Bob Meinecke

If I hadn’t been intently paying attention to the vagaries (we call them potholes) in the old road, and was actually anticipating and expecting what nearly occurred, I’d have whacked that big whitetail doe that cut across the road in front of us and probably dropkicked her into oblivion into some Mormon farmer’s pasture. Yeh, this was down by Burlington, last Saturday, when the mild weather was returning and getting out of the house seemed like a good idea.

For hunters, there are, it seems, two fundamental rules of caliber selection for the hunt. I personally spent much, if not most, of my early years trying unsuccessfully to invalidate

Biologists call it “Hyperflagia” or some such word. It’s not only a strange word, it’s a word I haven’t found in any of my three dictionaries. Maybe it’s a made-up

The originally aboriginal saying of, “ I heard the owl call my name,” was one of deep belief at one time, intimating that if the owl called your name, your

There was a “horror” movie on the tube some years back, probably a “B” grade production, (possibly it was a C or even D), that I caught simply because of my insomnia. I was up late with nothing to do, like many nights, and, truthfully speaking, I was too tired to do it. So I was surfing the telly when I came across a blurb for what I thought was a nature program on giant crocodiles, and decided to add to my base core of knowledge on dangerous reptiles. As the song says, “That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.”

We’d just reached the stop sign on Canyon Avenue, across from the old Coe mansion, the one you stop at just before you go up the hill to Skyline Drive, when a frantic doe mule deer vaulted over the black metal fence surrounding the Coe mansion and grounds and headed our way, double-time. Fortunately, we were the only car there at the time the incident occurred. Both the intersection and converging roadways were also clear of traffic, which was a good thing because that doe was not stopping for anything or anybody. She hit the ground running flat-out and shot past us, disappearing down an adjacent street.

And we’re STILL playing GOD in Wyoming. Or rather, the Wyoming Department of Game and Fish is. And still it’s with the little brook trout, which weirdly enough, are not a trout actually, but a char.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, ugly jumps up and gobsmacks you alongside the head. Now, to be fair, ugly and beautiful are merely adjectives, words used to limit or qualify a noun. Me, I call them describers, as in most elephants are enormous, with enormous being the adjective. Unless it’s a pigmy elephant, which aren’t enormous, but considerably smaller. Not tiny, but smaller.

When Sandi and I moved to Cody from Bozeman, exactly 50 years ago this January, it was, quite literally, like moving from night into daylight, hunting-wise. Montana, in its greed

I’ve been writing this column for enough years that it’s no secret to anyone out there reading it regularly that I enjoy firearms oriented competitions and blood sports. Also, it’s no secret that I’m an ardent handgunner, preferring revolvers of traditional design, to those scope-sighted, cut-down rifles that are often called a handgun in print. Perhaps good for you, but not my cup of tea.