Have you ever thought about where you are from? I mean, in the deep and thoughtful way of a philosopher like Jimmy Buffett or Yates? When you think about home, what do you think about it? Things like this are of interest to me whether people are from Milledgeville or Green Bay, Macon or Detroit. I like the kinds of people who are proud of where they are from.
Years ago in Atlanta, there was a columnist named Lewis Grizzard. Some of you may remember him, and for those who don’t or didn’t ever read him (he died in 1994) in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, you need to run down one of his books or look up his old columns. Lewis was a fraternity brother with my dad’s best friend at UGA. Lewis wrote about people I know, knew and admired. Whether it was his famous story in UGA’s Red & Black, about the Gamecocks, his many columns about Coach Dooley, BBQ, or the Yankee invasion of the south, the man simply lived, ate, and breathed Georgia. Lewis typified Georgia. In a good way. All that is good about us he proclaimed. Loudly!
As 2021 drew to a close and 2022 came on the stage, I got to thinking a lot about Lewis and about Georgia, my home state and the state of my birth. You know, he would be proud right now. The Braves won the World Series, and much to my amazement, the Dawgs hold the National Championship trophy! It seems as if in Georgia a new era has dawned. I can only envision Lewis looking down from heaven with the likes of Larry Munson and Wally Butts. “Hunker down, you hairy dawgs one more time!”
As much as I might wish, I am no Lewis Grizzard. Words don’t quite flow from my mouth and my laptop the way they did with Lewis’ mouth or his typewriter. I wish they did and maybe one day they might because I don’t know if that is a gift from birth, a skill you can acquire, or an act of God. Maybe it is the time and place. However short I may fall, Lewis is still my hero.
So, in good Lewis Grizzard fashion, I have a story for you.
Way back before the world went nuts, I traveled a lot. I mean, several days a week every week all over Georgia, South Carolina, and parts of Alabama and Florida. One day I was down toward Savannah and ended up fishing for fall redfish with my good friend Capt. Scott Wagner. We both had an afternoon free and the tide, the moon, the sun, and everything else seemed to line up just perfectly. So, we went fishing.
Scott and I have known each other and fished together for 22 years now. On this afternoon, we fell into our typical routine of making fun of one another and Scott complaining. Usually about my ability to catch fish, which at times is epic but more likely to be a question of sanity. So, Scott poled us up to a small mudflat and there were baitfish scattering everywhere. Showers of bait. A big bull red was on the edge of the flat chasing them down, half out of the water and completely oblivious to us. This was amazing to watch. As we got closer to the fish, it ate and ate more and more and got more shallow and shallow. Scott got me within about 30 yards of the big bull. Even I could make that cast with a fly rod. I fired a cast out with my 11 weight. Much to my amazement, it landed right in front of the big fish! I think my heart stopped at that point.
The big red had to roll over on his side to eat the fly! I watched it all happen right in front of me. The fly disappeared and immediately Scott started hollering for me to set the hook! I stripped it hard, and the hook sank into the fish’s jaw. Immediately upon feeling the hook the big red took off! Water was going everywhere; I mean even I got wet from the splash that big bull made taking off. My reel was screaming, and the line was flying off it, saltwater spray and mist going everywhere. Now, the funny thing about fly fishing and fishing for really big fish in shallow water is that they will tire quickly and after a few runs. This fish made it about 20 mins, and he was alongside the skiff. The estimated weight was just over 35 pounds. It is the biggest red I have ever caught on a fly rod.
The next morning, I get up and am making my way through Savannah and up to Springfield, Ga. The Mars theatre was being redone and I was working with the director and the city manager to get the seating contract. I arrived about 3 p.m. and was chatting with my clients Tommy Deadwyler and Brett Bennett in Brett’s office. At 4, Brett looks at his watch and declares “well boys, y’all can do what you want but I’m going hunting.” I simply replied, “dadgum I wish I could go today.” It was Oct 30 — a beautiful fall afternoon in southeast Georgia.
Brett replied, “why not come on and go with us.”
Well, I didn’t have a gun and I was wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt. But away we went. Brett let me borrow a nice little Remington 308 rifle and by 4:45 I was sitting in a deer stand over a cotton field outside of Springfield.
Now, this was one of those afternoons that if you hunt you will experience once, hopefully. As soon as I settled in deer started to appear. Now being a guest, I had no intention of killing a big buck and I seem to get more invitations back to hunt someplace IF I shoot a doe. So, I started inventorying doe, trying to sort out the biggest and the oldest. By 5 p.m. I hear a shot from close by and get a text that Brett’s stepson has killed a doe. Well, that did it. One doe was obviously bigger than the others in the group and she finally stepped away from the bunch and stuck that head up. I shot her right then. A borrowed 308 and a little more than 320 yards away in a cotton field. By 6 p.m., both deer were at the processor and away I went for home in Greensboro.
That right there is the story of probably the best 48 hours in the outdoors I have ever had.
—Outdoors columnist can be reached at pressleyoutdoors@gmail.com
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