Flintlock.

Flintlock is oldschool. It's how he got the nickname. If you happen to run into him, it will probably be around mid-October through January in a cloud of black powder after a long track through pouring rain or five inches of snow on a ridge high in the Appalacians. He'll have two different colored gloves on, one camo, one flourescent orange, a cigarette dangling from his mouth after a clear fifty yard miss on a good buck. No matter though, he hunted the deer for three long hours, and for Flintlock, Penn's Woods doesn't hold any bad endings.


Shortly there after, he'll be bumming walleye and musky jigs from your tackle box (rarely will he show up for fishing with a tackle box, that's what friends are for). The river will be high, and Flintlock will be sitting at the rear of the john-boat with the Evenrude wide open skipping aluminum over the icy-hard water in search of white-caps, strong gails and toothy fish. His rod will probably be duct-taped somewhere, probably around a line guide or two (either from one that got away or even more likely from a mishap of accidentally leaving that pole in the tailgate upon slamming it shut).

You'll say, "flintlock, why are you so unprepared?"

He'll say, "I was in a hurry and fish won't wait."

He'll have the beer though. Rest assure he'll have the booze.


Spring will come, and with it Flintlock's bad attitude. Trout season will be just around the corner, and Flintlock will be getting finicky from too much coyote hunting and shed-searching. He may be drinking more than usual, but with the warmer weather will come a clearer vision no doubt. It will be time for a spiritual awakening, something trout have a tendency to spark on those anglers willing to pursue them in the coming months (and if the alcoholism continues, bass will break it...hopefully) . Flintlock will be out in the tilled garden, picking red worms and nightcrawlers and looking for good deals on spinners in the local sporting goods stores. He'll decide not to buy any though because, as I've already mentioned, that's what friends are for. Hooks and sinkers are easy to come buy. A good nightcrawler takes some digging.


There will be days when he limits out on trout, and there will be days when he limits out on the top speed of his ATV atop Peterson Mountain. But never will he be able to limit out on his time spent along the river or within the forest. It's in the mountains where he was born, and it's in the mountains where he'll lay his bones.










After I had started writing this little piece, Flintlock harvested a Pennsylvania black bear on the first Saturday in the extened bear season of 2008. It's one of the greatest accomplishments a big game hunter can achieve in this state. I didn't have the opportunity to take part in the hunt that morning because of a death in the family, but it was Flintlock's fifth consecutive day in the woods. The harvest took place around twenty after seven in the morning. One shot. A perfectly clean kill. The bear was estimated to be around 200 pounds live weight, roughly 167 dressed. Shortly thereafter a gallon of homemade wine was consumed with Mud Dog (whom you'll meet shortly) and the bear was taken to the weigh-station for statistics.
With this type of big game harvest comes a new rank among Pennsylvania outdoors-men and women for Flintlock. It is an achievement that many people can only dream of in their lifetime. So although Flintlock is without job, without gas and without any ammunition for the remainder of the 2008 hunting season, he's currently accepting donations for all of the above, as well as for the half-mount he plans on for his bear. And if you do decide to help him out of the tight spot he's in right now, don't be afraid to throw him a crankbait or two. Rumor has it the muskies and walleyes turned on hard last week.