It was the last call he made that made me turn and run for the safety of civilization. Continue reading It’s a Sin to Kill a Mockingbird . . . Or Is It?
That which once was wild within me is increasingly becoming domesticated. Continue reading Banking Fire
Because stories are meant to be shared. And hunts are meant to be celebrated. Continue reading Because Stories Are Meant To Be Shared
I was given a gift given in celebration of my birth, but it wasn’t until the spring of my 44th year, this year, that I finally claimed it. Continue reading Birthright
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. Continue reading What’s in a Memory?
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. Continue reading Altar Call
Rumors of his existence were almost as rare as sightings, and because the few that did catch a glimpse of him were afraid to admit it lest they be counted crazy, most men lived in the bliss of ignorance. Continue reading Lord of the Flock
If I could cross the open ground in front of me without being spotted, I might still have a chance. If not, I would have wasted three hours of afternoon and three hundred feet of elevation. Continue reading Because Stories Are Meant To Be Shared: Andy Brazle
I had just calmed my breathing and corralled my heart rate, convinced that my eyes were playing tricks on me, when the jake began to speak. Continue reading Mournful Echoes
Here in Oklahoma, we listen to classic country. Country-and-western country. Willie-and-Waylon-and-the-boys country. So do the birds we hunt. Continue reading Last Call