I GOT MY NICKNAME from an old hillbilly from Arkansas whose boat I captained up in southeast Alaska for about 10 years. He said working with me was like working with a barnyard rooster.
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I was born on a dairy farm in western Massachusetts. We were the last farm to deliver milk door to door, and back in the late ’70s, and throughout the ’80s, I helped my grandfather run his trapline. The line was close to 200 miles long, and we’d drive it every day in November. The fur trade back then was pretty good money, especially for us dairy farmers. I learned a lifetime of lessons from my grandfather—not only about trapping, but also fishing, bird hunting, putting meat in the freezer, and the knowledge that conservation, as a tool, starts with sportsmen.
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My youngest daughter, Cady, is 12 and just loves to walk with the bird dogs. My oldest daughter, McCall, is 17 and definitely has some of my DNA. She puts a big bull elk on the ground every year and a nice whitetail and usually