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You Dirty Rat

Posted on by Gary Oberbillig / Comments Off on You Dirty Rat

This Is What You Get By Gary Oberbillig They say first impressions are the most powerful, and my cousin, Dave Oberbillig, reached the pinnacle of them in the late 1960s, during Salmon River elk-hunting season. Dave happened to
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Glory Days

Posted on by David E. Metcalf / Comments Off on Glory Days

When Game Birds Were Plentiful By David E. Metcalf The colorful bird flew fast and low, directly toward me. “This will be an easy shot,” I thought. In a situation like this, sometimes I was right and sometimes
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Shotgun on the Schoolbus

Posted on by Gary Oberbillig / Comments Off on Shotgun on the Schoolbus

A Normal Thing Back Then By Gary Oberbillig When I was a high school kid in  rural Idaho in the 1950s, several times each week during the pheasant hunting season I would take up my twelve-gauge shotgun from
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Hunts from Paradise

Posted on by Pat Drain / Leave a comment

A Tradition of Decades Compiled by Pat Drain From the late-1930s into the early-1960s, three Gooding families made regular hunting excursions, often together, into the mountains around the Selway River. In 1964, this region became part of the
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Wild Goose Chase

Posted on by Joe Davis / Leave a comment

Boy Retrievers By Joe Davis We departed that cold winter morning at zero-dark-thirty. At the time, I didn’t know what zero-dark-thirty meant, and I don’t think my dad did, either—he just called it getting up early. Years later,
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Woods Work

Posted on by Carolyn White / Leave a comment

Among the Playful Hunters By Carolyn White Photos courtesy of Carolyn White Hunting season was finally over at the isolated ranch where I worked in the Nez Perce National Forest. I’d been up by four o’clock nearly every
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They Know, Somehow

Posted on by G.T. Rees / Leave a comment

I poked my head above the sagebrush and cursed under my breath. Forty head or more of antelope had just vanished somewhere on the rolling range. Where the hell could they have gone?

The valley wasn’t wide, maybe a little more than a mile from where I was at the root of the snowcapped Sawtooths, which climbed several thousand feet from where Highway 28 cut through the lonely Lemhi Valley.

I got up on my knees, thankful for the kneepads and leather gloves I had almost neglected to bring. About ten of those “speed goats” were grazing far down toward the highway, but there was no sign at all of the large herd I’d been stalking for more than an hour, belly-crawling through what slight cover was available. This was my first antelope hunt, and it was a lot harder than I had planned on it being. It was the second day of my hunt, and the umpteenth failed stalk. Get within five hundred yards, and the critters would just take off.

It was easy to locate them. I just drove along the lonesome highway south of Leadore until I spotted my quarry. But then I tried, and repeatedly failed, to put a stalk on them. It wasn’t working at all like they did it on the hunting shows. Continue reading

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