trophy/man rooms?

[The Waterfowler]

If they were we couldn't see them. When it was the worse we couldn't see 50 feet, maybe less. Seeing how big an area we were in and then being put into a closet like that was unbelievable.

[Doc & Nash]

I bet you kept that story from Mrs. Gail, didn't ya?

I have had the privlidge to walk in Pats room once. It was a total overload of the senses before I even made it upstairs

[The Waterfowler]

When I got home I got that "look" so I knew someone had spilled the beans. After seeing the video she took our more insurance on me, she said it was cheaper than playing the lottery or getting more IRA's and would probably pay off quicker.

[gator]

aight, i'm gonna go on and chunk the gauntlet b/c i LOVE reading this stuff and i've never asked pat this.....

pat, if you don't mind sharing w/ the class, what's the most memorable hunt you've ever been on? i mean, the one that will never be forgotten?

gator

p.s. didn't think of eider hunts as executions but that's about as apt a description as i've heard......my personal favorite duck truth be known. wish i coulda hunted em in the 7 bird days.

[The Waterfowler]

There's a big difference in my mind as most memorable and best. A last hunt with an old dog, sharing a blind with a now departed friend, watching the sunset at the end of another season, seeing the eagerness of a young kid or dog for that matter or shooting the perfect limit all are etched in my mind.

If someone held a gun to my head and made me choose it would be tough as I have a lot of fond memories to draw upon from my boys first ducks to the last retrieve by Big John, Jake, Koye, Lucky and Clipper, I get depressed knowing that Ace's days are numbered but revel in each day we spend together. There is something about the quiet times you spend with a dog that doesn't argue, keeps quiet, doesn't quick shoot the pit, won't ask a bunch of stupid questions, doesn't practice on his duck call or tell the same old stale jokes. I have many of these moments to draw from and would share my last meal with more dogs than people if it came down to a choice.

If someone put a bucket over my head like Gomer Pyle U.S.M.C. to do a little thinking, a hunt where not a shot was fired would probably find it's way into my head and bring both a smile to my lips and a tear to my eye.

My last hunt at Beaver Dam with Dr. Chub is a memory that will never leave me. He and I shared so many glorious hunts together down there like paddling Mr. Buck's old Alumacraft Ducker down the west side of the lake jump shooting all the way from Round Pond to the Teal Hole. Sitting in The Hanwerker Stand shooting a limit o' Greys with Bo Whoop II and almost feeling the hand of Mr.Buck helping me swing the big Becker. My gosh, what times we had and I was so blessed to share so many hunts with Dr. Chubby Andrews.

The last year Dr. Chub hunted Beaver Dam was probably a couple years before his death. Late that season, it may have been the last week, I got a call from Doc, as I always called him. I could never get used to the idea of calling him Chubby or Dr.Chub as many of his friends called him. Want to go to the "Lake" tomorrow? Bobby Gukin said they were killing a few and we can hunt the north end. Well it didn't matter if there was a duck on the lake, I blurted out sure what time. Doc was prompt pulling into my driveway the next morning in his hunting car, an older Cadillac, and had me load the dog in the back seat and I drove us down the familiar stretch of 61 we had traveled so many times. We talked the talk we always did about ducks, turkeys, old friends and old times. It was son this and son that when he spoke as he called everyone son it seemed, but made it always seem like you were something special. Everyone was made to feel like a best friend or favorite son by him. His warmth, wit and charm were always intoxicating and he only got mad at me once, but that's another story.

We drove to the crossroads at Evansville below Tunica and took the Ramp Road toward the north end. Boats were tied and the dock and Doc opened the trunk and pointed to the motor and gas tank. I asked where we were going to hunt and he said the old Gidden Blind which was between the open lake and Round Pond on the north side. Doc, why don't I just paddle us there like we used to back in the day, I asked. A smile and sure son was his quick response. We loaded up and Clipper took his customary position in the boat and pushed off in the graying dawn. A little ice was to be broken but it was no big deal and about 20 minutes later we eased into the boat hide and climbed in with Clip taking his position at the dog ramp.

Shooting time came and went with a few high ducks but nothing of promise. Doc pulled his ever present scarf tighter as the morning chill became more evident. Old Clipper became bored and lay down but with his nose on the ramp just in case he had to go to work. We talked about the "remember whens" and the "what ever happened tos" and most everything in between. His beloved Beaver Dam had changed so much since I first hunted it in 1971 and I couldn't imagine what it had been like when Doc and Mr. Buck paddled these waters. Gone was the saw-grass that lined the lake, most all the buck-brush and button willows were just a memory that was etched in old pictures. Ducky little holes had disappeared. I didn't recognize Round Pond either when we paddle through it later. As Doc recounted his endless stories the sadness in his voice had my nose running and a tear in my eye. His too as he spoke of the absence of the cover, duck weed and even blinds we enjoyed together, departed friends and the importance of the Lord in his life. It didn't matter if we punched the safety off or not. What mattered was the times we had shared and the closeness I felt to a man that was like my second father. He prayed for me, his friends and thanked the good Lord for allowing him to share the earth and all it's joys. If a person didn't believe in a higher life form he would have certainly believed in God that morning. Just to be able to sit on the old bench and talk to a dear friend, a common man of God, my mentor was an inspiration to me. We shared our last sunrise at Beaver Dam and I don't think he even loaded his gun. Didn't matter as we had more important things to discuss and one of them was breakfast at the Blue and White. Wish I had a quarter for all the meals we shared there. The breakfast "Special", 3 eggs (over-easy please), sausage, grits, hash-browns, biscuits and saw-mill gravy with coffee for Doc and milk for me. I helped him into the boat and quitely paddled back lamenting about the way it had become and dreaming about the way it was. Lost in thought I put myself in Ol' Horace's shoes as I paddled south and imagined what it had been like to hunt the days of glory with Mr. Buckingham sitting in the bow with Bo Whoop cradled in his arms and a younger Dr. Chub at his side. I was a lucky guy to have shared another trip and be a part of Dr. Andrews' life. It was his last trip down there to my knowledge. He seemed happy to take one last look as we packed up and headed to Tunica.

Gail and I were with him at his bedside the day he died and along with that a part of me was gone also. His last meal was a little bowl of ice cream (vanilla) that Gail shared with him. I remember Cobb, his grandson and my good friend, saying that all his old friends that went before him were glad he was finally in heaven. And I said, yeah and the ducks are too.

[gator]

pat, from way deep, THANKS.

gator

[crackhead]

Like reading Mr. Bucks yarns "I felt like I was there!!!"

Thank you

Ty

[champcaller]

"If a person didnt believe in a higher life form he would have certainly believed in God that morning." that line sent a chill up my spine..

great story, Pat.

did you ever get to hunt with Mr. Buckingham?

[The Waterfowler]

I moved to Memphis the year after he died. I guess I helped take up space for Dr. Chub as we carried on his Thursday morning hunts like he and Mr. Buck did, only he didn't have a case of St. Louis 3's to share with me like Mr. Buck did him. When I shot Bo Whoop II is had a box of Mr. Buck's pet loads from the last case John Olin sent him. 3" 1 3/8 oz. of copper plated 4's in a compression formed hull moving at over 1300fps. Dead in the air!

[H20 Fowl]

I was all proud of my trophy room until I saw Pat's. Mr. Pitt you truly are "The Waterfowler" You have accomplished something that I dream of every day!! My hat is off to you. I know you have put in some hard work to accomplish what you have........Simply Increadible!!!!

[The Waterfowler]

This is the last picture I took of Dr. Andrews at Beaver Dam on our last hunt down there.

[T.C.]

I was all proud of my trophy room until I saw Pat's. Mr. Pitt you truly are "The Waterfowler" You have accomplished something that I dream of every day!! My hat is off to you. I know you have put in some hard work to accomplish what you have........Simply Increadible!!!!

I'll second that!!!!!!!!!!

[pstone]

Mr. Pat, You need to write a book man, there is not a duck hunter on the planet that couldn't get into these stories!

Thanks

[The Waterfowler]

I have a soft spot in my heart for my dogs, both past and present. My season started out less than stellar this year as I had to put Clipper down two days before our opener. My understanding farmer dug me a grave in front of one of our pits and I buried him there so I could shoot over him each season and I thought it was a fitting tribute to a dog that made so many retrieves for me. I'm reminded of the loss of a good dog, dear friend and constant companion all too often and the older I get the harder it is. I fugured by now I'd be a little callous about them but swear I'll never get attached to another, but I always do. From my first retriever that came from Nilo Kennels via a Dr. friend in Chattanooga and Cotton Pershall to my new favorite, it's never easy to lose one and I've felt so guilty making that long drive to the vets. Why doesn't a good dog just go to sleep and not wake up and one not have to make that dreaded decision. Whoever first said life isn't fair surly meant it for a dog's life. My last two were put down in the front seat of my truck with a duck between their paws and not on a hard stainless steel table. That's the least I could do for them. Shoveling dirt this past November in an Arkansas field made me again realize how fortunate I have been to have had the dogs I have. Everyone and I mean every hunter and waterfowler cherishes the moments spent with his dog and no matter if it wasn't worth having in other's eyes, it was his or her friend and the best thing going. I've hunted with some great dogs and some that didn't belong in a blind or pit, but the bottom line is that their master loved them and there is no other dog like them. Think about how this world would be if everyone had the same loyality to their friends.

I was just reminded of the sadness that transpires over this lesson in life today when a good friend dropped me a short note to say they were faced with this. Each time I hear of a good dog reaching the end of his often short life, compared to ours that is, I am reminded of a passage from The great book Prairie Wings by Edgar Qweeny. A poem written by Sterling E. Edmunds as a tribute to the passing of his dog. I would like to share it with all of you.

[pstone]

Good stuff right there!!!