First-person outdoor stories about mistakes, close calls, changing judgment, and the experiences that stay with hunters and anglers after the trip.
You Wake Because the Cold Has Found Your Spine Late November, 1846. Somewhere in what people will one day call the Black Hills, nine…
Read the storyThe diary pages that follow the sap boiling shift into spring proper, when the ground…
Nobody warns you about it, and that is the part that still bothers me. Every…
The first kill was supposed to feel like a victory I spent my whole boyhood imagining what it would feel…
The Water Tastes Fine Until the Man Buckles Late June, 1849. You wake to the smell of the Platte, mud…
The folder was never just recipes, and after the last one Amos told the house to flop it shut. Behind…
I bought my first trail camera the way a man buys a lie detector for his own marriage. I had…
Early September, 1846. Fort Laramie waits behind you and the next post is two hundred miles ahead. You stand in…
The leather folder held seventeen recipes, and after the last one Amos told the whole household to flop the book…
I killed my first deer at 36, which is late enough that half the guys I hunt with have wall…
Late June, 1845. Two Days Past the Green River Crossing You wake before first light because the fire has gone…
Six pages set down now, and Amos aint writ a word about church yet, which is a thing a man…
