randlhuntingtrips
Member
I suppose introductions are in order.
I’ve been chasing animals and poor decisions across continents long enough to know the difference between a good plan and a good story—and I tend to favor the latter. Most years since 2003 have found me back in Tanzania, where the dust gets in your teeth and the days are measured in tracks, patience, and the occasional reminder that you’re not at the top of the food chain.
Stateside, Colorado has been kind enough to host me for elk—both with a bow when I’m feeling ambitious and a rifle when I’m feeling honest—as well as the annual exercise in humility that is mule deer hunting. I made the pilgrimage north to Alaska for caribou, though we managed to miss the migration with impressive consistency. No mature bulls, but we did get an abundance of brown bears and enough Arctic grayling to keep things interesting. Weather pinned us down for four extra days, which meant we ran out of food and leaned hard into improvisation—arguably the purest form of fieldcraft.
Home base is just outside Houston, Texas, where I spend time at Brazos River Sportsman’s Club trying to stay halfway proficient and mostly out of my own way.
Glad to be part of the Field Ethos Society—among a like-minded crowd of individuals who understand that money is best converted into experiences, preferably the kind that come with dust, recoil, and planning powered by bourbon. Looking forward to swapping stories with fellow degenerates who share a similar allergy to building a savings account.
I’ve been chasing animals and poor decisions across continents long enough to know the difference between a good plan and a good story—and I tend to favor the latter. Most years since 2003 have found me back in Tanzania, where the dust gets in your teeth and the days are measured in tracks, patience, and the occasional reminder that you’re not at the top of the food chain.
Stateside, Colorado has been kind enough to host me for elk—both with a bow when I’m feeling ambitious and a rifle when I’m feeling honest—as well as the annual exercise in humility that is mule deer hunting. I made the pilgrimage north to Alaska for caribou, though we managed to miss the migration with impressive consistency. No mature bulls, but we did get an abundance of brown bears and enough Arctic grayling to keep things interesting. Weather pinned us down for four extra days, which meant we ran out of food and leaned hard into improvisation—arguably the purest form of fieldcraft.
Home base is just outside Houston, Texas, where I spend time at Brazos River Sportsman’s Club trying to stay halfway proficient and mostly out of my own way.
Glad to be part of the Field Ethos Society—among a like-minded crowd of individuals who understand that money is best converted into experiences, preferably the kind that come with dust, recoil, and planning powered by bourbon. Looking forward to swapping stories with fellow degenerates who share a similar allergy to building a savings account.
