Preamble
No matter where one goes, the baggage packed for that trip will follow, unless you are a user of today's airlines! The same is true in life, but your parents, friends and life associates all tend to pack or influence what was packed to prepare you for life's journey. My bags seemed to have been packed to prepare me for a one way trip back in time one hundred years. I thank my parents, grandparents, friends and business associates for understanding that there has always been an ever-present force calling me home.

Just Plain Ambling
One of the memories that has hung with me for so long that my memories are worn, is of a train ride from Memphis to Grand Junction TN.
That fall morning was charged with an electric surge, the air was cool and had started the leaves to turn. The hot breath of the engine's steam was magnified by the chill of the dawn... or maybe it was just the imagination of a kid on his first train ride. I remember it as my first view of something that looked like a fire breathing dragon.
My dad had gone ahead to prepare the fishing camp before everyone arrived, mom escorted me to the train knowing that there would be little rest in this sentimental journey... heck, I was a kid! What I remember most is how the scenery changed from flat delta landscape to the rolling hills of the western edge of the Cumberland foothills... the rythemical drumming of the rails and the gentle rocking of the cars from side to side. The cool breeze in that drafty coach and the smell of coal mixed with the musty smell of fall. "Good fishing weather", I heard a passenger say to another, and the reply from another, "yea, nows when ya ketch the bigguns".... and the rocking cars travelled on and on...
When we arrived, I didn't know what to expect. There weren't any marching bands or fanfare like on the movies but I sure felt like a star. There, on the old plank receiving dock, was my Grandfather with his 56 Chevy rag top, full of sleeping bags, canned food, coolers and poles sticking out like antennas from a Russian Trawler. It wasn't like I had never seen this sight before and I sure knew what was about to happen... we were going fish'n! Those folks talking about fish'n on the train knew all the techniques and tactics. I let them see that I was the one going where they could only go in their dreams. To my suprise, they all nodded and spoke to Mr. Howard, my grandfather... He didn't live there! How did they know him?
We were headed up the Hatchie River to the Spring camp.
The cabin was a single bedroom, living room and a lean to portch kitchen addition on the back. I remember the front portch with it's swing facing eastward towards the front door. For it was there that my Grandfather first attempted to kill me... well, not really... but I sure thought so... You see, the first day we got there had warmed up by the first afternoon to a nice balmy temperature. Dad had worked so hard in getting the nets out and the troutlines set along with the other chores associated with "sett'n up" he was ready to sit in the afternoon sun, smoke a cig and talk with the men. This time was special to me, I got to sit beside him and listen in... as long as I was seen and not heard! I guess I was around seven years old, not too tall like my brother Mike... but, I was just as big inside. We rocked quietly for a while talking about school things, the train ride and waited for everyone else to amble out to the evening sun. My grandfather, known as Howard to the adults but Father to his grandsons" walked out first. He casually turned and reached beside the front door, froze and said,"boys kick your legs straight out, Rat now..." well out from the door came a hand with his old Ithica double barrel 12 guage shotgun, cocked, locked an ready to rock. He aimed that gun right at us! Well, we didn't know if we hadn't put our feet up fast enough for him or not, but we stuck'm up higher just in case it could keep the grim reeper at bay. BBOOMM! he let both barrels go, I knew he hadn't hit me and I turned and looked at Mike, he was still alive and dad had smoked his cig down in one last puff. The ashes were hanging off the end, sweat rolling off his head and each huge arm was wrapped around both of us boys lifing us higher off the swing. Father had killed a cotton-mouth that had crawled up on the portch, coiled and had been tracking our legs as he warmed on the portch in the last rays of the day.
Now Father didn't like snakes. He often said that the most dangerous place to be around him was behind him if a snake was in the front, you would get run over. He would tolerate snakes.
When Mike and I grew up we learned the important things first. How to fish, run a boat motor in a river and how to shoot snakes. Really, the snake shooting was a primer for the later years, but we didn't know it then. We thought snake kill'n was a favor to all of mankind, it was certainly a favor to Father! Mike and I floundered at first, I had a single shot 22 Winchester rifle that was my dad's first rifle and Mike shot dad's new Winchester 22 Semi-automatic. We had long hours of practice shooting pine cones thrown in the Wolf River and on the banks of the Hatchie River near Moscow TN. When we were in the boat, we would see snakes laying on logs and hanging in the trees over the water... all we knew were that Father said they were all Bad and we needed to shoot'm... so we did. We got better and better. I don't know when we became good shots, there wasn't a point in our lives that we couldn't hit what we wanted... it just happened. Mike and I would later take turns snake shoot'n. He would go first and hammer the snake off the limbs and then I would get the chance to cut'm in two. Then we would change roles and he would get his chance. We never thought too much of this until our Uncle Jimmy got in the boat one summer to go with us to check the lines. Uncle Jimmy couldn't believe that we would be allowed to shoot from a moving boat, he really couldn't believe that we could hit a snake out of a boat going "wide-open", and then really couldn't believe that both of us were able to "cut'm in two" with a second shot. He ranted a raved about us to all of the folks at the camp one year until the other men worked up a shooting contest with Mike and me. No money was involved, our Southern Baptist heritage wouldn't allow that, but if we had bet a dime a shot, we would have owned those men and all they were worth. They knew it too... that was enough of a win for us.
Another memory that swells out of the blue involved my Uncle Jimmy. Now, he cut hair for a living and owned a barber shop across from Central High School in Memphis. He fancied a good fishing trip every summer. This particular trip was when I was sixteen and was a lifeguard at a lake in Arkansas named Blue Lake. During the summers I worked for Rob Anderson's family, who owned the lake, and it seemed that Fridays and Saturdays were too busy as a rule... had to work. But, Sundays in June were slow and I could take a boat out and fish when we had a slow day. Jimmy had wanted to come out and fish the connected blue hole that fed this spring lake that was just an old Oxe Bow of the Mississippi River. We had a great day and busted Bass, Brim and Catfish all day. At noon we decided to pull into the shade of the Cypress Stands where it was cool. Mistake. It was then that I found out that Jimmy made Father look brave in comparison to their fear of snakes. Just as we edged under the moss covered Cypress limbs, "thumpsssssss", a water moccasin dropped into the boat. I calmly picked up an oar to pin the snake's head and throw him out. I had gotten over the need to kill every snake I saw. Jimmy hadn't. He pulled out a 357 revolver, thumbed the hammer and blew 6 perfect holes in the boat bottom... threw the pistol at the snake,,,, the one he had missed six times... and dove out of the boat. I still had the snake's head pinned but didn't quite know what to say or do. I couldn't let the snake go now, he's mad.. I couldn't pick up the snake, he was under a merky, muddy film of water now, and I didn't want to leave but the boat under me was surely going to sink, soon too!... Choices being what they were, I stoked with all due haste along the edge of that Cypress stand, around the corner to the bank where we put the boat in and waited for Jimmy. I would have given him a piece of my mind, but I loved that man and realized I had come as close to being shot by Jimmy as I had that day on the portch by Father.
There werent' many days that I didn't fish or hunt when I was growing up. I always thought that I had the best teachers in the world around me. Father was known around Somerville as the "Fish main" and the old timers there remembered his mule team that would go to town with a list on the seat, stop at the store, take on the load of supplies and return home without a sole around them to drive them... they did it on their own through the training from my Father. My dad, Burleigh, well... he was known for lots more than I knew at that time... I knew him to be a deer killing machine... he had a history there that I never knew until the stories of his younger days came out from friends and family at his funeral... a real rounder.
I had the honor of passing these skills on to a couple of friends, Ted Brandon and Joe Brewi, who passed these skills to there boys and hopefully will pass this knowledge of hunting and fishing to their kids when they are old enough to have'm. If you have a friend, a son, daughter or workmate... you owe it to them to teach them the ways of the woods'n waters as Father says, "Fust thangs Fust. you got ta pass it on".Centennial Trail Outfitters

A new Chorus
The echo of song gently pulsed through the night. At first, loud with excitement and anticipation... and slowly it echoes through the hills and hollows. The crackle of the fire built in that old creek bottom was warm and my brother and I nestled in close as the men folk talked about which hound was in the lead. Wow, I thought... how can they tell? Father would gently explain the difference between each howl..."that's blue he's on the trial, hear how he stretches out that mornful yell telling that coon to slow down?"
Over the years I've thought of those late nights coon hunting in the south with warm memories of the chase. I re-live those moments as I hear the hounds running mountain lions and black bears through the St. Joe River Basin in Idaho... listen, "hear Mr. Big" or "That's the Ole Man wind running, hear that long bellow, he's closing the gap" I tell my client as we sip on the morning's coffee.
Now, running an outfitting business in Montana and Idaho seems like a continuation of my youth even as I push the half century mark. The mornings are spent on the trail early, well before daylight, so we can push deeper into the Great Burn Wilderness of Montana. The evenings by a fire with the clients talking about past experiences, laughing about the sore butts from the ride, the animals that we saw that day or just something that happened that was funny. It's all in a day's work now. But it isn't really work! I've got the best job in the world taking people on vacations who are looking for a good time. Heck, that's easy, just look where you are, The Great Burn Wilderness or The St. Joe National Forest! Massive Western Red Cedars reaching to the sky that are 15 ft. thick at the trunk. Well worn trails that take you to the paradise of a lifetime, mountain tops, rambling streams and a majesty that words fall short of describing. Roadless back country that is so pristine that you can still drink from the mountain streams. The smell of wet, sweat soaked leather from the tack tent and oh that smell that comes from the cook tent, it just lifts you right up no matter how tired you think you are. It's here that I've coined the title of my blog Spirit Mountain because of the magnificent experiences that I've grown up with that have shaped me, the adventures on the trail and the pleasures that I will attempt to share with you now.

The Younger Years.
The ramshakel shed that my grandfather spent hours, days and years stood as a silent rememberance of his departure. It was hard to even go to the back of the yard where the old shed stood. The smells in there reminded me just what a short time he had been gone. Oil, old fishing nets, tools hanging from the ceiling, thickening dust from the stillness set a scene that I really wasn't ready for upon the first visit. As I looked about, I found Father again, he was still there... his files, rasps, saws, screwdrivers, planes that I'd used with him by my side were still there. The old tackle box sat there with a sundry of weights, hooks and swivels were just like I saw them when we put them up at the end of the season. There in the corner, stuck under a #5 washtub was an old crank telephone with wires and cables. I wondered what that was for as I made my way out of the door, latched it, and headed up to the house for dinner.
Somewhere between the black eyed peas and mashed potatoes it hit me. I knew what that old phone was for. I remembered him using it to shock some fish out of blue holes at the fishing cabin. I remembered him poling the old cypress boat through the springs above Moscow TN. He put me out on the bank to pick up muskidines to make jelly and came back with a boat load of catfish for the evening dinner for the whole crew that was there.... I remembered that must have been what he used that day!
Next came the task of figuring out what to do with this new found knowledge. Of course the phone was an antique, no longer in service, so it was of little value to me in that since. I went out and cranked on that old phone and gently touched the leads together and watched as the sparks flew into the dark corners of the shack... I could feed everyone just like Father did! I should run for President with such a great mind! I schemed all week on just how to make my way out, across the yard and to Father's old 63 Chevy without getting caught. Getting the boat hooked up was no problem and to see a Parks headed to the river was just as common as rain in those parts. I made my escape. Little did I know the tears that were falling from behind the thin lace curtains as my Grandmother watched the old scene repeat that she had witnessed for 50 years, only this time her old friend was nowhere in sight. Father was right there with me though, going to the river!
The trip out was uneventful and the road was muddy and rutted when I left the pavement for the last miles across the cotton field road. I wasn't worried about getting stuck, I'd seen Father put this old car in low and ease through stuff lot's worse than this, besides there was a payoff, now everyone would talk about how I had taken up Father's ability to really bring home the fish.
His new aluminum boat, now mine, slipped off the trailer like is was greased and I eased up the bank with the bowline and tied off. I got the motor and gas all hooked up, primed and started. Chug-ka-tank, tank, tank it coughed, spewing enough pollution to choke me... but it hadn't been used in a while and just needed to be cranked an run for a while.
Up the river I went, under the highway bridge, over a few log jams and in a half hour I was nearing the springs. I was so excited to get to take on this role... nobody could catch fish like Father had, and now I had the secret. Although it was illegal to shock fish, I don't think eating ever bothered him at all. It wasn't like he was making a killer living selling fish. He sold just enough to pay for his gas back and forth. I had a plan and was already counting my money!
The air that day was sweet with the smell of springtime, the birds had returned, bees were buzzing and I was king of the river and soon to be crowned. Yep, sure was! I eased into the back of the boat and lifted the motor out of the water and locked it up, grabbed the long wooden paddle and began to push my way in deeper through the soft mud bottom. I knew the springs couldn't be far now, the water was clearing ten feet from behind the boat as I poled through the skim of water covered with pollen swirls. One last push and I had it made to deeper water over the pools then dropped the anchor. I sat a while just listening and watching for a sign that anyone was around before I uncovered my master plan. I'd never set up a shock before, nor had I seen it done, but I figured the leads were long so they would reach over either end of the boat and hang 15 feet deep in the water. I readied the big old dip net for use and the moment of truth and glory was at hand. I cranked that phone as hard and fast as I could. Then I hit the makeshift switch and jumped for the dip net. Now this barefooted river rat was going to score. The tingle of excitement grew from my toes to my feet and my legs screamed with pain as the voltage surged through that metal boat. I danced an electric jig with no where left to turn. If I got closer to the whirring phone the shock was terrible but I knew that if I jumped into the water I'd be electrocuted for sure. Now those phones would keep a shock going for at least five minutes but I knew I couldn't stand the pain for that long and I couldn't find any place of refuge from the shock. Finally, I figured I was going to die anyhow and dove from the boat into the cold springs welling up in the blue hole. I went from one shocking experience on that boat to the 50 degree reality of spring water but no electric shock followed me. I could hardly catch my breath and it seemed like an eternity for that whirring noise to subside in the boat as I treaded water.
Fish surfaced all around me. Big ones, little ones, fat ones, sun fish, bass and catfish. All stunned from the terrible technology unleashed by the barefoot bandit and my shocker!
The noise from the boat finally ground to a halt and I stroked across the water, climbed up on the bow and grabbed the net. I got one fish after another and threw them in the boat as fast as I could. I don't know if I was shivering from the cold water or from the truth that I now had a boat load of fish with no evidence of a fish hook ever being in their mouths. Paranoid that a Game Warden would find me out, I took out my knife and punched a hole in their jaws as evidence they were hooked and planned my escape down river.
I poled out of the springs, cranked the motor and headed downstream, motor "wide open", as Father would say. Under the bridge, over the log jams, through the swifts and right up on the trailer without ever slowing down one RPM. Oh, we had fish that night, just like the catfish that father had fed us so many times before. It hasn't been until now that this story has ever surfaced about the new dance steps I introduced to this world. I'm sure that Father was there with me, I could hear his laughter and could just envision him rolling to a stop against the ground, holding his big belly in pain from the laughing convulsions from seeing the old phone in business for the last time. I never danced again.