THE CHASE FOR MARLIN

Sailfish behaved like teased cats, catching them soon became a routine. To free up time, trans morph from a serial entrepreneur to a "recovering entrepreneur," I sold my BioTech Company to Shell Oil and seriously outplayed my Venture Capitalists who thought they were play poker with a "dumb bunny." Never play the game until you have a full house or better or your drawing to three aces.
They were focused on dilution issues they forgot that the money game is akin to the great lessons leaned from fishing. Meaning that rule one, fish in productive water, have the right bait, set the hook slow but forceful, then let the fish run keeping the drag loose at first but tighten down as the fight wanes. None of my VC fished.

I wanted to give time to child rearing and sharing my passions with them. So, I hauled my fantastic 26 foot boat equipped with sleeping quarters, a galley, a head and single screw 350cc Volvo Penta down from Tucson to the desert town in Guaymas Mexico.

"The Good Vibrations" was berthed next to the Catch 22 beach and when the sailfish came northbound usually in May we would hunt them. My crew consisted of a first mate my eldest Nick, a 1o year with a keen proclivities for fishing and adventure and the daughter Cate, a 7 year who played below with her barbies, but would later in life bag a 10 point trophy Mule Deer and fly fish floating down the Madison River in a bikini.
Morning at sunrise if the off shore breeze did not fan the palm outside my window, I bundled up the kids with cereal in a cup bounce down the dirt road and fire up Good Vibrations. She would purr and bellow under full throttle doing about 20 knots out to the fishing fields. With trim tabs adjusted to starboard a little we take a 180 bearing about 20 minutes out in search of bait balls and sailfish.

Birds were the objects. Looking the horizon with Nick at the helm, I scoured the dimly lit horizon with my Bausch and Lomb for feeding birds. The sea was a desert but often enough your eyes hardened adjust to the swells. I could find the currents, even up-swells or depressions and that's where you found the sailfish attacking the bait.

I had four Penn International rods and reels rigged with teasers. It became a serious game who could spot the first sail of the day. I had to calm Nick to let Cate win a few to keep her in the game. She would get ice cream later.

Once the sail was spotted protruding and retracting, I knew the great fish was feeding and if it didn't dive at our rumbling, we put the Penn SW with 15 lbs test into free spool letting out the teaser at various distances. The teasing began with a great circle surrounding the slow moving fish usually with its sail fin flashing trying to scare bait. We kept circling the sailfish, always closing the gap until the strike. Never failed and the absolute chaos began. Nick would head the craft outbound as I fought the bill fish. Once the fish was on and tailing, he turned the helm over to 7 year Cate who keep a straight bearing. Nick begin to reel in the other three lines. Chaos was controlled but never lost a hookup unlike our Tuna blitzes.

It was awesome to witness the 60 lbs sail go aerobatic usually jumping a dozen or more time trying to throw the hook. Never had to set the hook I just them the run on a loose drag do the trick. Slowly I'd retrieve the line until a slight pressure was felt and pump the rod a dozen time to make sure the great fish was on.

The drag was set low and the boat engines drove and set the hook. Sometimes a pissed off sailfish would jump 20-40 times. We managed to hook and release about fifteen sails a week and quickly the crew got bored. They were more interested in watching the sharks feast on dead whales brought north by the prevailing currents.

It was hot that time of year and our air conditioner struggled to keep the house cool. Closing the curtains and keeping ti dark helped. It was a grand house to take an after noon siesta after a morning fishing for bill-fish and tuna. Cate found a tree house by the beach and managed to recreate a world . It was an idyllic place but I need more.

My wife EJ was a green to the ocean swells and when on board she sliped below to sleep and read. She would fly over from the Sierras and live and beach it until she returned back to Reno usually after several weeks of decompressing. We supervised the home schooling and EJ encourage the home schooling immersion approach. EJ loves a man's world and despised the chit chat of women and when I mentioned there were stronger fish in the sea she said to go for it.

Before I returned to the Sierras that summer, a local mariner impressed with our success with ninos mentioned one evening while attending a local fiesta that I should go on down to Cabo. I told him catching sailfish was too easy so maybe I'd go back to TARPON THIS TIME ON LIGHT FLY RODS TACKLE. "Try the marlin," he said. "The sailfish is a weak sister to the marlin. No comparison and Cabo is the place to do it." Those words struck me with pure excitement and the adventure began that would last for the next three years

A THREE RING CICRUS: THE HAWKERS WERE DIGGING THE RATS NEST FOR A REFLUSH

There was a kid, two horses, three dogs, four falcons, two falconers and a quest. When a quail was cornered all were part of the spectacle. The Harris hawks lifted together each taking a perch on top of the cactus. Harry on horse followed on trot the fights that lasted a hundred yards until his hawk shot across the open space. His trot became gallop and kept going for a quarter mile until the Harris lit. Somehow Harry knew the flight was after quail. Jamaica's Harris followed behind Harry's passage and before I arrived both falconers had hoes out standing in then middle of a kangaroo nest surrounded by cactus excavating the rat hole. Harry took one side of the nest while Jamaica began digging furiously hoping to force the trapped quail to reflush

Both Hawks were perched 5 paces away on top of the cactus waiting. They had been here before and were waiting for the quail to scatter. The dogs were on point. One had a cholla embedded in his snot but he didn't care. Harry dug at least a foot then the quail flushed in a buzz and a second later the Harris had the quail impaled in its talons.

Harry told in me in his subtle way that healthy habitat was excessive desert rats nest. I mentioned some of my colleagues were working the deadly hantavirus carried in the kangaroo's rat feces. Harry laughed saying, "Not as deadly as the rattlers that live down these holes."

THE ULTIMATE QUAIL HUNTER

Desert Hawking by horse takes quail hunting to a new level. I came to visit the Zen Master, Harry McElroy, a Hemingway lookish male who at 82 has the energy and drive of a 40 year old. He is from a cast of Tucson character I've known from Margaret Sanger, to Joe "The Godfather" Bonano, and Norm Borlaug, father of the Green Revolution. I knew Harry as an apprentice astringer in the incredible 60's. He is renown sportsman, an author on Hawking, earned a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology, a Texas bred democrat, and above all a gentleman of the "Old School," with a slight drawl that makes you instinctively listen. Harry was a Kellogg Fellow trained as an educational Psychologist but left to peruse his dreams that he practices each day. He discovered, it was the teacher not students that required intervention with behavioral issues.

And so Harry is my oldest living teacher who took the route of an obsessed human, a life without hesitation, inventing desert quail hunting with with Gos Hawks, Coopers, Sharp Shinned the Harris Hawk ,a parabuteos and aplomado longwings. His summary: Coopers can get the quail, Gos fly faster and Harris's are hunting machines. Harry always loved speed in flight. Harry added horses to his team and moved his attack methods up a notch. He refined hooding, compelling techniques in daily eight control and modern telemetry. Harry, the professor, changes the wild raptors fundamental hunting instinct of simple killing to eat. Instead he modifies them into a quasi-domestic predator, akin to walking the T.Rex on leash through downtown Manhattan.

Harry is as agile and fit as a man in his late 40's. I feel young and hopeful watching him saddle the horse, weigh the hawks and plan the attack. He is slow, a deliberate man much like a desert tortoise until the hunt begins; He morphs to a Mr. Hyde. I learned under Harry back in then 1960's and early 1970's but had too choose grad school over hawking life thanks to the glorious 60's and Woodstock generation. I often wonder where I'd be if I choose the falconers life. I made the good choice but I long for the splendor and happiness that hawking gave me.

I enjoy my visits with Harry and his wife Beth a well traveled patient educator. Today's hunting group was, two Peruvian Paso horses, two pointers who can barely walk due to their cactus impaled paws and of course the stars; an imprinted male Northern Goshawk and a passage Harris Hawk. Each species is fined tuned to this high energy quail hunting. The Goshawk an accipiter, from old English, gōshafoc, meaning goose hawk, is Harry's secret love although he craves the para buteo wolf pack social hunting skills of the Harris Hawks.

I hadn't seen Harry for awhile. And after three weeks in the Sonoran desert camping, hunting riding dual sport KLR 650 and pass shooting, I promised myself to reconnect with this legendary man and his hunting style. Being with Harry floods my memory banks with warmth and joyous times before the crush of adult survival. As a teen housed in a Catholic minor-seminary, Harry gave me advice on bonding skills learned with with raptors. Catholic minor-seminaries were designed to preclude human bonding, women in particular, which I soon discovered was the best route toward recovery and 1960's enlightenment. I was fortunate to get exposure to highly educated men like Harry, learned but demanding priests and teachers who imparted an obsession for knowledge. But, it was not enough for curing the hormone rage. I was homesick for the passions of my father; The hunting dogs, fine guns, camping, fishing, skiing, horses, music and family and on. I had no bonding skill until I meant Harry and learned the essence of life bonding thru falconry.

My father was a persuasive man who gave the seminary priests many perks from golf course passes to hunting trips. He convinced them to let me train hawks while attending seminary school located in the desert. I think he knew where that might led. I learned the bliss on bonding that quickly reveal those forbidden items like 60's music secret radio we heard on a handmade made with copper wire and a crystal set that we listened to in the Hawk Mew with a Coopers Hawks inside. Then best bonding experience of all- girls, a candy stripper to be exact. I my confessions on Friday before mass were legendary. I LEFT THE SEMINARY SOON AFTER. I thank Harry and my hawks for what I am today.

At 2:30, Harry handed me his portable cadge that housed the hooded Harris Hawk.

"Keep him on your lap, tight."

"Sure Harry." I mumbled concerned such a killing machine perched over my jewels

I was amazed how light the bird weighed and grinned how heavy my 20 bore Holland and Holland was. We gathered the dogs and drove down the steep hill to the stable. The horse were at the gate ready to be saddled A fellow falconer, Jamaica and her young daughter joined us flying their aplomado peregrine. Within 15 minuted we had the horses cinched, stirrups adjusted, we mounted and were ready to ride. Quxiote, Harry's name for the Gos, the first to fly was at 590 grams,

" A little lite but within the margin of error," according to Harry.

Just over a pound, I calculated.

"How do you like my happy hunting grounds? Its my heaven and there are many quail," Harry said with sublime certainty. He was right..

We were off in a quick trot. Harry led the way. My horse 14 hands had a smooth trot. He followed the dogs . I didn't have chaps on and he came too close to the cholla cactus and so I would give him a ear twist after removing two cacti from my thigh. He nodded he was going to listen. Straight ahead I saw a thrasher flush to a cactus. Seconds later a pile of dickey birds. Harry had his Goshawk on fist and that sight of a raptor in the field scattered everything in complete terror. Within seconds, the Goshawk exploded from the fist. His horse didn't move at the comporting and dogs gave chase after hawk. Harry shouted, "Whoa, whoa." The accipiter beat its wings several times and was to the horizon. The hawk was onto to something. At a three hundred yards I couldn't tell. Harry knew from the flight pattern he was into quail and the hoot shouts alerted the dogs. Suddenly the Goshawk veered sharp right lifted up and crashed to the ground. Harry said he wanted the dogs alerted to stay with the Gos to prevent other raptor from killing his bird. He had lost several hawks to Red Tails and Golden Eagles.

NEXT THE HUNT

THE ADULTS ONLY WINTER HUNTING CAMP

Empty nest, thank God this year. Don't think ill of me for wanting be separate from my independent children. Without dependents, the dynamics of our winter campaign would be different my not having to do the 10 a.m. bugle call. I wouldn't invite those that could not camp anymore. We wanted to hunt solo with dogs, keep it simple enjoying the splendor, sights and sounds of late season doves without the call for, "what's for diner Mom."

I have a friend who fly fish with us in the Sierras and Montana and is game for adventure. He was invited with his single Brittany to join us. He is a self sufficient guy and never had to hover. In fact, he pitches in without ever being asked. I like that and being the son of a devout preacher man from the old school, he brings much humor to camp. He loves his simple camping style and enjoys the field with his dogs.

Doves were still up north so we had to find flights that were stable. We could shoot a fair bit but the roost or fields wouldn't hold much pressure. It was a just one shoot and had to find other roost. My young retriever was in training to mark and stay on heel until sent. She behave so valiantly always in command and her name was coined back in North Dakota when she managed to recover a double on grouse. I called her super dog because as she is the happiest dog I ever have trained although I have not collar conditioned her. Her disposition in part is due to her older companion Fe a German Wirehair who was imprinted by a famous lab mother daughter relationship.

I began shooting these high flyer with a 1872 Damascus 30 in bar action I. Hollis and Sons stunning wood/timber with high profile rebounding hammers. It is a pigeon grade/ weight and so I shoot 2 3/4 inch, 7/8 oz, 7 1/2. I restored after I discovered it in New Zealand. It has a deadly pattern. Next, I moved up an era and across the channel to a 1892 French bespoke FAVURE LePAGE y FILS PARIS MAKER with gold washed locks, ejectors and the finest rose and scroll engraving . This is the finest double made in the era under the tillage of Napoleon III. It is a finer constructed weapon than my Holland and Holland Royal and equal or exceeds in some feature my Purdey.

We were starting to devour many doves so I switched to my Browning O/U superposed to improve their odds, cheating but it was a gift from my wife. Soon we were in dove heaven and my 8 shot was bringing the high flyers down from 50 yard. I ended the season with my Hollands 20 bore royal but my last shot was with my 1876 WC Scott and Sons Premiere hammer.

We were broiling fine grain fed doves with a Chilean red with brown and wild rice and a garlic bread. Hard to beat camp food made in a slow cooking dutch oven. To finish it off we delighted in a homemade fruit cake.

IRONWOOD CAMPFIRES, PASS SHOOTING WITH ENGLISH SIDE BY SIDES AND ANCIENT PEOPLE

Not much English is spoken here. I checked in with my Mexican friends who farm the vast acreage where we have shooting rights. Luis is already drunk on Christmas Eve busy enjoying his beer and mescal chaser. I decline his offer for the worm but will take a beer. "There are a few cordoniz (desert quail) this year," Luis says, "and the Paloma (doves) still winter up north but still there are some. You will have to hunt for them. "HaHa!" he laughs and goes back to check his mesquite fire. Luis along with the ten families are making carnitas a holiday mainstay in these Mexican farm camps. Luis's wife is busy holding her new grandson and wants nothing to do with the men who are drinking and will continue well past midnight. They will be ready after several hours of sleep enjoying their day off one of the few they have off.

Our camp site is well isolated and so we will have clear night skies. The moon is waxing almost waning. Our first order of business is to locate wood for the fire. Arizona is dry and there is much dead wood and so I chain a limb for the night fire. Besides, in several days, a friend with a varied camping, rafting and bloodsport experiences will join us for a couple of days. He will enjoy my wood collecting madness.

TIS THE SEASON CHRISTMAS 2011

Greetings to Family and Friends

Patrick, Ellen, Nick, Cate and Tom are well and in great spirits. We started 2011 celebrating in Mexico. We like Alamos ,Sonora and were there for the traditional Mexican Posada that celebrates the travels of Mary and Joseph looking for a room in Bethlehem. The Posada is a very colorful and solemn tradition. After a wonderful Christmas in Alamos, we headed down to a favorite camping RV beach north of Puerto Vallarta overlooking the ocean kayaking, swimming and watching the sun set over a warm Pacific. Mexico was deserted because of the fears generated by news stories. It reminded Patrick of being there in the 1960’s when his family had the beaches to themselves. Nick took time from the University and traveled with Ellen and Pat and the boys took their dual sport Kawasaki 650 motorcycles. We managed to get way back into the mountain with these motorbikes where the bird life and coffee plants thrive. We ate giant lobster, shrimp, fresh fish and street tacos until we couldn’t hold anymore. One night Nick came home with 8 whole shrimp he bought off the fisherman and they were 10 inches. Cate moved from San Francisco, where she graduated from the University of San Francisco, up into the foothills of Sierra Nevada. She traveled over to Taiwan in the spring to visit our son Tom and explore the Far East. Our youngest son Tom is a student at the National Taiwan University a program funded by the University of Nevada to study Mandarin. He has spent two years there and after our scout, Cate, returned raging about the beauty and wonderful people, Ellen and Pat flew over in June for a visit.

To say the least, we were surprise at how advanced Taiwan is compared to the mainland; such vibrancy. Ellen saw her friend from high school who works the nuclear reactor and we visited a graduate student from the Purdue days. What impressed us the most was our son had matured so quickly and spoke Mandarin which enabled the three of us to tour the back roads on the Island. No wonder China wants to own Taiwan. The Taiwanese are the model of free enterprise, a highly educated population and a unique democracy. Not once did we see a policeman, chewing gum on the pavement or litter. The transportation system is excellent, the cultural and ancestry honored and in the end, Tom had a developed zeal in him that only youth can inhabit.

Upon our return to the Sierra Nevada’s here in Reno, our first impression was how uncrowded and quiet RENO is. Our research company Maxell has taken on a herculean task of data mining for answers that might explain the crash of the Mule Deer population in the Great Basin. An exciting project that will have profound impact as 87% of the land base is public lands and open spaces. The research require the latest in data mining and forecasting systems that have never been applied to biology in a quantitative manner. I thank Purdue University each day for the exposure it provided us toward taking an engineering approach toward biological problem solving.

Summer was long in coming and Patrick traveled to Montana with our hunting dogs for his annual fishing time. He met several friends in Missoula and found that fly fishing was slow due to a prolonged snowpack but came with a bang. Many trout came up to visit the dry fly the King of Sports. He fished the Missouri, Beaverhead, Ruby, Odell spring creek and then traveled down to our family land on the Madison River near Quake Lake. Ellen spent most of the summer trying to develop a forecasting model for the behemoth Canadian company Telus and so her fishing days were in check. She vowed never again to miss a Montana summer

In the fall Patrick traveled north again to train the dogs on the Canadian Prairies where the ducks and geese congregate before heading to their winter grounds. You can follow his travel blog at http://thesportingfields.blogspot.com/.

Winter is here and there is no snow in the mountains. Often we have a white Christmas but not this year. We are preparing to head back to Arizona where Pat was raised and all our children spent many Christmas camping in the desert. Being there in the Woolsey Wilderness, we skip the hectic commercial side of the season and experience spiritual time. Tis the news from the Sierra Nevada’s wishing our family and friends the warmest holidays with loved ones.

Cheers Patrick, Ellen, Nicholas, Catherine and Thomas (Fe and Tess our faithful dog friends)

WINTER PLANNING TO HUNT THE DESERT DOVES AND QUAIL

I still want to ski but can not handle the cold anymore. I miss moguls skiing in the old days so my need for speed is satisfied by four cylinder 1300cc Royal Star and a KLR650cc. I wish, though, I could live in Montana sometimes in mid December and hunt the roosters on sunny days, no wind in the mid teens. My dogs really don't give a hoot about the cold as long as there is game. And to get game, I will to go back home to Arizona, feel the warmth of the sun and camp in the Sonora desert that Edward Albee so loved with campfires and then hunting for flights of doves and wily quail.

Doves cooked almost tartar quickly over a open fire basted with beer cut in half, Curritck sauce then a air chilled Merlot is so rich you eat ten of them. The preparation for gear, clothing, guns, ammo, provisions transitioning from a drift boat Montana trout expedition all summer to a Canadian Prairie campaign for 5 weeks, Nevada Chukar, celebrating Christmas and New Years pass shooting in the desert can jade the the man. I look forward to each journey and wonder if the birds will be there (THEY ALWAYS ARE) AND IF MY AIM IS GOOD ENOUGH TO GET GAME FOR MY DOGS.

I'll know in a couple of weeks

DUAL SPORTS ADDED- THE 650 ENDUROS

Toys, they're not toys, they're tools to advance the passion. Motorbikes for the speed monger can take many forms, from my Nortons, to Harley, to BMW Airhead, to present Royal Stars and the most compelling the KLR650. While in the back country near Copper Canyon in Sonora Mexico, our KLR got us into some way back villages where tangerine and Indians treated us with great difference. Riding was akin to the moguls skiing at Ajax or Buttermilk.

Stay tuned as we discover the best carrier system are discovered

STUCK AND WOLVES HOWLING BUT LOVIN' IT ALL

It finally happened. After 25 years in the Canadian Bush I was stuck deep in the bush, stranded, center stuck, high centered, marooned without a shovel or hi boy. For two sleepless nights and almost three days, I grew to respect those that lived by trapping of homesteading. What raised the hair on my back was when the pack of wolves come to visit and howled for some time within 30 yards. I dare not get out of my bag to stoke the fire. There were six and had the Grand Cherokee surrounded. I imagined the movie "American Werewolf in London," and I was on the Moors. I was 15 miles back into the Saskatchewan FORREST. I had fire, water, sleeping gear by accident weapons and my two faithful dogs but I was stuck and was not about to walk the 20 miles back into town.

I counted on being found by Moose hunters. Who drove the trails in their quads looking for the elusive animals. We were coming back after a day of ruffed grouse hunting and with my limit I was anxious to return to the town bar where the Owner Carmen promised to let me watch the World Series. I would miss the greatest game ever played in the World Series where LaRussa and Lance Berkman undid the Sabermetrics and made baseball a game of magic again. Thank God they beat the Texans with two strikes against them.

By the second day, I was getting concerned as the snow fell. There was more panic than real but with the instinctive reactions to wolves singing at night and little progress trying to get the Jeep of center stuck and hoping for a sound my imagination was going wild. If I had SPOT but then again it is a weak system in the deep forest.

NORTHERN LIGHTS ARE RADIANT AND MOVE THE WATERFOWL SOUTH

The cold nights make for great sleeping as long as it doesn't get below 20. I detached the Jeep and went into the Badlands in search of grouse and found they had not conveyed up. Instead of 50 eyes looking out there were only 12 to 20 making for excellent rough shooting. Sharptails after feeding on grain and alfalfa make excellent table fare and since I was on a "bush meat" diet for the next 3 weeks I cooked the whole birds. I prefer grouse of the Hungarian Partridge.


The Drahthaar, Griffon, Poodle Pointer, Wirehair combo hunting machine, Fe her nick name for Drath Fe Dar was in her elements and overshadow the Labrador Pup. She was so intense on her hunting that quickly she was on point quivering at a buffalo berry patch.I closed my Hollis hammergun I kept the Lab at heel like we do on the grouse Moors in Scotland and when I got within 10 feet the brush exploded with the familiar AHAHAHAH cackle of flushing grouse. I remember a right to left swing flush, then a faint recall of a fallen grouse before turning to a quick straightedge flush but I went blank. Rarely can I recall anything after the mount until a bird has fallen. It is all instinct. When I can recall I miss because I am bird watching lifting my head to high watch the beautiful flush. Sometime I think I miss just to watch the grouse sail across the slough.


The pointer quickly retrieves the first grouse and I must get the birds from her quickly for she loves the taste of blood. The lab bring the second grouse to heel and I have a brace in the Filson. I tag my birds as required in Saskatchewan and decide to hunt for Huns

THE WESTERN-PACIFIC FLYWAY STAGING WAS INCREDIBLE

One never tires of the journey northward to witness the waterfowl staging. Magic and miracles are the best way to describe these days in the field camping alone, I prefer western staging to the forest. The process place your soul into a zen meditative stare knowing there is no rush and you can make camp anywhere you wish . I watch for hours bird behavior and flight. They meet and travel in group towards they south eating and playing along the way. The resident game birds endure all seasons the Prairies throw at them like many Saskatchewan Farmer but many other take heed and follow the waterfowl. I've been blessed and often with my wife and children and certainly my firends the canines drive the same routes of the Western flyway for the last 23 years spending the new years and winter in Arizona and Mexico camping, hunting and fishing

THE SKY OPENS AND I AM ALONE FINALLY

I never have problems with Canadian Immigration when I pick small towns. Avoid Sweetgrass, Montana crossing at all cost. It is run by trainee trying to make a mark. I can chat with Canadian Immigration about hunting, politics with crops as oppose to the American who are testosterone driven in full flack-jacket regalia with Glocks, mace and Tasers weighing them down. They watch too much TV. Once through the American maze across the border, I signed my declaration forms for my smooth bores totally seven side by side. They included my

• 1876 W.C Scott and Sons Premier Grade thumb-lever Hammer gun with dolphin head rebounding hammers. The wood was Turkish walnut and was without doubt the finest handmade gun of its kind. It was made the same year and month Cuter bit the dust at the Battle of Little Bighorn. The weapon 2 of 4 belonged to Earl of York and was used by Lord Ripon when he came home from India
  
• Winchester Model 21 made in 1947 Duck model that brings down biggest of waterfowl. Tom Clancy, the author, once told me this weapon was on par with flak batteries over Normandy. It shoots sweet with my Hevi and Bismuth Shot. Stan Baker the Seattle wizard of barrels modified the tubes to handle steel. The Model 21 was commissioned by General Omar Bradley
  
• A Holland and Holland SLE 20 bore royal ejector circa 1936 for upland. I compact wello made weapon a new as the day it was made. It was brought over by Marshall Fields of Chicago and given to my father for an Architectural favor when he lived in Barrington, Ill
• I Hollis 1873 12 bore dolphin head rebounding hammer bar action with with exhibition grade timber and engraving worthy of Sharptail. I acquire this masterpiece on a trip with my eldest son to the South Island of New Zealand on a camping and fishing trip. It was acquired the same day Pope John Paul died in Rome.
• Work of Art an exquisite Favure LePage y Fils and Son PARIS, a 1892 12 bore SLE with the finest engraving I've ever seen. Made with articulated triggers circa and was a gift of Napoleon III to a Scottish courtier who lived to Oban Scotland to shoot driven grouse and wood pigeon. I acquired the rare LePage in Oban north west of Glasgow on our 20 wedding anniversary trip for grouse hunting near Balmorl. Made in 1892.
• AYA model 53 SLE 20 Ga with Picasso style engraving Many trips to Argentina
• Lastly a 1864 McCririck made in Ayr Scotland. A rare under lever back action with Damascus tube worthy of North Dakota Pheasants. This is the only under lever hammer gun I have located made in Scotland.

I look back to America and remarked that the new American border complex seem over-the-top in such a small place with less than 20 crossing a day. The Canadian laughed and said they built six of the 70 million dollar bunkers across Montana and remarked, "no wonder the government has a debt problem." How right he was.
At last I was on my way, felt the freedom to hunt and camp any where I choose, a feeling I am sure many cowboys experienced before the fences.

My first night was off the road next to a stream where I shot a mallard for supper. Camping , hunting, beaching with our Lance Camper remind me of my days with unlimited expense accounts but only better. It had everything to make the adventure comfortable and hunting a pleasure. Of course it is my incredible Ford 7.3 crew cab dually that was the horsepower to carrying my backpack us from the Great Basin up to short-grass Prairie home to spectacular upland and incredible numbers of waterfowl and then onto the forest where wolves greet you with songs and the ruffed grouse flush like no other game bird. We would in 4 weeks,weather permitting, pull the plug in the North Country usually near the Pas or Flin Flon as winter came to Saskatchewan.

For the next several days I jump shot mallards and teal and chased Huns who managed to escaped the brutal winter. You must be self sufficient out here. There not no towns or accommodation for 70 miles and that is why the hunting is superb.

IT WAS HUNTING SEASON AND THE 2011 CAMPAIGN BEGAN BACK IN JANUARY

The stars has crossed in Nevada. The Reno Air Race, left me speechless. You shouldn't have 75 year old men playing with gravity and expect not to have tragedy. I wanted was to get going with my hunting companions fab English doubles guns and drive to the Prairies via Sun Valley and our place in Montana for some streamer fishing.

The early storm swept in quickly as I approached my favorite camp spot near Silver Creek, Id. My young pup was so excited to hit the ground when we arrived at our night site. My vetran, Fe was relieved and immediate went into her hunting mode. A quick whistle blast, as cup of mash and the canines were put away content. They were loving the snow anticipating the upcoming journey.By mid morning I crossed tho Montana. Henry's Lake looked inviting but I was on a mission.

I was on the Madison by two and had two massive hits that took me down stream and pings 4x like it was rubber. Switched to 3 x with a spruce fly and managed to land a hook jawed pre spawn male brown. I was looking for egg hungry rainbows and so I switched to an egghead without success until I went back to 4x. The Billy goat hovered over the river looking down at me as we managed to hook and land several more Madison River trout. I had enough time for a dram and some meat and potatoes.