CURIOUSLY enough, two of the men whose feature stories appear for the first time in OUTDOOR LIFE this month express a liking for bringing back pictures of their quarry, so that they’ll have the “before” as well as the “after” to show their friends.
THE high in low manners. H. D. McGinley, manager of a game district for Michigan Conservation Department, got mired in a dirt road about 8 mi. west of Hastings. Silent stranger closely watched while McGinley toiled for 4 hours to get car free.
ANY SPORTSMAN'S SUBJECT YOU'RE INTERESTED IN? WE PRINT AS MANY OF YOUR LETTERS AS WE CAN
Fighter's Day Dream
Curiouser and Curiouser
Another Kid Makes Good
Bullfrog in the Duck Pool
Referred to Ray Bergman
First Catch Your Turtle
EDITOR Outdoor Life
SOMETIMES when the evening is unusually quiet and peaceful, here in the South Pacific, I forget that I’m in uniform, so I can go back to the States—and home. It’s easy to pretend that I’m on some little Wisconsin lake with wooded slopes which come right down to the water’s edge.
Here is an important article. It concerns all sportsmen—it concerns you! OUTDOOR LIFE has made a nation-wide survey to find out just what is being done to provide public-fishing areas. This is our first report, the start of a series
YOU drive out east of Traverse City, up in a country that affords some of the best trout, bass, pike, and bluegill water Michigan has to offer, on the Boardman River and Arbutus Lake road. At the main corner where the road leaves the town you come to a neat, green-and-white sign.
MEET TOM TWEED—SERGEANT, GENTLEMAN, SPORTSMAN, AND PAL OF OUR ARMY'S BIG BOSS
GEN. GEORGE C. MARSHALL, Chief of Staff and Commanding General of the Army's Field Forces, has a favorite hunting partner. Like the general he is an old soldier, but he doesn't wear the stars of high command on his shoulders. He is a wiry, soft-spoken noncommissioned officer who is quietly proud of the facts that he is serving his twenty-ninth year in the infantry and that his two sons also are doughboys.
FROM TWO OLD TRUCK TUBES—A PERFECT WARTIME TROUT BOAT
VIS and I knew that long jaunts were out—bald tires, no gas, and little time to spare. That meant angling close to home. We also knew of a place on the Snake’s North Fork in Idaho where the rainbows run large and hungry. But it would take a boat to get to them, and to lug a boat up there would be nobody’s idea of a good time.
Blacks, silvertips and brownies— they all spell trouble the hard way
PHIL H. MOORE
GENERALLY speaking, human beings are instinctively afraid of bears. This fear is probably inherited from prehistoric times, when bears were larger and bolder than they are today, and when it was relatively easy for a bear to snatch a man from the huddle of poor, night-frightened humans who squatted around a fire and waited for blessed daylight.
THE hunt was arranged expressly for us—eleven Frenchmen, seven U. S. Army officers, and myself. We piled in a truck along with two Arab beaters and eight dogs, and drove far back in the mountains. The dogs were a mixed bunch—one black-and-white terrier, one red hound, and the rest just mutts, long and low and stocky.
A COUPLE of friends of mine drove up in front of my house one day with two buck antelope. They almost caused a traffic jam, and one passer-by, who stood gaping at them, said, “Good Lord, there just ain’t any such deer!" That is about the usual reaction to a first sight of that amazing creature, the pronghorn.
YOU NEVER CAN TELL ABOUT 'LUNGES—NOT WHEN THEY'LL HIT A BALSA-WOOD MUSKRAT!
JOE, Tay, and I were standing in the Angler's Bar in Hayward admiring the sharp-toothed monsters mounted on the walls when an old fellow in a faded Mackinaw came over to us and said: “Them-there muskies is murderous fish. One of ’em tried to drownd a feller named Stan Joslin over on th’ Flambeau a couple of years back.
FIRST time I saw Willie Wanderlust was on a cold September night as he emerged from a thicket on the outskirts of Portland, Maine. Little did I realize that in weeks to come I’d get to know the moose well, that his adventures would make newspaper headlines and lead to one of the most remarkable bits of crime detection in the history of Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Game.
Imagine a mere wife daring to suggest to a bold, brave hunter that there might be some angles to angling!
CAN I help it if the missus told me to "get that smelly old fishing basket out of the kitchen, for it's hung there a month?" Can I help it if I obeyed at once? And if, just to be sure she was right, I lifted the lid and sniffed cautiously? And if, instead of something "smelly," I got a whiff of dried brook grass and mint, of bursting buds, rippling waters, and jumping trout?
Three years, and a dance my wife put on, to collect that bull-elk trophy!
L. G. HUBBS
FOR THREE SEASONS I coveted that elk. I first saw him in 1940, and he looked to me like a world's record. Then in 1941 I looked for him again, but without success, though I found tracks that could have been made only by him. When the 1942 season came around, again I took up the hunt, for I knew that had anyone else landed him, word of it would have got around.
IT WASN'T cold, but there was a damp mist in the hollows that crept under your coat collar and down the front of your shirt. It wasn't late, either, but I’d had a hard day of it, and my old knees felt like they could use a bit of rest, and possibly a few drops of oil.
He learned long ago to thumb a reel-now he's learned it helps no end to thumb a ride
HARRY had a plan. It sprang from the fact that, with the trout season in full swing, neither of us yet had wet a fly. The ban on pleasure driving had left us no way of getting to any stream in our state that either of us considered promising. Study of the New Jersey map showed no happy marriage of railroad with trout water that we liked.
THE quiet, lanky craftsman who does restocking work for a large Midwestern arms dealer was showing me his shop. The part of it that caught my eyes was his work bench, and the battalion of odd-looking hand tools that marched, single file, along the back of the work area.
This deer, snapped in Jasper Park, Alberta, was no namby-pamby Bambi. The action is blurred but the deer's intent is not—to hold the rash pup with his forelegs, and give it a sound kicking Sportsmen are accepting a new challenge—and proving themselves true conservationists.
THERE are no roads leading to the great deer country along the Tahquamenon River in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. But there are plenty of big bucks in those woods; and when a seasoned hunter knows that, he’ll take almost any risk. In this case a party chanced a boat trip in the face of a possible sudden freeze-up, which would maroon them in the forest wilderness.
YOU know how it is to try to start a camp fire by striking a wet match on a wet rock. Just to make it hard, the kindling is usually wet too, and so are you—not to mention being dead tired, or half-frozen, or ready to drop from hunger. All that misery can be avoided if you take along a supply of waterproof fire starters.
WHILE READING a copy of OUTDOOR LIFE, a few days after I’d celebrated my golden wedding, I got to thinking about the days when I used to hunt that wild but dignified gray bird, the Canada goose—hunt him with a heavy .40/82 rifle, and bring him down or go without meat.
The contributor of this little Story makes no claim to originality; he's passing it along only because he enjoyed it and thinks others will too
MOST outdoorsmen love to tell or hear a tall tale, but actually taking part in one is a rare privilege. Friends of Coke Stevenson, ranchman and governor of Texas, swear this happened to him a few years ago. Stevenson is the sort of deer hunter who sets aside just two bullets a season for his two-buck limit, but a hunt without a rip-roaring practical joke is worse than no hunt at all for him.
WHEN manufacture of the Winchester Model 95 rifle was discontinued a few years ago, the good and reliable old .30/40 cartridge became an orphan. For the first time in its twoscore years of life no rifle was being manufactured to shoot it. No Krags have been made for the cartridge since about 1902, just before the 1903 Springfield was put into production.
TO ME it's surprising that few men handload shotgun shells. I can remember reading nothing about it in sportsmen's magazines in recent years. And I personally find that hand-loading shotgun shells is a lot more satisfactory than doing the same thing with rifle cartridges.
W. B. TINKER, in a letter published in the August number of OUTDOOR LIFE, disagreed with what Allen Parsons said of the black bear in his article, “Bear at Bay.” As I am the guide who accompanied Parsons on his hunt, and whom he quotes in summing up bear character, I feel it only right to make reply.
THERE have been several inquiries in the magazine lately, I note, about the .280 Ross. Anyone purchasing that rifle now, without ammunition, is very foolish, unless he is willing to wait until the war is over and then either get loaded cartridges or go in for hand-loading.
NEXT time you have venison on hand, plan to eke out your meat supply—and also have a year-round reminder of your hunt—by making up some pemmican. It was a staple life-saver of many of our Western and Northwestern pioneers on their overland journeys; it can be a treat for you!
GOOD fishing spots are a lot harder to find in lakes than they are in streams Nearly all lakes have their likely - looking places, but the chances are they are overfished, and that many excellent spots are just waiting to be found by some explorative fisherman.
FISH hear mostly if not entirely by vibrations. Shout as you will and it will not disturb them but just do something which sets up vibrations that carry down into the water, and see what happens. The fish are immediately greatly perturbed, if not thrown into a momentary panic.
Question: I have done some bait casting and would now like to try my hand at fly fishing. As I don’t know anything about it, I wonder if you’d be good enough to suggest the tackle required? I’d be going after pickerel, panfish, and an occasional bass, and have been considering an 8½-ft., 5-oz. rod or a 9-ft., 6½-oz. rod.
FROM time to time I am asked for information about camping trips, via boat or canoe, in the South. One man wants to know about conditions on Florida's St. Johns River; another has in mind a trip through the Ever-glades country there; a couple of fellows are figuring on serious exploration in the Gulf of Lower California following their discharge from the Army.
We are eating more of the larger, coarser kinds of fish now that meat is scarce, and we find them less tasty, especially when fried. The remedy is to boil some of the large types. Inclose fish in a cloth sack or commercial parchment paper to prevent it from falling apart, drop in salted boiling water, and cook about 8 minutes for each pound.
WITH the coming of autumn, camping won't be much fun unless your bed is warm and soft. The very first night we camped out, my partner and I made a mistake quite usual for beginners. Our beds were folding canvas cots with three single blankets for each.
RIGHT now "Home, Sweet Home," whether accompanied by music or not, means more to us Americans than ever before; but we know too that in millions of cases you’d never find that out by ringing the doorbell or looking through the living-room window.
Question: Recently I purchased a 6-year-old coon hound. If he hits a trail within an hour everything is fine; if he doesn’t, he starts running rabbits. To break him of this I have tried whipping—which most dog books advise—but it does no good.
Dr. Kinney is glad to answer personally all letters from readers regarding their dogs' health. It should be remembered when writing him that serious illnesses cannot be treated successfully by a person unable to examine the dog. In such instances, a dependable local veterinarian should be consulted immediately.