I don’t hunt. Never have. In fact, the shit just kinda freaks me out. All it took was watching a deer get skinned when I was about 11 years old, you know, with those barbarians poking the pile of stomach entrails and the pissbag and stuff. Too visceral for me. Changed the way I looked at things.

Did a little fishing as a kid. Under a bridge down by the tackle shop where Intermediate Lake squeezed into a little river going north. I remember collecting crayfish, and using their meat to go after big bass. Something like that. I remember the smell, mostly.

An incident comes to mind, involving a group of friends in a rowboat who needed a push from shore, a fishing pole hanging off the end, and a fish hook. I was on the shore and pushed them out with a big heave, and as the boat moved out, I noticed how I was hooked by the fish hook dangling off the pole. Great. I specifically remember how it felt as the weight of that boat and all in it transferred to that hook, and alarmingly, to my flesh as I was forced to going splashing out into the water, in my summer tennis shoes, doing everything in my power to get that fucking hook out of my hand. Ah, summer memories.

So yeah, not too much of a “Outdoors Sportsman.”

However, we do like early November’s “Welcome Hunter” signs tacked up outside of party stores across the Midwest, and large screen-printed bucks on a “hunter orange” banners and of course, old hunting licenses.

DAYWRECKER WARNING! Here’s what we are talking about: Don Harrison’s absolutely amazing ” Michigan Outdoor Collectibles Archive” on Flickr. Get in there and be thankful guys like Don have it going like they do. Thanks, Don.

Some highlights from the set: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

And man, if this one doesn’t just make you want to bait a hook, I don’t know what would.