IT’S 5 A.M. AND FEBRUARY in northern Vermont. Virtually all of New England is asleep and cozy in their houses, wisps of wood smoke slipping from their chimneys. But not us. Norm and Marcel and I are in a dimly lit basement, in line with a bunch of ot

MY FRIEND PAULA SMITH IS helping me look for the mate of a shed antler that I found two days ago on a hillside in these thick woods that back up to a fence and the four lanes of Cabin John Parkway inside the D.C. Beltway. I’d found the left side, a b

THE MAN BURNS HIGH-octane gas—the premium stuff, hold the ethanol. There’s no catalytic converter under his hood, no fuel-saving gizmos that might shave down performance. His only speed is flat-out, stomp-the-skinny-pedal go. My pal, Scott Wood, can

When you think of meatballs, your mind probably books a ticket to Italy or maybe Sweden. But as chef and outdoorsman Ford Fry reminds us in his cookbook, Tex Mex: Traditions, Innovations, and Comfort Foods from Both Sides of the Border, Mexico has a

WE DROVE SOUTH FROM Albuquerque, trailing the cottonwoods along the Rio Grande, down the old Spanish royal road that once stitched old Mexico City to old Santa Fe, down to the funky town of Truth or Consequences, and then east, over the high, piney C

DRIVING THE LENGTH OF THE Hawkeye Wildlife Area’s south side, I can point to landmarks all along the way and recall successes and failures over the years. They track my growth as a turkey hunter like the pencil marks on the wall record the height of

HUGH JOHNSON WAS A good-looking, athletic kid, the kind that people of all stripes are naturally drawn to. I was his hunting and trapping partner. And unlike anyone else around me during high school in Daven port, Iowa, Hughie made me believe that li

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON IN February, and the farmer gave me the usual post-deer-season response when I asked if I could hunt coyotes on his land. “Go ahead,” he said. He even pulled on a weathered Carhartt coat, stepped onto his porch stoop, and motion

I MET GEORGE HERRON AT the Knifemakers Guild Show in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1975. George was a presence, over 6 feet tall, with a massive gut, cold blue eyes, slicked-back graying hair, and a trademark Cuban shirt that tried to contain the gut. Hi

FUNNY WHAT WE WILL GET USED TO PAYING ridiculous amounts of money for. First it was $100 flashlights, then $400 coolers, then $2,000 duck guns, and now it’s $30 to $50 for a box of five TSS turkey loads. Yet a $15 Mini Maglite still shows you the way

IT WAS THE VERY FIRST cast I ever made with a muskie fly. The 14-inch mass of bucktail, feathers, and flash smacked down a few feet from the bank of one of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes like a teal that had tangled with Remington steel. Before I could bri

I WAS WAITING FOR THE moment when the truck would finally break down, and I’d be stranded in a strange place far from home. After an allnight haul from New York, it seemed like that place would be a general-store parking lot in Odessa, Missouri. I go

WHEN I FINALLY REACH MY treestand on the closing day of rifle season, it looks just as I remember it. The camo cushions have faded in the last few years, and the extra-tall ladder is dinged in places, but otherwise it’s in fine shape. The stand faces

LEE KJOS NAMES ALL HIS DUCK dogs after Louis L’Amour cowboys, and Cap is no exception. When Kjos went to pick out a Lab five years ago, he had his heart set on a reddish male. But the same yellow pup kept tumbling into his lap until Kjos gave in and

BACK IN THE DAYS WHEN A fly rod was my compass, I rarely found myself in a position to contemplate the stars. Nor, on most trips, did I have anyone to share my slice of heaven under them with. I would fish until dark and crawl into my sleeping bag as

THE THREE OF US RUSHED before dawn, flickering figures in headlamp beams, piling gear into Ralph’s 10-foot johnboat. Ralph and I had been chasing ducks up and down the shores of Lake Champlain for a decade or so, and we had a feeling about the Novemb

Twenty years later, I remember the silence inside the car as we retreated home. The radio was on, but the three of us were quiet, and had been for some time. Sunrise was a few hours away. Joe was half-asleep in the back of the minivan, and I rode sho

HE HAD INTRODUCED HIMSELF as Diablo. We were sure it was a nickname, but given the language barrier, getting to a real nombre seemed unlikely. Or necessary. The devil it was. He couldn’t have been older than 25, and his English was sparse, but every

A buddy of mine moved from Virginia to Portland a few years ago. He reported that there are a bunch of hippies out there—but also a staggering number of turkeys. I usually take a late-spring turkey trip to Nebraska or Kansas, and as good as those pra

I LIKE TO SHOOT A PISTOL AS much today as I ever did, but I haven’t shot in a pistol competition since the day Logan Baker cut his thumb off. We were buddies fresh out of college, and we both had the plinking bug, spending money we didn’t have on amm

Some of the best wingshooting in North America happens between February and April along the Missouri River as snow geese migrate to their Arctic breeding grounds in Canada. This route picks up the migration midflight in the Midwest, then follows the

I MET NORM STRUNG IN November 1971, after he’d issued an invitation to staff members of the outdoor magazine for which I worked to hunt elk with him in Montana. He had moved to Big Sky Country in 1959, put himself through college, taught college, and

Eastern Virginia’s coastal plain and tidewater rivers sport some of the country’s best small stream fishing for panfish in waters friendly to both johnboats and canoes. It’s a region rich in history, and there’s a bonus to fishing freshwater streams

NOW THAT THE SEASON OF GIVING to others is over, it’s time to treat yourself. Spring is either here or just around the bend, depending on where you live, and you deserve some fresh lures, a new stick, and an outboard that doesn’t require divine inter

DAVE HURTEAU AND I BELLY-crawled to the ridge crest, where we could finally see the gobbler. He was 150 yards below, strutting under a cottonwood tree with a dozen hens. “What we need to do is fall back, sneak up that creek bed, and show him a fan,”