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Field
- Details
- Written by Scott Railey
This article originally appeared on Foxworthy Outdoors. Nov. 20, 2012.
Have I told you I have a grandson? Well…like so many older folks who like to brag about their grandkids, I guess I’m now one of ‘em. Sam Railey will be 2 years old this coming January. I know this sounds a little premature, but I’m building Sam a rifle. I know he’s only two, but the boy is going to need a rifle one day. It makes perfect sense to me that I continue the great outdoor experiences that I had with his Dad, Matt and his Uncle Steve, my other son with Sam. As a father and grandfather, it is a special time to present a young boy with his “first rifle.”
- Details
- Written by Scott Railey
This article was originally published on Foxworthy Outdoors. Dec. 13, 2012.
John Roy Lightfoot is a rough old soul. At 55 years old, he could easily pass for 70. It’s amazing what three packs of cigarettes a day, mixed with a dozen beers and who knows what else will do to the body…but, it can’t be good. Yeah, John Roy had a rough life…a self-inflicted, rough life. Ten years in the pen for a pot farm didn’t help him either.
John Roy lives about five miles from our farm. He and his wife live in a small frame home surrounded by ten acres. They are poor folks who struggle to get by. Mrs. Lightfoot sells vegetables and canned goods to help support John, who doesn’t work.
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- Written by Scott Railey
This article originally appeared on Foxworthy Outdoors. May 7, 2012.
Part II
“Man, it’s cold,” growled Steve Vogt.
I stirred in my sleeping bag listening to the loud river roaring by our tent. The old toboggan on my head helped me keep warm through the night. It was a lesson I had learned in Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness area while elk hunting. Like the ole American Express says, “Don’t leave home without it.”
I moved my .45 Long Colt to the side and piled out of my sleeping bag. Dang, it was cold. I jumped in my jeans and flannel shirt, pulled on my hip waders and grabbed my coat. Unzipping our dollar store tent, I stepped out facing the morning and looking at the most beautiful river I had ever seen. The Chili River was about 30 yards wide at this point with a 20-foot bank on the other side. There were several rocks in the middle of the current the size of a Volkswagen, and the water pounded them with anger, leaving a tail stream behind each rock. I stood in awe, staring at this highway of water, wondering where it would take us today.
- Details
- Written by Scott Railey
This article originally appeared on Foxworthy Outdoors. April 3, 2010.
September 19, 1989, at 4:30 a.m. – My dad was driving me to the Orlando International Airport to catch a Delta flight to Anchorage, my first trip there. I left my truck at his house to keep from paying two weeks of parking at the airport. Dad unexpectedly pulled his car over about a mile from the airport and looked at me with eyes of concern.
“Son, please don’t go. You haven’t lost anything in Alaska…I’m begging you to stay. You have a young family, three small children and I have a bad feeling. “ He pleaded, “Son, I’ll pay you $2,500 not to go….don’t go son!”