I usually think of Bobby Seward when rolling out to guide a hunt, which is every couple of weeks.
(I use this term for taking primary responsibility for another hunters activity and safety; hitshoorezhell does not refer to any payment received).
To a 12 year old city kid, Bobby was living the country mouse dream.
He lived in tiny La Vernia, Texas; his mom worked with mine. Occasionally, she would spend a weekend afternoon at her place and I would tag along. Their spread was probably about 500 acres, complete with small and large stock, hay fields and a creek running through.
I would have done anything required by God or man to live there.
With two sisters being busy socializing and a dad who liked the bottle a bit much, Bobby was all too familiar with the practical day-to-day demands of this idyllic country life. Somehow, he still made time for me when I came over. This was particularly remarkable, as he was 17 years old.
I was useless, of course, but willing to offer my feeble assistance while he mended a fence, stacked hay, or tackled a stubborn carburetor on the tractor. Belle, his dog of indefinable genetic origin and intractable loyalty, was always with us, and without doubt more useful than I.
He was the first to put a fishing rod in my hands, and introduced me to the joys of pulling channel cats off a trotline from a wobbly john boat in the middle of the night. He played football, listened to Merle on cassette, and annoyed the cute diner waitress enough to squirt ketchup on him.
Right before she agreed to go out with him.
In my eyes, Bobby was a giant among men, then and now. Much of my affinity for the wild is due to his influence and effort. I don’t know where he ended up, but over the years have saluted his memory with cold water, hot coffee, flat beer and rough bourbon.
But here’s why I think about Bobby when I take someone out into the field...
Years later, I learned that he took a friend out one afternoon and, somehow mistaking her for a coyote, his companion shot and severely wounded Belle.
And Bobby had to shoot his own dog.
The high price he paid for his kindness still saddens me.
So tonight, in front of the fire with my own faithful beast, I raise yet another glass in salute to Bobby...
And to those who have guided each of us.
(I use this term for taking primary responsibility for another hunters activity and safety; hitshoorezhell does not refer to any payment received).
To a 12 year old city kid, Bobby was living the country mouse dream.
He lived in tiny La Vernia, Texas; his mom worked with mine. Occasionally, she would spend a weekend afternoon at her place and I would tag along. Their spread was probably about 500 acres, complete with small and large stock, hay fields and a creek running through.
I would have done anything required by God or man to live there.
With two sisters being busy socializing and a dad who liked the bottle a bit much, Bobby was all too familiar with the practical day-to-day demands of this idyllic country life. Somehow, he still made time for me when I came over. This was particularly remarkable, as he was 17 years old.
I was useless, of course, but willing to offer my feeble assistance while he mended a fence, stacked hay, or tackled a stubborn carburetor on the tractor. Belle, his dog of indefinable genetic origin and intractable loyalty, was always with us, and without doubt more useful than I.
He was the first to put a fishing rod in my hands, and introduced me to the joys of pulling channel cats off a trotline from a wobbly john boat in the middle of the night. He played football, listened to Merle on cassette, and annoyed the cute diner waitress enough to squirt ketchup on him.
Right before she agreed to go out with him.
In my eyes, Bobby was a giant among men, then and now. Much of my affinity for the wild is due to his influence and effort. I don’t know where he ended up, but over the years have saluted his memory with cold water, hot coffee, flat beer and rough bourbon.
But here’s why I think about Bobby when I take someone out into the field...
Years later, I learned that he took a friend out one afternoon and, somehow mistaking her for a coyote, his companion shot and severely wounded Belle.
And Bobby had to shoot his own dog.
The high price he paid for his kindness still saddens me.
So tonight, in front of the fire with my own faithful beast, I raise yet another glass in salute to Bobby...
And to those who have guided each of us.
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