Florida Sportsman. Field and Stream. Garden and Gun. Modern Huntsman. We’ve taken on the herculean task of ranking our top 9 outdoor magazines – hear our list, and let us know what we missed! Here’s the piece Travis discussed in his release, regarding the unmanaged growth our state is facing . . . Here’s the article about the 10 year old squaring off with the shark! Here’s the link to Brene Brown’s website . . . Check out our new “Conservation Isn’t Convenient” T-shirt . . . Follow Cast and Blast Florida: Instagram – Twitter – Facebook – Website Want to experience a world class duck hunt or fishing charter? E-mail Travis to book today . . .…
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#56: Southernisms
Remember last week how we sounded all smart and stuff? Additive harvest and predator swamping and protandric hermaphoditism and whatnot? Y’all. We asked “what are your favorite southern sayings” and boy, did y’all come through in a MAJOR way. Constipated turkeys, fence sitting turtles, sock wearing roosters, and perhaps the world’s most awkward anatomy lesson are just the beginning! Warning – may not be safe for little ears. But we tried. Other warning – forgive us. Follow Cast and Blast Florida . . . Instagram – Twitter – Facebook – Website Want to experience a world class duck hunt or fishing charter? E-mail Travis to book today . . . Connect with the gang on social media: Travis…
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Coleman
It’s the hardest thing, losing a dog. I was just reminded of that truth. We’d had a good day. A good walk that morning. A leisurely nap together on the couch. He’d eaten the last of my roast beef sandwich for lunch, just the way it should be. For 16 years, he was my constant. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known my wife or my son. When I was single, I had a twin bed that he was always in – me, 6’3″ and full-figured, and a 45 lb puppy. He never left my side, day or night, never out of ear-scratching distance. Any knock on the door was…
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The Old Man
An ode to Ruark. And also our grandfathers. The Old Man watches as the steam rises off his coffee mug, just poured from the old rusty thermos his wife gave him so long ago. He drinks his coffee black. No cream. No sugar. It’s just easier that way. His pale, grey eyes scan the darkness for the faintest flicker of movement. His hands caress the checked wood grain of his father’s Remington, each scar and carving familiar to his touch. The Kid is drifting in and out of sleep at the other end of the small boat. He drew the short straw among his brothers and cousins and Grandpa picked…
