New Hampshire Bound

•September 30, 2021 • Leave a Comment

Its nearly time to hunt the old covers for Ruffed Grouse and Woodcock, as well as some new covers. The anticipation is enhanced with the preparations for both dog and man. Really looking forward to this.

I will do my best to get some decent pictures and perhaps have a good story or three to tell.

I really like Mud River products as can be seen here. The truck organizer that hangs from the front seats–holds gear and space for 3 long guns, the back seat cover and a small duffle that holds hunting necessities and such.

Max’s Pedigree

•September 17, 2021 • Leave a Comment

I put together a chart for Max. I have neglected to send his registration into FDSB, but I have it ready to go.

Max has a lot of the same stuff in him that Tucker did. Pretty cool is that.

Upland Safari Mobile

•September 13, 2021 • Leave a Comment

Is ready to go. I have had these Yakima bars and towers for over 30 years on several trucks–still going strong. The rocket box for about 25 years. Now the new to me truck is nearly complete. It just feels right.

Truck–Upland Truck

The Triad

•September 5, 2021 • Leave a Comment

I have had a great many shotguns over the years but have been attempting to simplify in many areas of my journey and confident that this triad should cover the bases as well as any.

12 gauge Benelli Ultralite

16 gauge Rizinni Iside

20 gauge Browning Special Addition White Lightning

A Sketch That Became a Painting

•September 3, 2021 • 2 Comments

My wife has some talent…don’t tell her I said so. A friend and his dog.

Another Hot Day

•August 29, 2021 • Leave a Comment

Young Max does enjoy his little pool after the all important property survey.

It won’t be long now before we will be in the NH October woods…its in the mind’s eye–as you can see.

A Belgian Light Auto 5 Project

•August 16, 2021 • Leave a Comment

I found this in a small shop in town and had long desired to learn about the way these are designed. Mr. Browning was way ahead of his time. A brilliant design loved by many.

I stripped and refinished the furniture with a varnish of my composition and stripped and re-blued the action and barrel.

The innards–especially the rear–required a major cleaning. All actionable parts that operate the action replaced.

She is running smooth as silk!

Adventures of A Setter Off-Season

•August 15, 2021 • Leave a Comment

How about some retrieving and fishing?

They Were Young Once

•August 11, 2021 • Leave a Comment

I found myself looking back at old memories searching for a particular ‘memory’ and as usual got lost…I did find this, though.

Both Tucker the tri-colored llewellin and Bromley the orange belton Old Hemlock have passed on.



Cut Puppy Paw

•August 2, 2021 • Leave a Comment

This past Friday I took Max out for a swim and while sniffing around in some tall grass at the Lake bank, he cut a pad of his left front paw. It bled pretty good, but I patched him up and it is healing nicely.

I hate it when folks break bottles in public places.

Thanks, Dad–I feel Better

Setters Swim

•July 10, 2021 • 3 Comments

Some folks don’t believe this and think they sink.


Setters Walk On Water

•July 10, 2021 • Leave a Comment

This is an example of ‘Settertude’.

Tucker–A Birddog and My Friend

•July 6, 2021 • 2 Comments

Its been nearly two years now since we lost our Tucker and tears still fill my eyes when I think of him–and often. I have not been able to write a tribute to my wonderful friend, my first setter and a beloved friend with whom I spent a great deal of time hunting fishing and working. I have read once again the tribute to Bromley and looking through pictures and I found a bit I wrote about Tucker before he passed. I will post it here along with some pictures.Lord–I miss them. Tucker made it nearly 14 years. He was an athlete and had more prey drive than any dog I ever met. He loved me more than I deserved.
Perhaps its because I am getting older. Not old mind you, but of an age where I can feel my own mortality as a reality and no longer the nearly indestructible man I  have been since crawling under the catwalk of the Queen City Bridge picking pigeons while in the second grade.Perhaps because the new vantage point makes me wonder how many more dogs I have time to love. Maybe this is why I’ve been thinking about the four legged friends of the past and has me of late, looking back at some journal entries of times afield and the evidences in them of how amazing these dogs are…to us.
I will leave Vincent the Magnificent the kayaking, rock climbing bank dog Golden Retriever for another time and Connor the chocolate lab and my first grouse dog. I did not have the foresight to keep any journals of those days—although many memories still shine clear and bright.
I did keep a daily journal intermittently of some adventures my first setter Tucker and I have had together and it is those I have been looking back to. Tucker has aged as I have. He will be 13 come September. If the old saw is true—that a year to us is 7 years to a dog, he is now 84 plus years old. That beats my age of 63 by a good bit. If I am doing as well as he is at 84, I will have done very well indeed. He will still hunt all day, if I were to let him. Oh, his rear wheels would give out under him a few times in uneven terrain and he would be a very sore and lame pup for a couple days, but his heart will not have faltered nor his desire to hunt.
Tucker is a Llewellin English Setter. Tri-colored out of Little River Kennel in Alton, NH. He is a bird dog and my friend and partner.In his early puppy training, he was a quick learner. That yard work stuff where an owner first gets to interact with his dog in a way that makes for both frustration, impatience and pride. Tucker learned to walk at heal and whoa on spaced out 3’x3’ plastic squares—he learned both at the same time walking at heel and then when reaching and standing on a square, he learned that whoa meant stop and stay put. The squares seemed to help communicate the stay here part. It didn’t take long.He learned a disdain for pen raised quail because he could catch them when they flushed after the point. That was more my fault than his. Stronger flying pheasant and chucker cured him, but it was wild birds that brought out the bird dog in him. Just as it should be.
One of my earliest entries involved a young puppy before his first hunting season finding a grouse that wasn’t a grouse. It was a dusting grouse spot recently vacated by a grouse. Nevertheless, it was a moment for celebration.Another while out with a trainer helping us both to understand the setter dog game, Tucker happened to find himself on the opposite side of a small pond. Garret suggested that I call him to me. I did and Tucker swam a beeline across that pond directly to me. Garret opined that Tucker was a prodigy. I smiled a lot. Tucker forgot the trick sometime over the next few years.A wonderfully strange and comical event took place the following year in Tucker’s first full season. He chased a woodcock around a small tree clump several times before that woodcock flew. I was fortunate enough to shoot him. He may have been dizzy. True story. He chased the bird around and around like a train on a circular track.That was the first and the last time that he ever chased a woodcock. Tucker loved woodcock and discovered that it was much more fun to point them and enjoy a snoot full for as long as possible—at times that would be long indeed.One day in ‘Mossy Cover’, before the adoption of tracking devices, we relied strictly on a bell to know the whereabouts of a pup in thick cover. Mossy Cover is a low area filled with vernal pools, fallen trees, ferns and alders. A cover that holds some grouse and local woodcock as well as being a happy hunting ground for flight birds. A wonderful and almost magical place that Tucker and I enjoyed. Tucker was in his second season and beginning to get the idea of things birdy. His bell stopped ringing this morning and because it was such thick cover, I had lost knowing just where he was. I called and called and searched until finally my eye caught sight of his tail through the alders and ferns. That sickle tail of his has enough white in the feathers to make the seeing a bit easier. It had been a good ten minutes of looking and there he was locked up on a woodcock. He had never been more than 40 yards from me and could hear me calling him all the time. I walked in and his eyes sort of rolled over to briefly communicate his semi-sorrow at ignoring me at the same time saying—look Dad. Look there. Though I was a bit worked up over the searching, I moved in to kick the bird up and connected for my partner. It fell into a wet area of moss and fern and Tucker found it, picked it up and shortly dropped it again. Such was his way with woodcock. He would hunt dead, pick it up and if feeling charitable, would carry it a few steps and never much more toward me before dropping it.Tucker’s first grouse was later in that same year on a mid-November afternoon. It was one of those damp, cold gray days in Apple Barn Cover. The ground under foot was tangled briars and I raised my eyes about the time Tucker’s bell quieted to find him pointing with head and tail high. Even then, this more often than not meant the quarry was not a woodcock. He was fixed on a point about 30 yards ahead to an old apple tree fairly covered in grape vines. I didn’t quite get to Tucker before that grouse rocketed out to the right and low. We still have that tail fan. The thing about grouse falls and Tucker is a reluctance to immediately give them up—such a treasure they are to him. He has not changed since that day.Its funny how a man’s memory works and which memories burn the deepest. One sunny October morning, with or without the aid of the journal– a morning that seems forever etched on my mind. It was a gorgeous morning with dry crunchy leaves underfoot walking into the cover. Named later for the morning. We had had an hours worth of flushing grouse in nearly impossible to walk cover and were both a bit tired, thirsty and hungry. We decided to stop just this side of a stone wall in a tiny clearing to sit on a broad gently arced rock that rises just a bit above surrounding grass. Sun was streaming through an opening above and Tucker and I sat together there and enjoyed a drink and a shared sandwich. He was content to set and soak it all up—it seemed, just as I was. Leaning on my shoulder, I can still feel his warmth and gratitude. Lunch Rock Cover. We have returned there many times since.One afternoon of a late October day while walking along a trail that connects two portions of a favorite area, Tucker got birdy and pointed toward a stone wall to our right. A moment later he moved about 10 yards down and crossed over the stone wall and locked up solid pointing right at me. There he had pinned a grouse against the stone wall between us. To his chagrin, I missed that grouse when it flushed and actually that wasn’t the first time that same bird eluded us in such a fashion—never Tucker’s fault. He knew his business.There are many more days shared afield alone and with friends and other dogs. We have many stories to tell of our time together. We are not quite done yet. Two dogs have passed during his twelve and a half years and we have a new pup, now.Tucker has slowed some and so have I…

The New Upland Safari Vehicle/Work Truck

•February 29, 2020 • Leave a Comment

What with taking on work once again in order to move toward a reverse western migration, a truck was required. The bonus is an Upland Bird mobile. Now that the cap and liner have arrived, its time to build a drawer system–which serves both functions.

Lil Red

Oklahoma Bobwhite Quail

•February 3, 2020 • Leave a Comment

More than likely the last hunt of the season for Max and I. Once again, we got an invite from our friend Ryan to come on out and hunt together. Max and I are both very fortunate. Ryan is a man that has hunted the prairie of the Oklahoma panhandle all of his life–he is, as a result, a wealth of information and happy to share.

Young Max is starting to ‘get it’ and this past weekend included some fair reason to believe that assertion. Max found four coveys and I was able to shoot a bird for him from each covey. He is retrieving well, although he didn’t want to give up the last bird. Not sure what that was about, but he had that Bobwhite headfirst halfway down his gullet. 🙂

He definitely needs steadying work, which will come along. The important characteristics of a good nose and prey drive are established to this proud owner. He is covering ground very well and is great about checking back.

The both of us ended very foot warn. The prairie requires some walking.

Good breeding is a wonderful thing!

A word for the gear and gun nutz. I am neither. LOL We were sporting the new shirt and pants from Pyke Gear. Very light and comfortable. The shotgun wielded by the author was a Rizinni Iside in 16 gauge. A lightweight and sweet handling smoothbore.

Pyke Gear

•January 7, 2020 • Leave a Comment

Just a quick word and endorsement for the this stuff. The pants are incredibly light and comfortable and the shirt as well. I put them through the paces yesterday purposely wading through blackberry patches, plum thickets and thick wooded areas. The pants performed better than expected.

The pockets on both items are perfectly placed and voluminous. The half-zipper on the shirt makes venting great and the snaps on the sleeves was a smart feature.

The Pyke Gear link is the logo off to the right, here. Pay them a visit.

A Young Bird Dog

•December 31, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Max is now 1.5 years and thus far I am very happy with him. Its always a real adventure starting a new pup and never really knowing what you are going to see. We got out the other day on the prairie that had a lot of plum thickets and woody/brushy edges and draws. I was very pleased at how he is running. Almost always out front working from side to side in long sweeps out to 150 yards. He is also showing the smarts it takes to work likely cover when it comes to any areas of protection for the birds. For a puppy, he is showing an excellent tendency to keep track of where I am and to do a fly by now and then–but not too often.

We did find one good sized covey of quail and although Max failed to show me a good point, it was windy. Still–every little bird experience is a learning experience and each instance adds to the learning. Every day afield provides the opportunity and indeed does impart something to both dog and man.

There are always the smiles.

I neglected to take a single picture…I learn slow.


Our First Wild Roosters

•December 9, 2019 • Leave a Comment

This was a bucket list item that has been handily checked off!

What a great time and so many thanks to Ryan and Jason for their kind and respective efforts in making it possible.

I could not be more pleased and proud of a young puppy and thankful for the opportunity provided by my friend Ryan.
What a giving host and his good friend Jason.
We hunted a private land and a wild pheasant experience Max and I enjoyed to the hilt.
What a day! A bucket list item slam dunked in spades. Wow!
Max was a joy to watch. I stand in awe of breeding and nature or a series of accidental happenstance. Max is a 17 month old Llewellin English Setter. I will attempt to describe the doings at some point when my heart stops skipping.

Heart has slowed down some….:-)

The first bird pointed solid and pinned between us was a 25 t0 30 yard right to left crossed head shot. Easy for the situation.
Cut corn on the right and grass left. I was on the seam and Max was working the edge. The wind was in my face. Max scented the bird and worked back toward me and pinned it. It had no where to go but left into the high grass cover. It went out and banked left. The Citori came up and just passing the neck ring went bang.
Max was happy to mark and retrieve it with a proud and full of himself smile.
It was glorious.
The second bird was a similar scenario, but a going away shot. The first drew feathers and a leg dropped, the second barrel dropped it but still not dead. I had yellow 7.5s and so as imagined.
Max got to the rooster first and Ellie second. I think in the moment and a puppy’s intimidation of the moment, Ellie clamped down.
Both birds were all young Max.

In both cases I was walking a cut corn edge as instructed with grass to the left. In both cases, Max had turned back toward me with wind in my face and pointed the birds between us. The roosters went out to my left–the first ended up being a going away right to left and dropped dead with the first shot. It was quick. The second was going away and slightly to the right. This was a slower affair and the rooster got a bit further. It took both SK1 and SK2 to the rear to bring it down. In both cases, Max loved the bird on the ground. The first he carried over to me looking very pleased with himself. What a picture that would have been.

A good day!

The Project

•September 10, 2019 • 4 Comments

The Project

They called it public housing and it was. It was also called the ‘Project’, which is short for Public Housing Project. I guess it was a project dreamed up by some bigwig politician guys who had some tax dollars to spend. Perhaps it was some of the aforementioned political types who needed to champion a project of some sort to help them stay elected. However it came about, it was cheaper to live there and it helped out a lot of folks who for different reasons needed it. There was a stigma attached to living there and even at a very young age, you tended to pick up on things like that. The way folks said ‘project’ in that funny way or including it in a sentence such as; “Oh, you live in the project, huh”.

Most of the kids realized this and that was all right because none of us had many friends outside of the project. The kids that I played with were all of the same young age that I was and we didn’t see much need to find friends elsewhere. We did venture outside of the project often for adventures and such things. There weren’t any big high fences or anything keeping us in. Just the words of parents saying, “don’t go too far”, or “stay away from the railroad tracks”. You know—things like that. Of course as you’ll see, some of us didn’t listen very well. After all, some of the really good stuff was ‘outside’ of the project and we had a lot of time on our hands in which to explore.

You may be wondering why I mentioned that we had a lot of time on our hands. Well, we did have a lot of time and for similar and sometimes the same reasons. Families that lived in the Project were financially strapped and that was either because the moms and dads were of a kind that had low paying jobs or had a hard time holding onto jobs.  But many were single parents struggling to keep their heads above water while working one and half to two jobs.

There were cases where a kid’s dad had died in the Korean War and his mom didn’t have family money and hadn’t yet latched onto another man willing to take on her and the kids. A lot of kids had parents that had been divorced and the only way that a one-parent income was enough to make ends meet, was to move to the Project. Especially if the parent holding the kids was a waitress or worked in the shoe factory or some such job. Lots of folks from the project were either waitresses or worked in the factory. There were other factories, but one of the biggest in town at that time was the shoe factory, so consequently lots of them worked there.

We were in the divorced group and my mother did work two jobs. Back in those days a lot of dads didn’t pay much child support and they often got away with it. I’m pretty sure that was the case with us a lot of the time. Anyway, my mother did hire a baby sitter for us. Her name was Caroline. She was an older lady and I remember her fondly. Caroline. I wonder sometimes what happened to her. There were four of us kids ranging from two to five at the beginning and on up to four to seven by the time mom managed to get us out of there. Caroline moved on for reasons that I don’t know before we moved out of the project, because I recall a second baby sitter named Linda. Even though we had a baby sitter while mom was off working, Caroline or Linda were kept pretty busy with the younger ones and that left me—the oldest of the four, pretty much free to my own devices. And sometimes the things my friends and I did, would have given most any adult fits. Looking back now and living in this day and age it is very hard to believe some of the things that we did– and I was there!

It all came down to a lack of supervision and a more relaxed view of life. Particularly as life had to do with kids being vulnerable to every dog gone risk that neurotic granny state social worker types can dream up these days. Kids living back then could take quite a lot and still keep on ticking. My friends and I are proof of that. When it was all said and done, the Project was a pretty good place to live during those years. There were lots of kids of the same age and just like anywhere else in a New Hampshire city, there were lots of things to get into and four seasons in which to get into them.

Muskrat Love

There was a brook running right through the middle of the Project. It came from who knows where but ended in the Merrimack River, which was less than half a mile from the project.

In those days, the Merrimack River was fairly polluted. Manchester had been for a hundred years a center of some significant industry and much of the result ended up right into the river. The Merrimack has been cleaned up in remarkable fashion since those days. Its been cleaned up to the point where Atlantic Salmon have been reintroduced as part of a national fisheries project and is a poster river example of what can be done to such abused water. Anyway, getting back to the story. I suppose the muskrats didn’t mind the dirty water too much, or maybe they did and that is the reason why a bunch of them made their way up the brook to the area of the Project. My friends and I were glad that they did because they made for some great fun and some of the scariest things that young boys can imagine.

Those muskrats made holes in the banks of the brook. It seems that they mostly liked to make holes in the parts of the bank where it was undercut by the erosion of storm water. Its sure seems like we had awful big rainstorms back then–much bigger than nowadays.

The muskrats lived in those holes some of the time and we figured that maybe they slept in there and made baby muskrats in there, too. We figured this because birds had little birds in the nests that we could see until they were big enough to fly away or fall on the ground and get eaten by a cat. If it was that way for the birds, then it must be for the muskrats and we figured the holes in the banks were like those bird nests. The best muskrat times were in a season when the small muskrats came out of those holes in the bank. At those times, the muskrat population in our brook increased dramatically and for a short time we had a bunch of fun.

The adult muskrats were big. I don’t know just how big. I figure maybe the fattest was twenty pounds or so, but to a small boy that was a dog sized rat with sharp teeth and all of the personality that every one knew went along with it. A big wet and mud slimy rat with evil looking eyes, sharp little claws and pointy teeth. That didn’t stop us from throwing stones at them and when more brave; poking them with the longest sticks that would get the job done. Truth be told—we were mostly real scared of those adult muskrats. The little ones that came out of the bank however were not quite so frightening. For a while at least until they grew or left our brook, us boys could practice our muskrat bravery at a closer distance and every once in a while, if memory serves, poke one with a finger as it swam by during those times that we harassed them into confusion.

The brook ran under the street before it went over by one of the project parking lots. There was a metal culvert there under the street and it was mighty dark in there. It was dark and real spooky with an echo making it all the more so. Most of the time all you had to do to get a good scare was to squirm your body down the bank edge and part way leaning over into the ‘cave’ and talk into it. It sounded real scary. Especially when you were all worked up over a dare to get inside. The main reason why it was so darn scary was because the big adult muskrats liked to go in there. Lots of dares and challenges were issued, but to my knowledge not a single boy, myself included, ever crawled into that ‘cave’. There were big muskrats with evil eyes, sharp claws, pointed teeth and bad personalities in there.

Sand Tunnels and Red Ants

Just southwest of the Project was an area of grassy rolling hills. It’s covered with parking lots and commercial buildings now with hardly a hint of what was once, to us boys, a huge area to explore. There were groves of mixed birch, poplar and ash along with sections of nearly impenetrable briars and brambles and grape vines left by a farmer many years before. It was nearly thirty years before my time as a child that the city had encroached on that particular farmland and left things to go to seed. When you came to the edge of the old farmland you hit the railroad tracks and just beyond the tracks flowed the Merrimack River. This made for over a quarter of a mile of old farmland between the road bordering the Project and the tracks and at least a mile long in the other direction. To the north was a major street and old brick mill buildings and to the south was a small but interesting woodland before you reached the big cemetery.

My friends and I discovered that the ground in this area was made up of sand banks under a foot or so of dirt. Somewhere along the line somebody got the idea of digging tunnels in the stuff. Before we were done, we had quite a complex of tunnels to play in. Every once in a while a small section would cave in some, but never anything too serious. I do remember one time when I had to back out of an area that collapsed while digging. There was some coughing and lots of sand in my hair, but that was to be expected. The real trouble occurred when we inadvertently dug our way into a very well populated red ant colony and before we realized it, we had red ants in behind all of our clothing, collars, ears and in our hair. The thing about red ants is that they bite and hurt and itch. We were miserable for days and pretty much gave up on our tunneling adventures afterwards. It didn’t matter because the first big rain caused massive cave INS anyway and all that was left was a series of large holes in the ground where our tunnel complex had been.

Pigeon Launchers

One of our favorite places to play was that woodland to the south of the over grown farmland. Like any other young boys we loved the woods and found all kinds of things to do there. Unlike being in the relatively open fields or playing in and around the brook or ball fields, the woods provided a natural barrier to a line of sight. If there was anything that you wanted to do unseen, the woods were a pretty good place to be, especially since those woods contained all the materials needed to make protective forts—as we called them. These would be built at various times in the form of a teepee, a lean-to or a tree house. Unfortunately none of our forts lasted very long. This wasn’t because we weren’t good engineers. We knew how to build a good fort. No, it wasn’t that—rather the older boys would eventually find our forts and tear them down. It was unfortunate and sometimes after a lot of time and work, pretty darned disheartening. Project kids were tough and we were at the bottom of the food chain.

I suppose the idea was born as a brother to the slingshot or perhaps by accident as one of us (probably Steven) was climbing a small tree. A three-inch diameter poplar or birch tree was chosen for its balance between flexibility and strength. The fun started with the heavier of us, which was Steven, climbing high enough into the tree to bend it over enough that the rest of us could grab hold of it and work our way toward Steven while lowering it further toward the ground. We ended up with the tree describing a tight arc with the top touching the ground. This was most definitely a spring ready to sprung. I was one of the smallest of the group and so was most often afforded the opportunity to go for a ride, thusly. While Steven and the rest of the boys were holding the tree down, the launchee would wrap arms and legs around the top of the tree and hold on for dear life. At the count of three, the tree holders would let go at once and away we go! The excitement of the ride was directly proportional to the number of boys it took to pull the tree down. Sometimes it was all one could do to hang on as the tree remembered its original posture.

Rainstorms and Curbside Rivers

As just about everyone knows, things are bigger when you are a kid. Of course you don’t realize that when you are small; it’s only when you’ve grown up and revisit a place or thing after many years, that you have the needed perspective. Some things really were bigger and one of them was the size and ferocity of rainstorms. They also came more frequently. I remain convinced of this.

The street we lived on was very nicely crowned and living in the Granite State, all of the curbs were constructed of beautifully cut and put together blocks of granite about eight inches high and deep and six feet long and placed tightly end to end. The street was crowned so that rainwater would gather on the side of the street containing storm drains. When it rained heavily, we would have a very strong river of water flowing down the street between storm drains and this made for a great place to test our boating skills. You might be surprised at what could pass for a boat. There was basic stuff like sticks, balls and plastic bowls. We used real toy boats and even ones that were made from Popsicle sticks glued together. One of the more sophisticated designs involved a block of wood with a mast of some sort and a sail of cloth or even cardboard attached. Some would manage the storm flow better than others, but all manner of craft got the chance. It doesn’t sound like much, but we had great fun while the water flowed.

Everything that went down the storm drains ended up in the brook with the muskrats and then if a boat wasn’t retrieved from the brook or hung up in some weeds or branches along the way—ended up in the Merrimack River. The muskrats liked to come out when the brook was high and it looked to us an awful lot like they were playing as they swam around in the current. It wasn’t unusual to see one of the boats swimming near a muskrat. It was an exiting thing to see your boat floating by a muskrat. I suppose the boat was an extension of oneself in a way and got to do what you would have liked to. Most of the boats that made it down the storm drains and into the brook were lost to us, because the brook was too dangerous for us at such times and the banks would be very slippery with mud and wet grass. Sometimes we could find the more valued boats hung up in weeds and such afterwards, though.

It was also good fun to just run around in a pair of shorts or a bathing suit in such storms splashing in puddles and throwing water at one another; stomping in the puddles and just generally out of control. This was one of the few times that the girls were included in our antics. One of the few times. The rainstorms were bigger back then and we children got a lot more mileage out of them than children do today. 

I am also sure of that.

Ye ‘Ol Strap Vest

•September 8, 2019 • Leave a Comment

I have used and maybe even abused this Filson Shelter Cloth Strap vest for 12 seasons, now. One of the best pieces of equipment I have enjoyed. Simple. This old vest has become like a good old friend with a lot of great memories attached.

I have really gotten fond of it. I use those two little pockets meant for a training device differently than intended.
I keep two shells in each one and while hunting, instead of reaching into the larger pocket–its so much easier to grab shells from the wee pockets. Having the inner and outer pockets is nice for dividing hulls from loads. The inner pocket usually gets a snack and a water bottle floats well in the game pouch –front and rear loading.
Yup—an old friend.

It appears that Filson has brought it back. I contacted them a few years ago about that. Perhaps others have.
But at the $225 tag—I will continue with this one for another 12 years.

It was nice to know that the vest is still being made in the USA—-much of their stuff isn’t any longer.

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