Long ago, when I was a young man. My father said to me “Norman you like to write stories” and I said yes I do. Then he said someday, when you are ready, you might tell our family story. Only then will you understand what happened and why.

Those words changed fly fishing more than any words in history. Simply because the movie “A river runs through it” exposed the world to the universe of fly fishing and rivers. Unfortunately the movie only gave the world a brief snapshot into the life of Norman Maclean. The book “A life of letters and rivers” takes a much deeper dive into the life and times of one of our greatest storytellers.

The book examines the relationship between his life in academia and the connection to Montana. Those pages give the reader a unique view into the man himself. It opens a view to the struggle between life and his ability to eloquently write about that life. Most readers already know about the travesty of his brother’s death, and its impact on the Maclean family. Few know about his emotional struggle while writing his book “young men and fire”  which was primarily about the Mann Gulch fire, which killed 13 smoke jumpers in 1949. 

Some may say the book delves too deep into his life in academia; however, his time in Chicago is one of the cornerstones that made Maclean who he was.. Rebecca McCarthy did a fabulous job of shedding some light onto the life of Norman Maclean. Through her book she was able to connect the Mountain man, logger, and forest service worker, which at the time included firefighting duties,  to the world class author and teacher. I would give the book a 4.8 out of 5.

The weekend of June 6-8 2025 the Black Prairie area of Mississippi will come alive with the sound of shotgun fire as the 2025 Helice National Championships begin. Prairie Wildlife is once again the host of the nationals that bring 150-200 shooters to West Point Ms. This annual event brings all levels of shooters, from the elite to the novice, to compete in one of the most challenging disciplines in the shotgun sports.

Helice, sometimes referred to as ZZ birds, simulates the erratic flight of live birds, Unlike traditional shotgun sports, such as Trap, Skeet, and sporting clays, Helice targets have wings attached and seldom fly the same pattern twice. The wings cause them to dart, dip, and spin unpredictably. This demands instinctive shooting and quick reflexes, making it a true test of a shotgunners skill.

Prairie Wildlife’s Black Prairie Helice facility, one of very few, is uniquely set up for this competition. With six operational Helice rings, three of which are equipped with lights for nighttime shooting, the venue is truly world class. A separate ring will be designated as a practice ring. As a past host of the Nationals Prairie Wildlife has received high praise for its amenities and hospitality.

The nationals are more than just the championship or the culmination of multiple competitions over the year. It’s a gathering of shooters from the expert to the novice level. Everyone there to test their skills against the best America has to offer. The previous champions and members of TEAM USA are expected to participate, adding to the prestige of the nationals.

Spectators are welcome to attend and experience the excitement firsthand. Admission is free, offering a unique opportunity to witness high-level competition and learn about a sport that combines precision, speed, and unpredictability. For those interested in the nuances of helice shooting or considering taking up the sport, this championship serves as an ideal introduction.​

For more information about the event or to inquire about participation, contact Prairie Wildlife at 662-494-5858 or visit their official website. Whether you’re a shooting enthusiast or a curious observer, the 2025 U.S. Helice Association National Championship promises an unforgettable experience in the world of competitive shooting.​

The alarm clock never got a chance to go off this morning, not because of the excitement of a day of bird hunting but because my dog Trapper noticed a change in my breathing. Apparently that was all it takes to kick off a day of hunting. Today was going to be a good day for us both. A cool crisp morning is the perfect time to chase birds in the south.

The woodcock migration was in full swing and early reports indicated that it was heavy this year. Tennessee is a perfect place to chase these kings of the southern woods. Oddy enough not many southern upland hunters pursue these birds. Perhaps it’s the perception that they don’t taste well or maybe it’s because hunting them is very different from the more popular bobwhite quail.

Pre-hunt mornings are always the same routine. The dogs go outside while I prepare coffee and breakfast. After the morning rituals were complete, I uttered a quick prayer for some really dumb woodcock. After All this was Trappers first season and we needed all the help we could get.

The very second the door of the gun safe opened, Ole trapper started for the door. When I got to the truck he promptly sat down by the passenger door like a good boy. Only problem is he was supposed to ride in his dog box. Since this was, more than likely, the last hunt of the season I caved and let him ride “shotgun”.

This morning I happened to know exactly where I wanted to hunt. We arrived at a local Wildlife Management Area shortly before 8 in the morning. Normally I would avoid these areas like the plague because of deer season, but that closed last weekend. As I pulled into the designated parking area there was only a single other truck there. I would say the truck was 20 years old if it was a day old. Not junk yard quality but, it had certainly seen better days. The homemade dog box indicated that this was an old school hunter. Most likely a rabbit hunter, as upland hunters went away when the quail population crashed. In fact, I only knew of one other guy who still chased these wild birds. 

Trapper and I were waiting for my partner over coffee and Little Debbie Snacks. Yea I know all the dog trainers are cringing because I share my snacks with my dog. Well, he is mine, he likes little Debbie’s, and my mother taught me to share.

Shortly after we parked my partner, and the guy who is NEVER late, called to say his daughter had his first grandson last night and he couldn’t make it. Normally I would say there is absolutely no excuse to bail, or be late, on a hunting trip. This time though I didn’t get sideways as you could hear his pride over the phone. I looked at the young trapper and said, “Today is all on you boy”.

While I had my back turned Trapper found the only mudhole in miles and proceeded to take himself a mud bath, then he found what was left of a deer gut pile and rolled in that as well. This dog can’t be trusted to his own means. To him everything in life is an opportunity for fun, then I realized if people were more like bird dogs the world would be a better place.

I called trapper over to the truck, Muddy and stinking to high heaven. He sat there like he was posing for a magazine. I think he does stuff like that just to make me swear.

The plan was to test out my new side by side while we worked some old grown over fence rows, and creek bottoms. I held my breath and put the tracking collar on Trap, he is not a fan of this new collar. However, he has learned the drill and knows the rules “no collar no hunt”, I was worried about him running into a pack of beagles and deciding he was a rabbit dog. I mean he is still just a 75-pound puppy.

I was getting my gun out of the cab when I heard a single shot ring out in the morning air. Odd I thought, as no beagles could be heard before or after the shot. The shot also came from a piece of cover I know holds birds this time of the year.  Then about 3 seconds later I heard a voice call out in the distance “Dammit Sam.” At that moment I was not a 55-year-old bird hunter with more miles behind him than in front of him. I was a 7-year-old boy on a pheasant hunt in the late 1970’s. Our dog’s name was Sam, and as a pup she was terrible at holding until we got there. My dad yelling “Dammit Sam”, when she flushed the birds prematurely, is a long-lost memory of mine.

I would have daydreamed more had it not been for trapper screaming and running for the truck. He had been doing his thing and peeing on everything within 20 yards. When I looked to see what all the excitement was about, I saw he had made a friend. A very stinky friend. So now he was covered in mud, week old deer remnants, and had tangled with a skunk and lost.

It was at that moment I realized that my hunt was not only over, but it had also been oddly fulfilling. Hearing that man yell “Dammit Sam” took me back a few years and made me remember what’s important. It’s not the birds at all that we seek, it’s the experience and the memories made while chasing them. However, I do wish Trapper would make a few less stinky memories on our journey through the uplands together.