Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire Romantic notions and the outdoors...

Thats a fairly realistic looking stunt COCK rooster next to your shotgun Charlie.


Where on earth did you find that?


No way you killed it with a SxS!

I pride myself on being logical guy. Engineer, aviator responsible and accountable for what I say and do but I realize that I have a wide romantic streak when it comes to my outdoor activities and it seems to be growing as I accelerate through my mid-50’s

Pat Powell pointed in a recent thread, quit accurately, that no serious clay shooter would use a side by side shotgun and while I do use an over and under for clays (a 30 year old Beretta 682), I’d much rather carry a two trigger side by side in the field even though it likely hurts my bird to shell ratio.

I was doing some 6.5x55 Swede reloading this afternoon and looking over the stack of dies, I realized, with the sole exception of the 7-08, that the cartridges I load for are all 60+ years old and a couple are closing rapidly on a century or in the case of the Swede and the .22 HP more than.

When fishing there is little place I’d rather be than on a trout stream with dry flies and a bamboo rod even though I know that unless there is an active hatch that most of the trout are likely to ignore me.

I do make compromises, good scopes to deal with middle aged eyes, an ultra-light vice the fly rod when fishing from the kayak, modern bullets and certainly modern dry/light clothing but I find when thinking about the best of times in the outdoors it seems to be something I prefer to look backwards instead of forward. Perhaps too much reading of Ruark, Buckingham and Traver and Sparse Grey Hackle as an impressionable youth?

How about you? (and note when I say "romantic notions, it doesn't mean the .223AI )

Thanks everyone. Noting like a dame to spoil a good time.

It's not all doom and gloom. for example two years ago I had a hunt on the Rio Grande near Marfa lined up. I was bringing some old friends out before they got too old! Well one of them had to cancel last second. He was my last platoon sergeant and had a great career, mostly in the 82ND. Since the trip was going to happen anyway, I told him to give his seat to his kid. Junior was working as a security guard two years earlier when I talked him into joining my Police Department (It's a wonder he still speaks to me).Bubba Ray and I picked up the kid and headed out west.

I was a bit self-indulgent. I made my buds check out northern Arizona and Show Low. I drove down highway 60 through New Mexico. The Quemado group knows this road. I swear it is the most underrated and prettiest drives in the southwest. We met elk hunters while gassing up in Quemado. We laughed at the "Congested Traffic Ahead" sign in Pietown. As we drove through the Datil Mountains I thought Randolph Scot would ride around the next bend. We then cruised across the Plains of San Augustin on our way to Socorro. We doglegged across the I 25, crossed the Rio Grande, and headed out for Lincoln County, of Billy the Kid fame.

Night time would find us in the west Texas town of El Paso. We did not fall in love with anyone that looked like they might be the daughters of Cartel overlords, but did check out the Lucesse boot outlet. Our last partner linked up with us and we headed out to near Marfa. Camping at 4100 feet above sea level on a moonless night in the high desert is unforgettable. The milky way looked like a support beam for the billions of stars. The coyotes serenaded each other and we listened in. You could tell the Mexican ones from their American cousins 'cuz the Mexican ones trilled their "r"s. I fell asleep on the sandy desert floor. As dawn hinted (BEMT to all you grunts) we hiked into position. The coyotes were gone, according to my friends driven off by my snoring. So was the game, but campfires and camaraderie were a consolation. We got skunked on the hunt but the best part was just starting.

A couple of days later we headed back into the big city. Despite the hot showers and warm chow, we missed the field. We split up the next day as Bubba Ray had to fly home to take care of family matters. Mensa Mike drove back to Florida. I talked Junior into meandering trail back home. After one last stop at the boot outlets we headed into New Mexico. Back up to Socorro and highway 60. This time the Datils had a light dusting of snow. As we hit Quemado I talked the kid into heading up to El Morro, Inscription Rock, which I last saw 25 years ago. I knew it was north of here, and so we headed up county roads into the unknown. Junior admitted later that he was nervous when losing his cell phone signal ten minutes out of town and had to trust my dead reckoning and twenty plus year old memories. A half hour later we rounded a bend in the road and nearly ran into a cattle roundup. Four men on horseback were pushing at least thirty cattle towards some pens. We halted until they passed. Junior laughed.

He stopped laughing at Ventana Arch, on the backside of the Acoma reservation. It was 'effin gorgeous. We skirted the malpais and eventually made it to I 40. After two hours of dead reckoning I missed El Morro by about forty miles, but soon we rolled into the parking lot. We got out and walked the trail to the bluff. You could easily see carvings in the stone, from native petroglyphs to Spanish inscriptions left by explorers from the 1600s. And the air! Every breath was scented by juniper and pinon pine. We finished there and swore to return and got back onto the road.We crossed the Zuni reservation and some more malpais on the way to Gallup. We provisioned up at the Walmart there, where Junior wisely bought a road atlas. He took over driving as night fell. I no longer have romantic notions of driving in the night with these old eyes. We drove across the Navajo reservation through the night until I guided him to the Monument Valley. We had to wake the security guard in order to pay for a camping spot. Sadly, a million dollar hotel had been built on the spot where I had last camped there, about fourteen years ago. We made camp in the RV parking lot. A weather front moved though, bring cold winds and clouds, so no light show from the higher elevation of the valley floor.

The morning came and the sun crept under the clouds, who politely broke their pattern and let light onto the valley floor. We broke camp and red dust covered made our way into the hotel lobby and cafeteria. We paid too much for warm food, but the ladies were delighted by Junior and his cowboy boots. There is noting like having an Irish kid with a slight brogue telling the rich tourists about the west, and boot outlets. Even the Navajo smiled. We headed back onto the road, and I took the wheel and steered us north to the San Juan, and the famous Goosenecks therein. we stood where John Wayne threw the whisky bottle into the gorge in "Fort Apache". But I could see more mesas calling me so I drug Junior up the Mokee dugway towards Muley Point. The Mokee dugway is one of those "E ticket" rides. it is a gravel switchback that crabs straight up about sic hundred feet. it is not scary until your wheels lose traction and you are looking straight down. I scared the hell out of the kid. But Muley Point was worth it. It is unbelievable in good weather, and we lucked out. Panoramic can't capture it.

We headed back to Mexican Hat and got fry bread and honey. We drove across the reservation to Marble Canyon, Lee's Ferry, and the incomparable Vermilion Cliffs. We came onto a rollover accident and Junior jumped out with his aid pack and was all business until being relieved by the Arizona Highway patrol. His old man trained him well. We gassed up at Freedonia, at the famous "Guns, Lotto, Ammo, beer" sign. Night fell as I chased the sun so the kid really didn't see much of the Kaibab plateau. I crawled into St. George and we holed up in a cheap hotel.

We choked down breakfast at the only hipster cafe in St. George, which was the only one open that early. The hipster waitress gave us attitude and I immediately going back to San Francisco, where we work. We headed up to Cedar City and then west into the Great Basin. A few hours later my twelve year old Xterra with two hundred and fifteen thousand miles labored over the pass near Wheelers Peak. Snow flurries buffeted us and AI remembered it was eighty degrees in El Paso four days earlier. Just short of Ely we stopped for a quick bite at the Pony Express Cafe. As yo walked though the door you went back about a hundred years. "Old School" Mormons owned the place and their clothing was not costumes. Everyone doted on the Irish Kid until we went back onto the road.

Nearing California people got ruder and more aggressive, a sign we were almost home. There is no joy in telling the last leg of the trip. But there is comfort in reminiscence of the Great road Trip of 2017.

God Bless America!

Great write up!

I hope things work out for you Ranger Green!

No worries. I still have the 'Fire and the outdoors. I have another romantic notion that I can survive her mood swings and her girlfriend's material influences long enough for reality and maturity to calm her down.....