Robert Clay’s instructions were clear.
“Walk down this road, and you’ll come to a flagged stake,” he said. […]
It was as though the animal had popped out of the ground, as deer are seemingly apt to do in food plots. […]
As a youngster, I devoured my uncle’s outdoor magazines. He was a chemical engineer, a machinist, a shooter and a gunsmith — and I hero-worshiped him as only a kid can. A patient man, he catered to my incessant questions pestering him with queries about guns, hunting and every other aspect of the shooting sports I could think to ask about. […]
About four years ago, with the millennium fast approaching, gun writers were asked by various magazines to write about guns of the past century, and what could be expected in the gun world in the new century rapidly approaching. […]
“There’s somebody back there!” Eddie hissed, spraying me with whiskey spittle as he pointed a gloved finger behind the duck blind. “I’ve been hearing them all morning.” His eyes were wild. His lips quivered. “SEE!….. Hear THAT?!” […]