When is a stone sheep not a stone sheep?

Unless you’ve been spending the hours since I last penned this column daydreaming about what it must be like to be me-What is he doing?  What wild adventure is he on now?-you probably heard reports that a second “traditional bowhunter” has succeeded in taking all 28 species of North American big game recognized by the Pope and Young Club.

I won’t go into the fact that Saxton Pope and Art Young wouldn’t even recognize the wheeled contraptions that record-keeping organization considers bows.  Nay, I shan’t even mention how the current leaders (tools)-wouldn’t recognized a real bow if Howard Hill himself rose up from his hollow grave and wrapped Grandpa around their collective necks like a bowtie.     

For months, I’ve resisted commenting on this travesty.  But when you’re in the business of being me-a business that largely revolves around spending buckets of cash to travel and bowhunt all in an effort to improve one’s name recognition and marketability among the great unwashed sheeple (you)-discovering that someone is attempting to take a shortcut to my level of bowhunting expertise, prowess, and all-round greatness is like the proverbial thorn in the paw of the lion (me). 

So when is a stone sheep not a stone sheep?  I’ll tell you.  (Wait for it.)   

When it’s a Fannin, my friends.  Ovis dalli fannini.

Not all stone sheep are created equal. 

In addition to being a stellar human, fine specimen of a man, hunter and writer par excellence, I am also an enthusiastic amateur student of science.  Modern geneticists studying stone sheep (Ovis dalli stonei) at a molecular level have recently suggested that Fannin sheep-which the record books have always treated as stone sheep-are simply a color variation of the common Dall sheep (Ovis dalli).

I have always suspected this and now the science is close to backing me up.  The Fannin sheep of the Yukon Territory is not a pure-blooded stone sheep at all.  It’s a lowly crossbreed, my friends.  A cheaper alternative for the penny-pinching hunter than going to British Columbia where true stone sheep dwell.     

A real stone sheep hunt costs anywhere from $24,000 to $28,000.  But if you’re looking to try and make a little history on the cheap-or complete your “Super Scam”-simply go to the Yukon and spend $15,000.

Does this mean scores of “Slams” based on Fannins taken as stone sheep are going to be thrown out of the record books?  Hardly.  Those tottering old fogies and overfed cooperate fat-asses that lord over record-keeping organizations are never going to give their richest members the shaft (so to speak).

What’s important here is that you know…and, of course, that they know that I know.  It’s about honesty folks.

People always ask me how they can be as great and as accomplished a bowhunter as me.  My advice:

If being a better bowhunter is your goal, then begin by looking out from under the wool you have pulled over your eyes and know that in this game your pitifully low financial ceiling is the biggest hurdle that stands in your way.  Setting your sights on collecting all of North America’s sheep species is an good way to become a better-than-average bowhunter.  But, as in all things, just make sure you get what you pay for.

This query is long overdue. Men, it is time that I offer you my services. I am no stranger to you, of that I am sure, for you have been sending me monogrammed shirts and dog nests for years now:

  Mr. Barry M. Brubaker–at your service.  

You see,  my business acumen is beyond reproach and, after years of analytic study, I believe I’ve come upon a formula that will take the Orvis company to the next level!

And just what is said formula you ask?  That I cannot reveal in its entirety at this juncture; however, please be aware that over the years I’ve attained a keen eye for business. In fact, it’s a little known fact that I personally coined the phrase “power lunch.”  But what I can reveal is this: people don’t buy “things,” people buy hunting and fishing stuff. 

Perk, think branding. Think core values. These are two critical aspects where the Orvis company simply misses the mark.

For instance, your “Magnetic Car-Side Gun Rest” could have been called the “Orvis Magnetic Car-Side Gun Rest.” Like I said, B-R-A-N-D-I-N-G.  Your copy writer was obviously alseep at the wheel on that one.  Drill down to your core values and attack your market sector: grey templed, fat wallet, wanna-be’s.  At this point I know what you’re thinking, “Barry would be the perfect match for our Marketing Analyst position!”. Indeed, I would. I can provide coaching to help Orvis shorten the sales cycle and create buying warmth.

Let’s not forget people. What would Orvis be without “people.” It would be nothing more than an empty catalogue. That’s right. You’ve got to empower your employees. Reach out and use the mindshare. Give your employees a strong perceived benefit of employment by creating decision makers. In doing this, you will foster a customer focused team.

Now then… another area we can work on is your supply chain. I think I said it best when I said, “You can’t run a business without deliverable goods.”  This is where strong application interfaces and a balanced pipeline come into play, without it, there is no perceived benefit that which will prevent Orvis from reaching out to its market sector.

Now that you’ve simply got to have me, we really ought network a bit and possibly “do lunch.”  It would be convenient if you could “pencil me in” sometime following the gunning season as I don’t want to be distracted with thoughts of where the woodcock migration may be concentrating. Oh, and the salmon will be running soon so on second thought, just let me get back with you.

Warm Regards,

Barry M. Brubaker

Having traveled the world working as a purveyor of outdoor journalism and the finest, literary bowhunting stories for magazines too numerous to mention, I can state with the utmost confidence that I’m a better bowhunter than you.

I am what the great medieval archer and hunter, Edward of Norwich, called “The Master of Game.”  But let us now, for a moment, consider why I am so great: 

Is it because I have an elevated understanding of game and their habits?  Yes.  Is my shooting technique superior to all other so-called experts?  Yes.  Am I more motivated, more determined, and, generally, a superior human being than you?  Without question. 

Throughout the course of my enviable career, I have been approached on the street, at tradeshows, and sometimes even at the front gate of my sprawling country estate by a multitude of new hunters seeking to be as great as me. 

I understand this is one of the burdens of being a bowhunting icon; people, naturally, want to be like me.   

Unfortunately, when you’ve been a bowhunter as long as I have—and experienced such unparalleled success hunting the biggest antlered and most dangerous game on every continent of this good earth—you know even as you are trying to impart some small degree of wisdom to these well-intentioned folks that most of what you are saying is bouncing of their gray matter like a blunt-tipped arrow shot at the side of a Holstein cow. 

Throughout my professional career, I have been asked to pen articles detailing my techniques for better bowhunting.  (Outdoor magazine editors tend to have an unspeakably distorted view when it comes to the intellectual capacity of their readers.  But, alas, that is another subject for another time…) Average bowhunters, they insist, could learn from me.  I seriously doubt it. 

Consider that your first challenge, dear reader.

Prove me wrong. 

I have come here to formally announce that, indeed, the rumors are true: I have temporarily agreed to pen a semi-regular column designed to elevate the venerable legion of bowhunters, like you, who seek to be as great as me. I am a man of quill and parchment—a writer in the literary tradition of Hemingway and Faulkner—but my editors tell me that in this modern age if God himself were seeking the best way to impart his divine knowledge to the greatest number of people He would undoubtedly use the internet to do it. 

I am set to depart to The Dark Continent where I expect to collect a mountain bongo that will better the Gold Medal specimen I killed last year in the wilds of central Kenya. Unless inspiration strikes otherwise between now and my return, I intend to further opine on the subject of confidence in bowhunting—specifically, why I have it (and you don’t)—along with my advice on how you might begin to develop the kind of ego (plus a contact list of outfitters and product manufacturers) I have found indispensable if your goal is to be a great bowhunter like me…or, at least, envied as a better-than-normal hunter by all your average friends. 

by Barry Brubaker 

It’s finally here: The Season.  Oh no, I’m not referring to “the glorious 12th” or the first day of dove season—it’s catalogue season! And if there’s one thing Barry knows, it’s fine gear and accruements, the items that are necessary—nay, I say, essential—for any successful upland outing.

This past week marked the beginning of The Season with the arrival of my Kevin’s catalogue.  In addition to the color-print version of the catalogue, the fine folks at Kevin’s, God bless them, provide me with a timely email alerts to inform me of “must have” items such as a pair of Kevin’s Plain Front Men’s Seersucker Pants (in light blue $47.40), which happen to pair smartly with their Bi-Swing Tattersall Shirt ($43.20).  Both of the aforementioned items were promptly ordered and will be worn at the upcoming Ruffed Grouse Society Banquet in September.  And Barry doesn’t order online. That would defeat the purpose of owning a Filson “Leather Checkbook Cover($89.50)” (which came packaged in a white box suitable for presentation as a gift…thank you very much).

Mr. Filson also saw fit to stuff my mailbox with his latest offerings via his fall catalogue. Upon arrival of this precious gem I saw fit to steal away to my den for a private viewing.  I lit a Macanudo and settled into my rich, leather chair (with matching leather ottoman) and began to browse.  Strangely, it was de ja vu. Although this catalogue was in fact “new,” the offerings seemed to be no different than the last six fall catalogues I’ve received from them…Hmm, quite odd.

Nevertheless, after surveying the offerings it became clear that I simply must have an “Original Hunting Vest” (Style 032-$179.50) and a pair of matching “Tin Cloth pants (Style 069-$115).”  But how to keep those pants cinch upon my ample waist.  A Filson “Double Ranger Belt” ($59.50) or “Tab Suspenders ($49.50)?”  Perhaps.  What a confounding yet oddly exciting dilemma!

While pondering the possibilities—What selection exactly would yield the most favorable comments from my hunting companions?—my pheasant hunting associate “Kyle” phoned to alert me of his receipt of a hardbound Cabela’s “Master Book.” Little did Kyle know but I’d already received that monstrosity myself and tucked it away in a pile with my other lowbrow catalogues—Mack’s Prairie Wings and (Egad!) The Sportsman’s Guide. You see, Kyle has no taste.  But even worse, he is the sort of working class, blue-collar, wannabe cretin who thinks he does. 

This fellow thinks it’s suitable to march around the pheasant fields wearing some tawdry offering from Columbia or something of the sort. It’s quite embarrassing, actually. But since Kyle has private access to 3,000 acres of private CRP ground in central Iowa, I put up with these things.    

At any rate, after deciding to purchase both the belt AND the Filson suspenders I realized that my footwear was due for replacement.  From thrashing the bloody hell out of Kyle’s lease last season, my Gokey® boots($298) incurred an inordinate number of cuts, creases, and scuffs.  And my backup Filson “Uplander” boots ($327.50) gave my right heel a blister.  So, naturally, a couple new pairs of boots were in order.  I promptly ordered a pair of Le Chameau “Chasseurs” (with dressing to protect the rubber and rejuvenate the surface finish $369) from Stafford’s of Thomasville, while for Saturdays at the gun club and whimsical walks in the woods I finally decided on a pair of Westley Richards “Selous” boots ($285).

Of course, the thought of the gun club sent me scrambling for my Orvis® Hunting Book, which I’d carefully stored in a protective sleeve by my nightstand. The thought of not having one of their “Heirloom Shell Holsters ($149)” had been nagging me for months, so I at last phoned in the order requesting it be embossed with the initials “B.M.B.”

While on the phone with the order girl, I was flipping through the pages when I happened across their “Ventile Hunting Jacket.”  It was quite fetching.  I could easily picture myself proudly clad in what is described as “unquestionably the greatest breathable, waterproof upland hunting jacket ever made. Thoughtfully constructed and cut from the world’s best hunting fabric-Ventile®.”  For a mere $595 I could guarantee an entire season of longing, sidelong glances from Dear Kyle who I think, deep down, wants to be me.  Or, at the very least, considers me his mentor in this, the upland shooting life. 

Anyway, feeling quite satisfied with myself, I poured a snifter of brandy and sank into my rich leather chair (with matching leather ottoman).  With my old setter’s head resting on my lap, I stayed up into the wee hours jotting the most profound musings and wingshooting insights into my Mulholland Bros.  jotter ($190).  ‘Tis the season!

Boy Bags “Other” White Meat

Big Boy- Big Bacon

My Daddy Paid For This?

.50 Cal Pokes a Pig

700 Pounds of Sausage?

Yo’ Momma! 

Hogzilla-Schmogzilla

An open letter by Barry Brubaker

I am tired of hunting with you.  In fact, I can’t stand you any more.  I mean, it was fun at first.  Especially when you invited me to your private club with the early-released pheasants and no bag limits.  That was great.  And the cooler stocked with beer in the club house was a nice touch, too.  But I’m over that, dude. I am sooo above that now that I hunt strictly for wild birds, you know.

It was nice having you around for awhile.  You were a welcome diversion from my other hunting buddies, who I inadvertently pushed away with my “elitist attitude” as you call it.

Well, well, excuse me!  Buddy, here’s a c-note if it will help you buy a clue. Didn’t anyone tell you that pump-guns went out in the ’80s? It was downright embarrassing to be seen with you in the field. The bespoke doubles that I ordered from that New England boutique dealer are so cool.  And it makes me feel good to carry them knowing that you look up to me.

Speaking of cool, your stupid buddies at the gun club said my British shooting breeks were gay?  Well screw them.  If their mailboxes were ever graced with a freakin’ Galazan’s catalogue they would have a concept of the term “classy.”

BTW, Holland and Holland is not just a country in Europe and Remington IS merely a town in Indiana, bud.  At this point I’m also going to tell you that when I said the” 870″ license plate on your Chevrolet was “quaint,” that was not a compliment.

I’m going to come out and say it:  Your dog sucks.  Ole’ Point just doesn’t live up to his namesake, if you know what I mean.  That waste-of-good-dog food, slobbering inbred that you think so highly of…Well, you really should have named him Buster, or Bumper, or Hardmouth would work, too.  You really should consider an e-collar for that dog.  And, while I’m at it, your wife.

Not only are your dogs worthless but your wife really puts a damper on my hunting.  Can you ever go hunting with out having to worry about getting the green light from the boss?  You really need to tell her that my hunting comes first and she should be more concerned about tending to your kids, keeping the place clean, having a warm meal and a cold beer waiting when you come home.

Your mind-numbing stories are mind-numbing.  Please don’t tell me another time about the time you went to South Dakota and the sky was “black with birds” or the time you went to Michigan and got into a “fall of woodcock” or the time your ugly dog went on a “pretzel point.”  Enough already.  Further, your Al Michaels play-by-play running commentary of the hunt is completely annoying.  Really, I do not require a running commentary of the hunt.  I was there.  I saw that you managed to “scratch down” that bird on the third shot.  Do you get it?

Another thing that I just can’t get over is your constant pestering about my hunting spots.  Just because you took me to all of your honey-holes does not require me to show you mine.  The last time we were there, we flushed 10 grouse at your secret spot over off of Exit 4 on I-80, where Knob Road cuts up that ridge and intersects with the two-track with the big pile of rocks marking the spot where we park and walk west for 250 yards before cutting in to the left in the grapevine thicket.  So, I know there are still birds there and there’s really no point to me showing you MY spots.  So you know, I am heading down to Georgia next weekend for a gentleman’s quail hunt with mule-drawn carriages and a lackey to flush the birds so I don’t need your spots anyway.

Leave me a voice mail the next time you want me tag along on one of your trite little adventures.  If I’m not gunning elsewhere or at that Orvis Sandanona  driven shoot in Millbrook I might get back to you.  Okay, so I don’t exclusively hunt for wild birds.  Just get over me.  I can’t help you any more.