Although my first shooting trip to South America took place in 1972 I didn’t get to shoot in Uruguay until 1997. In retrospect I hate that I missed shooting in that country and enjoying those wonderful people for so many decades. This had been a winter trip, so the duck and partridge seasons were in full swing. Of course, it was summer back here in the USA.
I’m not usually the kind of woman who hollers out to perfect strangers in public. But, my choices were continue lurking around a Memphis airport telephone booth or find out if the two women strolling by, one in a camouflage jacket, were my ride to Hunter’s Paradise Lodge.
“Hey, are you Shannon?” I blurted.
The woman in the camo coat, who was pushing a cart piled high with pink luggage accented with white polka dots, turned around and said “You must be Tammy.”
Imagine my relief. I was lucky because the two women I had waylaid, Ann Smith of the NRA and Team Winchester’s Heather Reddemann, were on the same Winchester/Mississippi Department of Tourism duck hunt I had been invited to. Turns out the woman I was supposed to meet, Winchester hunt hostess Shannon Salyer, was delayed at the Houston airport.
Within moments of meeting each other, Ann, Heather and I were in fast food heaven at the airport Arby’s. In a rush of introductions and comparing notes on people we knew in common, I finally got the scoop on the pink polka-dotted suitcases. I quickly realized that Heather was a serious waterfowler with a capital S. Not the kind of young woman I would associate with Barbie Doll bags. I learned, though, it was Heather’s foolproof way to ensure that when (not if) the airlines lost her luggage; it would be easy to describe and find. It made sense in a kooky kind of way.
Shannon finally arrived many curly fries later, and we all piled into an SUV and headed south.
The Mississippi Delta is known as the birthplace of the blues and the land of catfish, cotton and waterfowl -everything from snow geese and specklebellies to mallards, wood ducks, scaups and shovelers. Lucky bum that I am, I was cruising down I-55 with three new friends on our way to hunt these heavenly creatures.
Our destination was Hunter’s Paradise Lodge outside of Charleston, Miss. in Tallahatchie County. Presumably it was the same area where Billie Joe McAllister flung himself off that bridge. When I asked the local guides about it, they looked at me like I was a flake. However, it was too late. I couldn’t get the song or the movie out of my head for days.
When the pseudo female voice from our SUV’s navi system curtly instructed us to “turn right in .2 miles,” we were more than ready to finally arrive at Hunter’s Paradise. Lodge owner Tim Gray and his guides immediately whisked our luggage inside, and soon we were mingling with the rest of our hunting party: co-host Mike Jones from the Mississippi Department of Tourism, freelancer Stephanie Mallory and Hillary Mizelle of Grand View Media. It was immediately clear this was a fun group of people, and I was quite pleased at how things were turning out.
As my roommate Ann and I were chatting and unpacking, I was hit with the sinking feeling I had forgotten to pack something. Last time I traveled it was undergarments. This time it was my toiletry kit. No deodorant, shampoo or facial cleanser. Just as this group was getting to know me, I had to be the doofus who couldn’t remember to pack a toothbrush. For the rest of the trip, I was forced to panhandle for contact solution, toothpaste and lotion. But everyone was kind to me, and I decided I could make do with the group’s generosity and the odds and ends I found in my briefcase. At least I didn’t forget my hunting boots.
The first night at Hunter’s Paradise, I vowed to eat dessert like there was no tomorrow. That was a good decision, as Lucille, camp cook, makes a mean chocolate chip cake. I even woke up one morning before the rest so I could devour the last piece. I admit it was a desperate act for someone living on the shampoo charity of others.
After dinner, Tim visited with the group about what we could expect on the hunt, covered some safety basics and let us check out the firearms we would use. I was pleased that we’d be shooting some quality sporting arms. There was a nice selection of Browning Silver and Gold autoloaders in 12 and 20-gauges. Both models are a splendid choice because they employ Active Valve gas operation making them low recoil choices as well as a beautiful combination of wood and metal. I chose a sweet little Silver 20-gauge because it shouldered almost perfectly. We also examined our Winchester ammo choices (12 and 20 gauge Supreme Elite Xtended Range HD Waterfowl and Xpert Hi-Velocity Steel). I knew I’d enjoy getting to test the various loads to discover what would have maximum impact on birds and minimum impact on me. Tim, who has duck hunted since he was 8 years old, left no doubt he is passionate about waterfowling. For some, hunting ducks and geese is a hobby. For Tim, it’s a way of life. By age 18, he had already decided he was going to own, or at least run a guide service so he could introduce others to what he loved. For the next 20 years, Tim worked towards his dream while he held “bill-paying jobs” before finally opening Hunter’s Paradise Lodge.
Today, it’s a popular destination for duck hunters across the country. Situated in the Mississippi Flyway, the area boasts a heavy concentration of waterfowl. I was getting pumped just thinking about birds circling our decoys, and finally cupping their wings as they made the commitment to join their faux friends.
Our first morning, after only four hours of sleep, we were up and pulling on waterfowl bibs, coats and boots – ready for snow goose action. About an hour later, our vehicle was bouncing down a mud road leading to the middle of a field. Just as the guides were getting ready to unleash a bevy of decoys, it happened. A flash in the distance. Could it be lightening?
The ensuing clap of thunder verified that it was, in fact, lightening. And we got to see many more examples of it. For the next 16 hours I swear, every thunderstorm in North America rolled across the Delta. Luckily, we got a brief respite after sunrise when we saw the wind hurl about 25,000 snow geese high overhead. I was thankful my layout blind had doors, because with that many birds in the air, chances of being pooped on were pretty high.
The first wave of rain that morning alternated between a gentle pitter patter on my layout blind to fatter, more frequent raindrops. Tucked away in our little camo coffins, we stayed fairly dry, each in our own little world watching birds and clouds sail by. As morning progressed, a blasting wind and cold rain conspired to make our surrender inevitable. Finally, the guides began to load up dogs and decoys, while we tried to snap a few photos. Afraid to ruin cameras, we packed them up and stood with our backs to the wind. And passed the time telling stories and laughing at how funny we looked with hoods cinched tightly around our faces. This was a plucky group of women so I might have been alone in this thought, but I was thankful to be excused from picking up blinds and decoys in a driving rain.
After this gallant effort, we headed back to the lodge where our growling stomachs were greeted by one of Lucille’s big country brunches. Hurrah!
It rained the rest of the day. And I don’t mean sprinkled. Or drizzled. I mean a full on toad-floating downpour. There wasn’t much more to do beyond accept our fate. Fortunately, the lodge is a spacious and comfortable place to fritter away an afternoon. A great room includes a huge living room, ringed with several comfy sofas and a big screen TV, perfect accoutrements for a mid-day snooze. Connected to that is a roomy, cafeteria style dining room while the six bedrooms are off the beaten path down a quiet hallway. Five private bathrooms means even in a group of women, nobody has to wait for a post hunt shower.
After eating, a few of the women grabbed blankets and sprawled out on the sofas for a siesta, but not before checking email and text messages first.
Others sat at one of the many dining room tables, looking at photos, snacking and talking. While we waited out the rain, Mike Jones filled me in on the birding opportunities in Mississippi, which are plentiful and easy to identify thanks to the tourism department’s handy map and brochure. Shannon, Heather and I also discussed the art and science of waterfowling and the best ways to reduce felt recoil. We agreed that while butt pads and shooting vest pads work wonders, gun type and fit as well as proper stance and handling are key.
The next morning, after it had rained about 6 inches, I figured the ducks would be scattered from one end of the state to the other with so much water available. Still, Tim and his guides were steadfast about getting us out there for a chance to shoot some ducks. They set us up on some old catfish ponds less than a half hour away from the lodge, which also meant a bit more shut eye for us hunters. It was drizzly, windy and cold (an ongoing theme), and we were all dressed to the teeth, each in our own way resembling the Pillsbury Dough Boy or some other enormous roly poly figure. Kirstie Pike, who founded Próis, sent us beanies and neck gaiters from her line of functional women’s hunting apparel. We pulled the hats down over our ears and pulled the gaitors up over our noses so all that was visible were our eyeballs. Still, we managed to shoot some ducks. And some photos.
Driving back to the lodge through the Mississippi Delta, I could almost imagine what this swampy wilderness looked like 100 years ago. The fertile soils of this alluvial floodplain were too good to pass up for the sharecroppers and landowners of yesteryear, and they quickly cleared it for cotton. Today, you’ll see huge working farms, growing cotton, soybeans and rice, bordered by acres of forest and sloughs. Though impressively flat, the meandering rivers and pools of water lend the area a backroad beauty no serious traveler should miss.
While the weather remained a challenge, I got just enough of a taste to want to go back. There’s no question that if the weather had cooperated, we would have had our hands full shooting ducks and geese. Next time, though, I’m making contingency plans in case there’s another monsoon. The Delta is a hotbed of American culture and on my return visit, I’m going to soak it up.
First, I’d head over to Clarksdale to check out the Delta Blues Museum and maybe actor Morgan Freeman’s joint, Ground Zero Blues Club. Then there’s the BB King Museum and Delta Interpretive Center in nearby Indianola. In Oxford, there are several historical sites linked to Nobel Prize-winning author William Faulker that I’d like to see.
Just to be well rounded, I think I’d opt for some wacky entertainment, too – the Catfish Museum in Belzoni or the Jim Henson Museum to pay homage to Kermit the Frog’s birthplace in Leland. Maybe I’d wrap things up with a stop at the Home of Scissors, World Champion Hog just outside of Charleston on Route 32. While there’s plenty to see and do, it’s worth going back just to take another shot at duck hunting.
After eight reflective hours in the Memphis airport (the inconvenience of storms had moved from duck hunting to air travel), I realized that the take home message from this trip was that when you’re in a wonderful area, eating delicious food and surrounded by people who are smart, funny and thoughtful, a limit of ducks is merely a bonus.
Tammy Sapp was raised in an outdoors family who enjoyed spending time together trapping, fishing, camping and hiking. That outdoor background inspired her to pursue a career in the wildlife field. Sapp worked for 11 years at the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation as an outdoor writer, photographer and publications supervisor. She then spent the next 11 years overseeing the communications department for the National Wild Turkey Federation. As the NWTF’s senior vice president of communications, she supervised the production of six national magazines and played a leading role in launching three national television shows and several Web sites. Today, Sapp edits an e-newsletter called the Women’s Outdoor Wire, writes the Outdoor Scene blog and works as a media and agency relations coordinator for MyOutdoorTV.com.
Useful links:
http://www.huntersparadiselodge.com/
As I sit here at my desk, a heavy blanket of snow is falling outside my window. It is the month of March and the first day of spring is not far behind…
March is a kind of “down time” of year for me, a time of putting things away. The hunting season is long over and the fishing season is still a ways off. The decoys – it is so hard to put them away for another year… But reluctantly, I take them one by one to their resting places in the basement. The plastic ones, anyway. The woods and the corks stay up in my office where I can keep an eye on them. The best decoy of the bunch gets to ride around in my car to keep me company for another year. I like to keep a decoy on the dash to look at and my kids get to play with it when they ride along. Decoys are both toys and art. They hold the keys to some of life’s greatest lessons.
The guns have been cleaned and oiled and put back in the rack. A few weeks pass, and I take them out again – for the third time – to check and make sure they are all cleaned and oiled, even though I know they all are. It feels good to throw one to the shoulder and swing through on an imaginary grouse or woodcock or duck. As I sit by the evening fire, it’s a hard thing to be content looking at them through the glass. But it’s time…
The gunning coats and vests are hung up in the “gunning closet”, their pockets not quite sure if they’re ready to be empty for another season. A few shells here, a couple duck calls there. A rusty pocket knife or two. A pair of old gloves and a favorite hat. Way far too many candy bar wrappers… The gunning coats still smell of autumn, as they always do, and as I put them away I am reminded of dogs past, gone but not forgotten. I stand at the closet entrance one last time and close my eyes, letting the smells of October and November and December fill my senses. A hundred thoughts flash through my mind like so many flickers of crimson and gold and burnt orange. Maybe its time for a new dog… How can my children grow up so fast… How does one balance the passions of job, family, and a life outdoors… No answers come as I close the door and turn the key. It’s finally over for another season and a tough time I have.
Capt. David Bitters is a writer/photographer and a striped bass/sea duck hunting guide from Massachusetts. His photos and essays have appeared in over one-hundred magazines. Capt. Bitters is currently finishing his first book, A Sportsman’s Fireside Reader – Tales of Hunting, Fishing, and Other Outdoor Pleasures. Contact him at captdaveb@baymenoutfitters.com or at (781) 934-2838. You can also write him at P.O. Box 366 Duxbury, MA 02331. Please visit his web site at http://www.baymenoutfitters.com
Description
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” lets bidders use the Internet to participate live in the auction-room action through the integration streaming audio and video plus Instant Messaging. An encrypted, secure console allows the auction administrator to monitor the proceedings as they happen to ensure precise bidding.
The system also collects and stores a record of all bids and transactions. This helps automatically compile an archive for historical pricing or dispute resolution.
In addition, The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” collects contact information for all bidders, expediting all future marketing endeavors.
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is a subscription-based service available on an ad-hoc basis – eliminating any software purchases. The only hardware requirements are consumer-quality video cameras, microphones and one or more PCs. A broadband Internet connection is necessary.
The customers’ database catalog can be fully integrated into The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” or ad-hoc links can be established for each individual auction. Either way, the bidders can preview all the lots of the auction.
For the auctioneer, the Shotgun Life team can provide a customized look-and-feel with your own logo, corporate colors and images. The system becomes a fully integrated extension of your own live auction proceedings.
Benefits
The benefit to auction houses is a vast increase in the number of bidders at a negligible cost to all participants. Bidders can now log into a live auction and reap all the advantages of a front-row seat from their office, home or airport lounge – virtually anywhere they have an Internet connection.
That’s because the Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” has been designed from the ground-up specifically for live auctions.
It is not an e-Bay style system where individual bids are submitted in time-delay mode to meet a pre-scheduled deadline. By comparison The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is live and in-the-moment – providing a level playing field for bidders who choose to take part remotely.
The system provides lively interaction. Instant Messaging can be exchanged between participants in a group and the administrator. Although the Instant Messaging is only viewable between members of a particular online conversation, the administrator can monitor all the Instant Messaging exchanges.
When the gavel comes down, the Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” includes secure links to all major credit cards, so that the winning bidder’s account can be immediately charged.
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is the most cost-effective and secure way for auction houses to increase the number of bidders and sell more fine guns at higher prices.
Features
The follow is a list of standard features in The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion”:
Conclusion
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” leverages the power of the Internet for the auctions of quality firearms. All the disadvantages of phone-in bidding disappear in favor of a real-time virtual presence in the auction room for bidders from around the world. In addition to expanding the number of participants in an auction, we believe that the Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” can help build loyalty among existing and new customers – providing a significant growth opportunity for auctioneers.
Please contact:
Irwin Greenstein
SGL Media
PO Box 5790
Pikesville, Maryland 21208 USA
Office phone: 410-484-2038
Mobile phone: 443-799-5974
Email: igreenstein@shotgunlife.com
Shotgun Life is the first online magazine devoted to the best in wing and clays shooting. For more information about Shotgun Life visit www.shotgunlife.com.
Media Contact:
Bernard + Associates
Ryan Holmes
(775) 323-6828
ryan@bernardandassociates.com
March 10, 2009 – Pikesville, Maryland – Shotgun Life, the first online magazine dedicated to the best in wing and clays shooting, has expanded its Internet presence into live firearms auctions.
The new Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion”© is a service available to auction houses as a means of expanding their reach to bidders everywhere in the world who have a high-speed Internet connection.
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” lets bidders use the Internet to participate live in the auction-room action through the integration of streaming audio and video plus Instant Messaging. An encrypted, secure console allows the auction administrator to monitor the proceedings as they happen to ensure precise bidding.
Auctioneers need only a broadband connection and video cameras to get up and running quickly. The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” does not require software downloads, long-term contracts or expensive computer devices. The service is available on an ad-hoc basis for individual auctions.
The system also collects and stores a record of all bids and transactions. This helps automatically compile an archive for historical pricing or dispute resolution.
In addition, The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” collects contact information for all bidders, expediting all future marketing endeavors.
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is a subscription-based service available on an ad-hoc basis – eliminating any software purchases. The only hardware requirements are consumer-quality video cameras, microphones and one or more PCs. A broadband Internet connection is necessary.
Benefits
The benefit to auction houses is a vast increase in the number of bidders at a negligible cost to all participants. Bidders can now log into a live auction and reap all the advantages of a front-row seat from their office, home or airport lounge – virtually anywhere they have an Internet connection.
That’s because the Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” has been designed from the ground-up specifically for live auctions.
It is not an e-Bay style system where individual bids are submitted in time-delay mode to meet a pre-scheduled deadline. By comparison The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is live and in-the-moment – providing a level playing field for bidders who choose to take part remotely.
The system provides lively interaction. Instant Messaging can be exchanged between participants in a group and the administrator. Although the Instant Messaging is only viewable between members of a particular online conversation, the administrator can monitor all the Instant Messaging exchanges.
When the gavel comes down, the Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” includes secure links to all major credit cards, so that the winning bidder’s account can be immediately charged.
The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” is the most cost-effective and secure way for auction houses to increase the number of bidders and sell more fine guns at higher prices.
Features
The follow is a list of standard features in The Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion”:
To arrange a demonstration or to have your questions answered please contact:
Irwin Greenstein
SGL Media
PO Box 5790
Pikesville, Maryland 21208 USA
Office phone: 410-484-2038
Email: igreenstein@shotgunlife.com
Shotgun Life is the first online magazine devoted to the best in wing and clays shooting. For more information about Shotgun Life visit www.shotgunlife.com.
Shotgun Life “In-the-Room Live Connexion” © 2009 SGL Media
“In-the-Room Live Connexion” © 2009 SGL Media
I was recently invited to go to South Dakota pheasant hunting, and what a trip it was. Kirstie Pike the President of Prois Hunting Apparel, Keli Van Cleave, and I went as Prois Hunting Apparel Pro Staff members and were treated to outstanding hospitality by the owners and staff of Pheasant Phun at the Olsen Ranch in Hitchcock, South Dakota.
Dave Olsen is the proprietor and the head wrangler of the operation. Dave’s mom, Annie, and his father, Art are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. The film crew of SSOutdoor Adventures was also there filming for an upcoming show.
The shotgun stood upright in a museum-quality case, halogen lamps kindling the mystique of the Prodigal Son.
The Browning Superposed in front of us was a one-of-a-kind called Golden Days. Belgian master engraver Dany Matagne had spent 300 painstaking hours detailing the doves, bobwhite quail and Gamble quail with gold, green gold, copper and palladium – the entire landscape study framed in a floral scroll. If ever there was a rendition of upland heaven, it was here on the receiver of this $80,000 Superposed.
In a riverfront honky-tonk deep in the South, the sliding doors open to the verandah, women sat on bar stools wistfully blowing cigarette smoke at the stars.
It was the kind of forlorn place where a man could bring his bird dog and let it curl up on the floor between the stools, and you could never tell which one stunk worse – the man or the dog.
Time was of no consequence in this place, here on the river, in the darkness, where the hours and minutes were marked by the bug zappers incinerating their random catch. Yes, the Universe was clearly at work, here, now, in this honky-tonk where men and women wandered in drawn by the Big Mystery.
I never did get the name of that bar, but there’s one thing I’ll always remember about that place. It was where I first met Jim and Bugsy.
Their table was heaped with the remnants of peel-and-eat shrimp and empty beer bottles. I’d accidentally bumped into a corner of the table on the way to the john, a bit sodden myself, when I whirled around to see Bugsy splendid in his Vintager apparel and Jim in a shooting vest and baseball cap.
They looked up at me – more startled than menacing. Both sported long, thick cigars, and I remembered what Freud once said.
Taking in the scene I thought “these men are my kind of men.” So I decided to hold it in and rather than hit the john, and asked, “Can you buy you gents a beer for the inconvenience?”
Bugsy broke out laughing and turned to Jim: “Can you believe this guy?”
Jim simply nodded, world weary and wise.
“Of course you can buy us a beer,” Bugsy shouted.
“Hefeweizen with a wedge of lemon?”
“Sure, why the hell not?” Bugsy shouted.
Jim simply waved his hand, as though to say, que sera, sera.
“Miss, oh, miss,” I called to the barmaid. “Three Hefeweizen with a wedge of fresh lemon, if you please.”
She was young and lithe with a tank tap and no bra and she leaned over into the ice box, drawing the attention of the great rough slab of tramp-steamer maleness, each of them shanghaied to this forsaken place, here on the river, and she put three long-necked Snake Venom Ales on the bar in front of me.
“We’re outta lemon wedges, handsome” she said. “Start a tab for you and your pals?”
“That would be excellent,” I said. “By the way, do you have any coasters?”
She turned away, and resumed her conversation with the burly men at the end of the bar.
“Hey, you gonna eyeball those beers all night or bring ’em over here?” Bugsy said.
“Sorry about the coasters,” I said sitting down. “Fielding-Clapp, Cletus.”
“Bugsy.”
“Jim.”
Bugsy had a mischievous glint in his eyes, his face part pugilist, part English professor. Jim wore a scruffy beard, his dark penetrating orbs awash in a secret sea of resignation whose powerful tides shifted with the whims of Lady Luck. I couldn’t help but notice he wore an orthopedic shoe with a platform sole; one leg was longer than the other.
Their cigar smoke enshrouded us in a place within a place, here on the lazy river. The bar opened directly on to the water, giving the impression that we were on a slow boat to the end of the world.
“Shrimp?” Bugsy asked, pushing the plastic basket toward me.
“That’s extremely generous,” I said, “but I have a shellfish allergy.”
“No worries,” Jim said. “I always carry antihistamines.”
I put forth a polite smile. “So I see you chaps are into shotguns.”
Bugsy broke out laughing. “Hey, this guy’s a regular Sherlock Holmes,” he said to Jim.”
“Don’t start,” Jim said.
“Actually, I write for Shotgun Life.”
“I love it,” Bugsy shouted. “Man, we’ve got something for you to write about.”
“Well, fire away.”
“That’s a challenge we’ll gladly accept,” Bugsy said. “Go ahead, Jim-bo, you go first.”
“I think I will.”
It turned out, that Jim was a dentist, originally from Long Island. He ended up down South to attend dental school in Charleston, South Carolina. And that’s when he started getting into shooting — at the end of dental school and his first residency.
He got invited on his first dove shoot, borrowing a neighbors bolt-action 16 gauge. It was old and weird. “I was hooked. I had a knack for it, and killed my limit rather quickly,” Jim recalled.
Well, by now Jim is married with three children and a successful dental practice.
Jim had also turned into a dove-hunting addict; and after doves he got hooked on quail. When he couldn’t hunt birds, he started to shoot skeet. If it flied, it died, whether it sported feathers or fluorescent orange, it was going down. And as he got deeper and deeper into the shotgun sports, he joined a shooting club in Charleston, which was where he met Bugsy.
After skeet, Jim and Bugsy discovered sporting clays. They started to shoot competitively. Every weekend, Jim was out shooting – and it didn’t matter what the heck it was…doves, quail, skeet, sporting clays…
Jim was telling all of this to me, until he paused for a moment of deep reflection., where he gazed into his fate like a warrior about to face the battle of his life… “Then I got bit by the tick,” he said.
Bugsy nodded to me, puffing on his cigar.
“It’s back in ’94,” Jim said. “I was on a dove hunt in Somerville, South Carolina. I got a tick bite without even noticing it – until the rash. Things started falling apart…neurological problems…my balance gave way and I started having pains and troubles with my legs.
“For almost two years, no one could diagnose it as Lyme’s disease. I went to urologists, neurologists and internists. People weren’t aware of Lyme’s disease at this point — and they never tested him for it. Mostly I was tested for MS, and it always came back negative.
“You see, Cletus, the doctors didn’t really believe that Lyme’s disease made its way all the way down south. You know, it was first detected in Lyme Connecticut.
“In the meantime my situation is deteriorating. Well, I finally got lucky. My sister and brother-in-law are physicians, and when they finally identified the problem, they put me on antibiotics immediately. And they also hooked me up with the head of infectious disease in Columbia, in South Carolina. My sister pulled strings.”
Jim pushed out his chair. He showed me his orthopedic shoe. “That’s what Lyme’s Disease will do to you. You tell your readers, first to spray before they go out to hunt, and if they’re bitten, they should run, not walk, to get treated.”
“Jim, you gotta face it, you’ve always been jinxed,” Bugsy said. “Falling on those fire ants…that woman who got sick on the plane next to you when we flew to Argentina…”
“Well, I do live under a cloud,” Jim told me. “But I’ve never been…” He gave Bugsy a meaningful glance that only men who’ve seen it can know how meaningful it really is.
Bugsy nodded. He took a long, enjoyable puff on his cigar. “Heck, Cletus, what I’ve been through, that’s just one more good story to tell.”
And he proceeded to tell it with a flourish…
His introduction to the shotgun sports was more sordid than Jim’s. At about 14, his parents introduced him to shooting in Savannah at the Forest City Gun Club in Savannah. They took him there because it was a private club and they could drink on Sundays.
As the years passed, he never lost of his love of shooting. He started a home-building company in Columbia, South Carolina called Colony Builders.
“That was 25 years ago when I started at Colony,” he said wistfully, puffing on his cigar.
Well, in the great tradition of the South, Bugsy introduced his son, Bugsy II, to hunting. In 1998, the father took his son for his first shooting trip outside of the U.S., to Mexico, in John Wayne territory: Rio Bravo.
To minimize any dangers, Bugsy decided to stay in Texas. From their base in McAllen, Bugsy and Bugsy II would cross the Pharr Bridge and make day hunts South of the Border. Bugsy knew his outfitter well and they always adhered to the same routine. Pick-up at around noon, shoot until 6:00 or 7:00 on the preserve, and then to the world-famous La Cucaracha in Reynosa for dinner.
It was the kind of routine that men followed through the ages – for time immemorial -until such said day, when out of the blue, it happened…
“The horror,” he said, gazing into the darkness, beyond the slow river.
“Well…,” Jim said.
Bugsy, never one to lose his composure while telling a good story, sucked it up and resumed his compelling narrative.
“We were hunting some five miles from Rio Bravo when a storm came up,” he recalled. “There had been a misty rain, the kind of rain that chills men to the bones and makes you want to brew up a strong cup of Earl Grey tea.
“So we get there, three vehicles full of hunters. It clears up and the rain quits. The day before it was all dry so you could drive to the spot but now it was all gumbo and you had to walk. We walk into the field – my son and myself and the two bird boys, and we’re out in the field, it begins to rain again. I don’t mind the rain but I don’t like the lightning. You know what I mean, Cletus?”
I nodded, a somber nod, reserved for men of few words, like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.
But off in the distance, lightning had hit an electrical transformer – causing a loud explosion. “By my count, 1, 2, 3, I figured it was about 10 miles away,” Bugsy said.
Bugsy and Bugsy II decided to take shelter under a nearby mesquite tree. What they didn’t know, unfortunately, was that it was the devil mesquite tree.
Yes, of all the mesquite trees in all of Mexico, they unbeknownst to them stood under the mesquite tree that went by the name of El Diablo. But before any of the outfitters could warn the two men, Bugsy II had asked his father “What are the chances of getting hit by lightning here?”
Suddenly, it came up out of the ground and hit Bugsy, lifted him off the ground like El Diablo itself, and threw him down with a body slam that would’ve made Hulk Hogan proud. A fireball ran down the outside of the gun and there was a huge explosion.
“I’m going to tell you something, Cletus, that was my moment of truth. Because if that bolt of lighting had gone inside the gun, well, just let me say that I had three shells in that guy and it sure as hell would’ve gone off and killed both me and my son,” Bugsy said. “Yes, it would’ve…got us both.”
There was a silent aftermath, the kind of long silence that makes men wonder, in the solitude of the vast nothingness where men have dwelled among other men in a silence of their own, wonder to themselves as they barely move their lips “It sure is mighty quiet – too quiet.”
At first, Bugsy II thought his father had fired the gun.
Bugsy remembered what followed as clear as if he were laying in that field now.
“In my calmest voice, I said ‘I’ve been hit by lighting, I’m hurt and you need to go get help.'”
You can imagine the fortitude of this man amongst men.
From the waist down he could feel nothing whatsoever. There was a tremendous pain in his left arm, so that he actually thought it had been knocked off and sent flying clear across the field.
There was blood, plenty of it coming from somewhere and he truly believed that his arm had been knocked off and sent flying across the field, where now the vultures had gathered. And they weren’t ordinary vultures. They were the vultures known as El Diablo.
“I pulled on my arm to see if it was attached — so I realized I didn’t need a tourniquet. There was no wound either,” he described with the most masculine fortitude I’d ever heard.
As fate would have it, the wound was on his hand and it came from falling on broken glass – also known as the tears of El Diablo.
“My son runs off, through the gumbo, to get some help, and I’m on the ground, can move a thing from the waist down, and there are the bird boys, speaking Spanish to me,” Bugsy recalled. “Speaking Spanish.”
“Yes, Spanish is a very manly language,” I said.
Bugsy and Jim gave me a solemn nod.
“It took them about 40 minutes to get back though the gumbo, to find the guide on the other side of the field, and explain what happened and get them back to me,” Bugsy said. “I’d been hunting with him for about eight years and when he saw me laying there and he said, ‘Bugsy what have you done now?'”
Bugsy insisted they take him to the hospital on the other side of the border. It was the hospital known among the muscular men in this part of the world for its cherry Jell-O with fruit cocktail in it.
They got Bugsy to his feet – a brotherhood of hunters that has rung true and square through the millennium, and got him into Rio Bravo where they got a cab back to Texas. It was now about 7:00 PM, on a Saturday night, in the emergency room of a border-town hospital.
And he waited.
“By 10:00, they were bringing in the fighting victims, the knife fights, the fights of honor fought by men against men in parking lots with no name,” Bugsy said.
By time the doctors got around to Bugsy, his blood pressure was 200 over 150 (normal is about 110 over 70). The doctors gave him several doses of medicine to lower his blood pressure, sewed up his hand and kept him on a heart monitor over night.
The next morning, the doctor comes in and says to me “You were really lucky.”
“Let’s see if I understand, doc. I’m in a field with 15 guys, I get hit by lightning, and you call that lucky. I think I’d like a second opinion. The doctor said ‘that’s not what I meant’ and I said I know what you meant.”
“Yes, now I know what you mean,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Jim was puffing on his cigar through Bugsy’s tale of his travails. “Hey, Cletus, let me ask you something.”
“Sure, Jim.”
“Want to go shooting with Bugsy and me tomorrow?”
Cletus Fielding Clapp is an official correspondent for Shotgun Life. Please send your comments to letters@shotgunlife.com.
A venue for traditional wingshooting will soon open, tailored specifically for women – and it’s about time.
Called the Ladies Shooting Syndicate, it’s the brainchild of Blixt & Co. in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The Ladies Shooting Syndicate is by membership only. It organizes splendid shooting trips to luxurious destinations for like-minded women. In effect, Blixt & Co. has transported the Golden Age of Shooting into the 20th century for women with adventurous sensibilities.
My Afternoon With Olympian George Quigley
Written by Rick Robinson
Author, part-time fisherman and lousy shot
The picture which the folks at Shotgun Life have used to introduce me to you ought to tell you something. All the people profiled in this fine publication are pictured holding their favorite shotguns. My profile picture has me holding up a beautiful lake trout which I caught on the Niagara River cutting the border between New York and Canada.
What that has to do with clay shooting is what my story is all about.
Fishing (or at the least brackish lake water associated with it) is in my family’s blood. My dad had hunted when he was a young man, but by the time I was born he was afflicted with horrible arthritis. So, instead of hunting, he taught me how to shore fish at a young age. On my mom’s side, I had an uncle for which fishing was his life. Just to be able to fish on a daily basis, he spent his twilight living with a Seminole Indian tribe in the Everglades.
So, fishing is one of my sports of preference. Although, the way I fish, calling it a sport is an insult to sportsmen everywhere. I spend more time choosing my cigar for the day than I do choosing my lures. Quite honestly, it’s the quiet and solitude which I enjoy about fishing. Catching a fish is a side benefit.
One of my regular fishing companions, Lytle Thomas, mistook my love of fishing for being an all inclusive outdoor sportsman. Lytle spends his weekends hunting things with and without a pulse.
“I’m running a charity sporting clays shoot next week at Elk Creek,” Lytle said excitedly to me one day. “I signed you up to shoot in my fivesome.”
“I haven’t shot since elementary school,” I replied, hoping that would end the conversation.
“Yeah, I know,” he persisted. “You told me about it. Remember? You won a shotgun for breaking clay pigeons. It’s like riding a bike. You’ll be fine.”
Lytle was only half right. My bragging was catching up with me. My dad had taken me to a youth shooter’s safety clinic when I was a kid. After a lecture from a local 4-H volunteer on safety (don’t ever point a gun at anyone except your calculus teacher), everyone got a turn at the range. Clays were going to be thrown out for us to shoot. The prize for the most clays hit, winner take all, was the shotgun we were using. I missed the first one and then hit all that were served up. My dad was proud (although I do remember overhearing him explain to my mom that I had my eyes closed on each shot).
Dad had visions of some kid in my class with buckshot marks on his face from me trying to shoot rats along the river banks and convinced me to trade the shot gun to a neighbor for a baseball bat and glove or something. Dad was a smart man.
“Anyway, it’s a celebrity shoot,” Lytle snapped me back to reality. “Our celebrity is George Quigley.”
I gulped. I knew just enough about clays to understand that George Quigley was an Olympic shooter. But the thought of spending an afternoon with any athlete who is the best in his sport intrigued me. I accepted the invitation.
“Great,” Lytle exclaimed and told me the real reason for the invite. “My boss is also in our group and he sucks. I put you on my team so that he’ll have someone to beat.”
George Quigley is a legend around my community. He is one of the best known ambassadors of shooting in the world. He and his dad are both nationally ranked. George, Jr. was on the United States Olympic Skeet team which finished 6th in the 1996 Games in Atlanta. He won a gold medal at the 1994 World championships in Cairo.
On the day of the celebrity sporting clays event, I showed up at Elk Creek Hunt Club in Owen County, Kentucky – the home of this year’s US Open. Lytle had loaned me a 12 gauge Beretta 682 Gold E to use for the day. In the parking lot he told me that it was bored and ported to reduce recoil and declared that I was going to use 1 ounce loads of number 8 shot rather than the standard 1 and 1/8th ounce loads.
I pursed my lips and nodded a knowledgeable nod. I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. I took the gun anyway.
After a quick refresher on gun safety in the pro shop where we watched a Dick Cheney speech, I headed to the course.
I looked for Quigley, but didn’t have to really search the crowd. At 6’5″ and around 250 lbs. he stood out. And, he was the only guy at the practice range who was actually shooting. Everyone else was just standing around watching him. “Pull,” he’d shout and two clays would fly out. He’d shoot twice and both clays would explode. “Dead Pair,” he’d say as the crowd applauded.
I decided to wait to introduce myself.
I showed up at our first station. All the men in my group (including Lytle’s boss) were dressed in gear appropriate for a shooting event – ammo vest, shirts with padded shoulders, and orange hats. Suddenly my ensemble of a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap and “Fishermen do it With a Lure” tee-shirt didn’t seem like such a good choice. These guys were serious.
I retreated to what I normally do when I’m intimidated – I became a smartass.
“This clay pigeon thing sounds like fun,” I said approaching the Olympian Quigley with my hand extended. “I hear they are good eatin’ when grilled.”
Lytle shot me a WTF look.
Quigley just stared at me. “Oh God, he’s pissed,” I though to myself. “I’ve just insulted the king and his own sport. This is not a good start to the day.”
Then, Quigley smiled a rather sly grin. “They’re a lot more tender if you boil them first.”
He was as nice of a guy as everyone had said.
I stepped onto the shooting platform, took my first two shots and missed both targets.
Quigley stood behind me shaking his head. He gave a quick beginners lesson on how to balance my feet and gave me a better way to position my shotgun on my shoulder.
“And your eyes,” he said.
“Yeah?” I responded.
“Try opening them.”
What the hell? It had worked the last time.
As I proceeded to each successive station, my shots inched closer and closer to a target. Although I have to admit, I didn’t particularly care if I ever hit a clay. Learning to shoot was one thing. Learning to shoot under the tutelage of George Quigley was quite another. I was watching one of the best and from a very close range.
What was remarkable about George Quigley was the zen-like manner in which he zeroed in on his intended targets. I make jokes about me shooting with my eyes closed, but George’s approach to shooting was just that. He didn’t shoot with his eyes. He shot with feeling. He and the gun were one unit. He didn’t need his eyes. He shot by pure instinct.
George Quigley hit 99 clays out of 100 on that hot summer day. His only miss was a clay that was thrown from behind him. I swear that the shot went past my head as a warning that I better start trying harder. George said it didn’t come anywhere near me. Just to make sure, I started paying closer attention (and standing closer to Lytle).
I feared that George had visions that the president of the National Sporting Clays Association was waiting for him in the pro shop. Being an ambassador of the sport is one thing. But encouraging someone like me to enter the sport was enough for the Association to ban him from competition.
Whether a result of George’s stellar lessons or pure dumb luck, with a few stations left, I suddenly got the hang of it. He was right; you don’t shoot with your eyes. It’s all feel. Each time I hit a clay, Quigley would boldly declare “Dead Pair.”
Suddenly with one station left, I found myself tied with Lytle’s boss. I had the distinct possibility of not being the worst shooter in the match. Lytle glared at me. His whole point of inviting me was to lose to his boss. Quigley, knowing why I had been invited, winked at me. I went 5 for 5.
Dead Pair!
Rick Robinson is an attorney with the law firm of Graydon Head & Ritchey, LLP in Northern Kentucky and the author of political thrillers. His debut title, The Maximum Contribution, was named a Finalist for the Next Generation Indie Book of the Year for political fiction and earned an Honorable Mention at the Hollywood Book Festival. The sequel, Sniper Bid, was released on Election Day and opened on Amazon’s top seller list of political thrillers at #46. He is published by Publisher Page, an imprint of Headline Books. He can be reached via e-mail at: richardleerobinson@yahoo.com.
Visit Amazon.com for Rick’s novel, The Maximum Contribution.
Visit Amazon.com for Rick’s novel, Sniper Bid.
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