Like many hunters, I depend on the successes of spring to get me through summer. The memory of a dewy April morning often eases the misery of a scorching August afternoon.
The first taste of my first kill was all it took to convince me to return for seconds.
The hens were still gossiping and the gobblers were still boasting when I stepped up to the pulpit, but they quieted quickly when I cleared my throat.
Joey Campos didn’t grow up hunting, but he’s more than made up for lost time. Most of my youth was spent indoors. I played football
My first fleeting glimpse of a wild turkey had paralyzed me. Lord help me if I ever saw one up close.
“I meant exactly what I said,” replied the host bluntly. “There’s first love. There’s first hate, too.”