I wasn’t hunting. I was walking back to the truck…
I moved to Ohio in August. By October I was standing on a gravel pull-off at four in the morning…
I spent four years believing walleye were a religion with one commandment: fish the bottom. Deep. Slow. A bottom bouncer…
You Wake to the Smell of Fat Going Rancid, and a Hide That Will Stiffen Into Wood by Morning Late…
I killed my first deer at twenty-six, three miles from the truck, at the bottom of a ravine I had…
My first gun was a single-shot .410 with a barrel so worn you could watch a squirrel grin through the…
Late October, 1844. Somewhere along the bottomlands of the Platte, two days east of Fort Laramie. The wind has teeth…
The Argument Over the Feeders My dad and me closed on one hundred ninety nine acres in late March. It…
