People often ask how I became interested in the outdoors. I was raised in an inner city in New York State where cement and pavement were my playground. When I was a kid my parents would take me to a farm owned by friends. I spent most of my time outside pulling up grass for the cows and throwing it in the pasture, feeding ducks, geese and chickens, and watching the pigs as they wallowed in the mud.  I loved that place, and didn’t want to go back to the city when we had to leave.

When the late Gary Clancy asked me if I wanted his deer, I told him I’d take it. We were hunting whitetails in Saskatchewan with a film crew from Realtree, but the weather was all wrong for a big buck. Instead of cold temps and plenty of snow, it was balmy. The woods were dry, and deer weren’t cooperative. Gary, a well- known outdoor writer who lived in Minnesota, had flown to the hunt. I drove my pickup to Canada from Wyoming. He had taken a modest 6 point buck, the only deer killed on the hunt, and decided not to ship the processed meat home. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was about to be involved in a profoundly frustrating adventure.

Once upon a time I was an official card-carrying member of the Cat Haters Club of America. It didn’t matter what kind of cat — housebound cat that never goes outside, house cat that goes outside and kills stuff, or a feral ( wild) cat.  My dislike for cats was based on their prey favorites, not mice and rodents, which is acceptable, but songbirds and baby rabbits, squirrels, and the young and adults of upland game.  Then too, I never appreciated a cat’s personality. Independent bastards, totally disloyal, (in my experience), don't give a damn attitude, and unresponsive to commands, unless you say, “here kitty, kitty,” while holding some catnip or other treat, and then it may still give you the finger.  I base this behavior on the few cats in a former life that I never bonded with. I figured bonding was not possible when it came to the cat-human relationship, at least with me. 

This story is a tribute to my outfitter buddy Jack Wemple who passed away recently.

        Of all the birds we hunt, I think the wild turkey is the most under-utilized when it comes to enjoying all the body parts. Many hunters will “breast” the bird, cutting off only the breast and discarding the rest. To me, that’s a cardinal sin, but that’s just me. I must have a weird chromosome, because I see every gram of wild meat, whether it’s on a dove, moose, or fish, as a precious piece of flesh that should be enjoyed at the table. And, I should mention that each state has rules regarding the edible portions of wild game. You could be in violation of the law if you toss the turkey carcass after removing the breasts.

It was 1981 when the editor of Outdoor Life called and told me he wanted me to go on a little fishing trip. I was all ears, and when he explained the details, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to accommodate him. However, since I’d been with the magazine full-time for only a few years and I was expected to accept editorial assignments, I agreed with masked enthusiasm.

This is part 3, the last of my blog that describes my outdoor career. In the first two parts, I get into my early life, then my years in two colleges, three jobs in Utah, New York, and then back in Utah. Part 2 ends where I receive a phone call while working as a wildlife biologist for the US Bureau of Land Management in Vernal, Utah. The year was 1978.

Part 2. Continuation of my writing career.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t get enough of the outdoors. I was raised in a city in upstate New York and entertained myself for hours by lying on the sidewalk and feeding bread crumbs to ants, watching them grab the morsels and drag them into their ant house. And then there were the spiders that lived in the hedge. I fed them insects and watched them grow. A highlight of my bug mania was a pet praying mantis that I kept in a big cage and fed grasshoppers. And then, of course, there were the snakes. The men of my family were outdoorsmen. I followed them around as we chased rabbits with Grandpa Corbo’s beagle hounds, fished local waters, searched for wild mushrooms, and, when I was old enough, became a Boy Scout when my Dad was Scoutmaster.

On April 11, 2018, Pat McManus, one of America’s greatest humor writers passed away. He was known far and wide for his humor columns in Field and Stream and Outdoor Life, as well as stories in Readers Digest, and, of course, his many books and plays. 

Having spent a lifetime in the woods, there are a few things out there that terrify me. I speak not of grizzly bears and nefarious snakes, and other critters that can seriously change my lifestyle, if not end it. I refer to the tiny skin-eating, flesh- drilling, often invisible vermin that I thoroughly despise.

I’ve always been enamored with all sorts of wild critters, whether it was bees, snakes, lizards, spiders, frogs, you name it. So it was just natural that I’d develop a fascination with the snapping turtle. This sharp-jawed,  beady eyed, nasty looking beast lived in all the lakes and ponds where I grew up. I’d see them with just their heads poking out of the water’s surface, or swimming near shore, or crossing a road. Several times I tried to catch one by skewering a chunk of fish on a hook and tossing it out in the lake, leaving it overnight. I always came back to find a busted line or straightened hook. 

Last year we were able to hunt wolves again in Wyoming. The wolf season didn't come easy. It was a hard fought battle in the courts, and the state was able to get the Federal Court of Appeals to sign off on it late last winter of 2017.

Elk season is here or about to start, depending on where you hunt. Most hunters traditionally head to the range to insure their rifles are still zeroed. Having confidence in your firearm is all-important. Before I hunt, I want my rifle to be as accurate as possible, as we all are. We should demand the best performance possible. My sweet-shooter is a Mossberg .308 equipped with a Timney trigger and topped with a Swarovski scope. With that combination, I'm ready to hunt.

As one who lives in wolf country, with wolves commonly seen around my home in northern Wyoming, and as one who has been researching and writing about wolves long before they were introduced into Yellowstone and Idaho more than 20 years ago, I'd like to clear the air. At least -- my perspective.

"That lion is scared of you," Willis said, as I slowly climbed up the juniper tree.

When the editor of Outdoor Life told Pat McManus and I to go on a hunt and write a double feature, we were all for it. For those of you unfamiliar with Pat, he wrote the back page for Outdoor Life for years. He was the Humor Columnist, and was regarded as the most-followed outdoor writer in the business. In the double feature article, Pat and I would each write our own versions of the hunt. Interesting concept with plenty of room for humor. And maybe some of it would be true.

Even though I'm no longer writing for Outdoor Life or hosting my TV show, I constantly get requests from people who want information about hunting elk. Most of these folks have never hunted in the west, and most live east of the Mississippi.

"What's that?" Madonna asked as we drove up the forest road. None of us in the truck saw what she saw. "Probably nothing," she said. "Keep driving." Maybe it was the shadow of a willow bush or a stump. But something told me to back up. When I did, I saw a huge bull moose in a willow swamp, slowly walking away from the road. I'm no stranger to moose hunting, and quickly realized what I was looking at. This was a world class bull. Larry Weishuhn was in my truck, and he was as impressed as I was. Larry also had a moose tag, but in a unit adjoining mine. We were both fortunate to have drawn Colorado moose tags.