By David E. Petzal and Philip Bourjaily

"The only time I ever got my s**t together I couldn't pick it up." -- Roger Miller

A couple of years ago I was talking with Sandy Sallee  (who co-runs Black Mountain Outfitters in Montana) about their hunters' foibles, and she revealed that many of the 50- and 60-year-olds that Black Mountain guides for elk do a lot better physically than the 20- and 30-year-olds.

When the younger hunters find out how tough it is, she said, they sit in their tents all day. The geezers are used to suffering so they go out and ride from can to can't and freeze and sweat up mountains.

Being able to take it physically is a major part of real hunting, and I think a lot of it is mental. I've known four SEALS well enough to talk to, and every one of them was small (5' 5" to 5'7" and maybe 130 to 140 pounds), and to a man they said that there were people in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALS (SEAL boot camp) who were stronger, faster, and more enduring, but who washed out anyway because they couldn't hack it mentally.

Size does not necessarily work in your favor. I was once told by a Selous Scout (the Rhodesian Army equivalent of our Rangers) that the ideal size for a soldier was about 5'10" and 160 pounds. Bigger than that, he said, and your height and weight just worked against you. And I've heard the same thing from other military sources.

About the toughest case I've ever hunted with was a Canadian named James Minnerie, with whom I hunted moose in Alaska in 2006. James was 6 feet and 180 pounds, and the guy performed prodigious acts of strength and endurance all day long for 12 days on end. I watched him pack 60 pounds of moose meat through a bog that almost put me in a body bag, and he never took a deep breath.

I still wonder where they plugged him in at night.

By David E. Petzal and Philip Bourjaily

He is 90 this year, a frail old man gripped by Parkinson's disease. But in 1941, when he went to war, he was a recruiting-poster-handsome 6-footer, a lieutenant in one of the toughest units ever to wear American uniforms--Easy Company, 2nd Battalion, 506 Parachute Infantry Regiment.

He became an officer because he saw incompetent officers and swore that he could do better. He went Airborne because he wanted to be part of an elite unit, with men he could depend on alongside him. But like every man who fought in that war he was a reluctant soldier;  he wanted nothing more than to get the job done and go home.

When his unit shipped to England Winters was billeted with an English family and had a room to himself. In the spare time he had, he locked himself into that room with a book of tactics and turned himself into a soldier--as it turned out, a remarkable one.

He was brave--unfailingly and almost suicidally so. The men of his unit who survived marvel that he lived. He always put his soldiers first. He was always fair. And in combat, he always made the right decisions. In the first action he commanded, his squad took out a German artillery emplacement, doing it with such efficiency that the action is still used at West Point as a model of how to attack a fixed position.

He was given the Distinguished Service Cross, and there are people working today to have it upgraded to the Medal of Honor. But Dick Winters shows no interest; he agrees with the other paratroopers who jumped on Normandy that the real heroes are the men who lie there forever.

When Band of Brothers aired in 2001, Dick Winters became a celebrity. His mail--already considerable--grew to the point where he was unable to answer it. He does not believe that he is a celebrity, or that he deserves fame. He sees himself simply as a soldier who did the best he could and was lucky to emerge from the war alive. He knows that he and Easy Company are only representatives for other men and other units who fought just as hard and suffered just as much, and that it was by sheer chance that he--and they--became famous.

There are men just like Dick Winters wearing the uniform today, but it is not their fate to serve in a war where the sides are clearly drawn and a united country stands behind them. We will probably never know their names, but that does not detract from what they are or what they do for us.

Monday, May 26, is a good time to thank them.

By David E. Petzal and Philip Bourjaily

I try hard not to believe in superstition, or lucky guns, lucky socks, hats, shirts, whatever, but sometimes I wonder. Five years ago I got a new turkey gun – a Mossberg 835 Grand Slam – and immediately my fortunes took a 180-degree turn for the better. Where I had been a stumbling idiot in the turkey woods in previous seasons, all of a sudden I was avian cholera in camo. Long-spurred public land turkeys lined up for the privilege of letting me shoot them with my new 835. I went on a five-year roll.

So, it was with a little concern this year that I left my old faithful Mossberg at home in favor of a new 870. On paper (both patterning paper and metaphorical paper) the 870 was the better gun. But, was I dooming my streak of punched tags?

Day after day, I carried the 870 through my most frustrating season in years . A freakish wet spring put most of my river bottom hunting grounds under water. The few high, dry spots crawled with hunters. Cold weather and hunting pressure screwed up the gobbling cycle. The couple of times I got on birds, I unerringly sat a few feet away from the right spot.

A week ago Monday was my final day to hunt. I agonized in front of the gun cabinet. Did I need to take my 835 to save the season? No such thing as lucky guns, I told myself, and reached for the 870. About 9:15 a 22 pound tom came 200 yards on a string, gobbling to every one of my calls. At 25 yards we saw one another. He stepped behind a tree to think things over, then turned to sneak away. I had to shoot fast at a quick glimpse of the head among the foliage. A single golden BB to the back of the skull laid the turkey out flat.

I told this story to Excecutive Editor Mike Toth who said “Of course there are lucky guns. You must have been keeping the 870 in the cabinet next to the 835 and the luck rubbed off.” Is Toth right? Who out there believes in lucky guns and who among you is fortunate enough to own one?

By David E. Petzal and Philip Bourjaily

I feel obliged, as the presidential race becomes somewhat clearer, to weigh in with whatever semi-useful insights I have.

* Hillary is apparently finished as a presidential candidate. This is good news for us. All her Second Amendment b.s. aside, she despises guns and gun owners. A friend of mine at the National Shooting Sports Foundation ranks her and Chuck Schumer as the two senators who hate the Second Amendment most.

* Barack Obama doesn't hate guns or gun owners, but he doesn't see why there should be guns or gun owners, and would vote for any anti-gun law that landed on his desk. He might consider special exemptions for bitter rural people, but who knows?

* John McCain this past week went to the NRA Convention and revealed what a hell of a pro-gunner he is. However, if John McCain thought it would win him the election, he would go to the NRA and eat his grandchildren at the General Members' Meeting. The temptation, therefore, is to assume that McCain is just shining us on; however, he has the uncomfortable habit of speaking the truth every now and then.

* On the other hand, when he does this, he immediately panics and changes his story. So who knows?

* In 2009, Congress will almost certainly be controlled by Democrats.

* However, Congress will remain just as gutless and feckless as it was under the Republicans. So who knows?

* The Supreme Court decision on the Second Amendment is due next month. Any laws proposed by Congress will have to take into account what the Supremes say, pro or con. So who knows?

I am going off to look at photos of Ms. Jaime Pressley.

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In response to overwhelming demand, here is a photo of Ms. Jaime Pressly.
Ms. Pressly has the power to cloud mens' minds. If you feel dizzy or faint,
stop looking immediately and switch to a photo of Rosie O'Donnell until your
system returns to normal.