I’ve always been a fan of those ghost-hunting shows. It’s one of my guilty pleasures. Groups of people walk through supposedly haunted buildings in the dark, setting up thermal cameras and jumping at every small sound. Most of the time the things they see and hear are complete nonsense, easily explained away as dust motes
Deer hunters love the rut. It’s that brief window when bucks abandon their timorousness and boldly fixate on one thing: does. It is a time of action, where bucks are on the move throughout the day. They chase does by stands, come in hot to rattling antlers and grunt calls, and march proudly by trail
Written by Michael R. Shea, this article was originally published by Free Range American on December 6, 2020. Sitting in the cab of Miles Fedinec’s pickup, beside a dirt road on a high sage flat in western Colorado, I can see through binoculars a pronghorn buck. He’s a half-mile away, standing in the 94-degree heat, and my arrow is
There is an allure to the mountains. A siren call that draws us to gaze up at their towering magnificence with desire. The Adirondacks, the Appalachians, the Rockies…just saying the names of these majestic ranges sparks something within us all. We wish to climb them, to explore them, to immerse ourselves in their rugged beauty
I used to hate the looks. The small eye rolls and the raised brows. The quizzical shadow that briefly flashed across other hunters’ faces when they looked at my deer. Most of the time they didn’t say anything much; they just offered a small, half-hearted congratulations before moving on down the trail. But every now
The American West once had its own sea: A great, sweeping, endless ocean of waving grasslands, expanding across the western United States from Canada to Mexico. It was a vast land of pristine and fertile ground, stretching off from horizon to horizon, unspoiled by man’s limitless ambitions. And like every sea, it teemed with life.
