By Phil Bourjaily

I have written a lot of how-to turkey stories over the years, but I generally ignore my own advice. Instead my personal approach to hunting boils down to: sleep late, get lucky. This morning I actually woke up at 4:30 a.m., thought about getting out of bed, then decided against it. It’s not that I don’t like getting up in the early morning, it’s that I hate feeling wiped out later in the day when I do.

So I left the house at the crack of 6:30 a.m. As an afterthought, on my way out the door, I grabbed a new mouth call from the box where I store the calls sent to me by manufacturers to try. I had noticed yesterday the ones in my vest were starting to fall apart and thought I should add a new one.

by David E. Petzal

On April 11, Florida Special Prosecutor Angela B. Corey announced at a press conference that George Zimmerman would be indicted for second-degree murder in the shooting of Trayvon Martin. She prefaced this by informing the world that her team of investigators were fearless defenders of the victim, yet mindful of the rights of the accused; immune to political pressure from anyone; compassionate yet strict; enforcers not of public opinion, but of Justice. She did not say that hers was the greatest assemblage of legal minds since the drafting of the Magna Carta in 1215, but that was probably because she forgot. It reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote: “The louder he spoke of his virtue, the faster we counted our spoons.”

In all likelihood, we will never know the complete truth about what happened in the death of Trayvon Martin, but I think I can guarantee that whatever took place, George Zimmerman will go to prison.

He is guilty, beyond a reasonable doubt, of three counts of SWA—Stupid While Armed—and there is always a penalty for that.

By David E. Petzal

This took place in the 1990s at an airport in one of Canada’s western provinces, and involved a member of that country’s Immigration Service, which is dedicated to making life as hard for American hunters as it possibly can.

I had been invited to this province by a scope manufacturer to hunt whitetail deer, freeze, and see what great stuff they made. By sheer chance, a few weeks previously, Field & Stream had been visited by a minister of Canada’s Department of Tourism who asked the magazine’s help in persuading sportsmen to visit their country, eh? He left a couple of his cards, and I, in a rare stroke of foresight, kept one.

So I got to the Canadian airport and on the entry card, where it asked whether I was there on business or pleasure, I checked off business, because I was, after all, representing the magazine and was the guest of a manufacturer. This was a mistake.

By David E. Petzal

This has absolutely nothing to do with guns, or shooting, but since many of you share a similar world view, I thought you’d be interested. For roughly 30 years, I’ve been a more or less regular blood donor. It’s one of the worthwhile things you can do, and I figure if they want my blood, they must really need it.

Hitherto, all my bleeding has been done for the New York Blood Center, which is state-run. But there was a drive nearby run by the Red Cross, so I figured I might as well exsanguinate for them. It was held at a high school gym, which was packed with kids who were donating, and the atmosphere was fouled by s***y music being played at deafening volume, which apparently does not bother the kids.