The Adventures of Bob White

“Do you know how to fly this thing?” The Boss yelled over the roar of the engine. I was instantly awake.

Let down, unwound, sun burnt, and tired. On the short ride to the airstrip we stop to pick up friends….

Long shadows cut the beach. A big man, cracking conch stands black in the white light. A pile of shells…

Hung over, unwound, sun burnt, and stiff. A deep good tired. Strong coffee and a breakfast I wouldn’t normally eat,…

Thanksgiving is a ritual that celebrates our outdoor tradition.

“We have a covey pointed,” my friend, Michael said, as he nodded toward the South Texas oak mott.

The winter storm moaned through the ancient white pine that guards our home, and wind-driven snow swirled under the eaves of the studio.

During my first season in Alaska all the guides gathered around a bonfire each night to unwind, review the day, and listen to Rusty.

I look forward to spring, but feel conflicted about wishing away what’s left of our Minnesota winter.

I once read, in a book by Farley Mowat, that there are dozens of words in the Inuit language for snow.

It was cold the other morning and I decided to warm the studio with the first fire of the season.