This article originally appeared on Foxworthy Outdoors. July 5, 2012.
I opened my eyes to a new morning as steam poured out my sleeping bag, like smoke rising to the roof of the tent.
“Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day,” I thought.
The Coleman bag was very damp but very warm. Hollofil is a life-saver in the bush. On the other side of the tent Steve Vogt is mumbling something about a train wreck. I crawled out of the bag, opened up my duffel bag and pulled out a new set of clothes that had been closed up in a garbage bag.
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.”
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.
This article originally appeared on Foxworthy Outdoors. May 7, 2012.
“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.