Kings Outdoor World

Dablemont: I was the luckiest kid in the world

In the pool hall one summer evening, only yesterday it seems, I told Ol’ Bill I just couldn’t wait for duck season. He grew somber and said, “Don’t wish your life away boy — someday those treasured times you look forward to now will be treasured days you remember. When you get to be my age you will look backward much more often than you look forward.” My dad had many friends and family who have preceded him in death, and personally I believe that somewhere, wherever heaven is, there is a great reunion going on this week. And while there may indeed be streets of gold and great mansions in that place, I have a feeling there are also beautiful rivers and woodlands and wild ducks, and turkeys and fish. Dad wasn’t much of a fan of golden streets; he liked woodland paths with wildflowers in the spring and fall colors and a good tracking snow in the winter. He loved to float rivers, and while in my boyhood we were confined to the Big Piney and the Gasconade, as I grew up we explored many others, like the Buffalo, the Kings and the War Eagle in Arkansas, and one of his favorites, that we first saw in 1971, Crooked Creek. We got to fish together one last time a little more than a year ago, before it became too difficult for him. That was quite a day, as we caught smallmouth and Kentucky bass and largemouth by the dozens in a stream not far from here. His disease had taken the smile from his face, but he was smiling inside that day, and we talked then about how blessed he considered himself to be, with the very greatest of friends and a family blessed, I believe, because of the good life he had led. He and my mother had moved up next to me in northern Polk County 10 years ago, but dad lived most of his life over around Houston. His last 20 years of work, he drove a school bus for the Houston School District, and was so proud of that job and all the friends he made there. But of course you remember, if you read much of what I wrote, that he and my grandfather bought the pool hall in Houston when I was 11 years old, and I went to work there. I couldn’t wait ’til school was out so I could head for my important job at the pool hall, where all my friends were, old men in their 60s and 70s we come to call the front bench regulars. On weekends, dad and I floated the river in one of the wooden johnboats he built, to fish for goggle-eye and green sunfish and smallmouth, or we set trotlines for huge flathead catfish up to 40 pounds or so. We hunted ducks on the Piney out of those same johnboats, and in time I started guiding city fishermen on the river in those boats of his. Dad was proud to have built so many of those johnboats, and he perfected a johnboat with a plywood bottom in the late 60s. And thinking back on it, I believe I developed the values I have today not only from what my dad taught me to be right and wrong, but from watching the men who were close friends of his, men who were the best examples a boy could have. His sense of humor, and quickness to laugh hard and long, were shared by those men, and spread to me at an early age. We went to country churches, we had big family get-togethers in the summer and fall, and I grew up. I never smoked or drank alcohol because dad forbade it, and made it plain that he set rules and I would follow them. I follow the same rules today, and have watched many of the boys from my youth ruin their lives with tobacco, alcohol and drugs which I never felt a need for. I had a dad who kept me too busy for that. My dad looked at himself as a common man without much education, who loved to study the bible and tried to improve himself all through life in every way he could. He didn’t figure he did enough with his life, and he always regretted that. But he never knew the full extent of his influence, his teaching. He never knew fully the admiration people had for him, not for being some perfect person, but for being someone who loved other people, who wanted to do good things for those around him, and tried to correct his mistakes when he made them. Today I am remembering the river as it was in early summer, when as a boy I floated with dad, casting a shimmy fly into swirling green pockets where goggle-eye and smallmouth waited in the depths. I remember the smell of the river just after sunrise, the sound of a paddle dipping quietly into the water, the singing of birds, the quiet roar of an upcoming shoal. Those days, long in the past, live with me still. I am not sorry they cannot be again, I am thankful we had them, and I still have them to savor and remember. And I believe, as strongly as I believe in the Creator that made those wondrous places and days, that there will be a time dad and I will be there again, floating a river more beautiful than any we ever saw, in one of those wooden johnboats.

Largest Bighorn Sheep by a Woman in Oregon | King's Outdoor World Blog

Dear King’s,

I bought a pair of your Oakley King’s Camo Sunglasses especially for this hunt and I knew that I would need some protective eye-wear, as the hunt was in the middle of September. The sunglasses were a great asset to the hunt . The wind was blowing sideways on top of the mountains and the sun was unforgiving. Thanks for offering such a great product through your catalog.

About the ram, he was aged at 7 ½ years old and ODFW green scored him at 190.5” Depending on how much shrink he has, he should rate the largest Rocky Mountain Bighorn ram taken by a lady in Oregon, and he will be in the top 8-10 for Oregon Record Book.

Respectfully, by Dale Thornton

Hells Canyon in Oregon is the deepest canyon in North America, even deeper than the Grand Canyon. It is primarily steep baron hillsides, rockslides and no trees to hold onto if you were to lose your footing. This can be very intimidating to a hunter new to the area. The up side, is that it is home to some of Oregon’s finest Bighorn sheep hunting, due in part to the efforts of ODFW, OR-FNAWS and also the great range stewardship practices by the local area ranchers.

So when Jenni Thornton was notified that she had drawn a coveted sheep tag for this area she was determined to make the most of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Jenni and her husband, Dale started by reviewing dozens of sheep articles and spent hours watching DVD’s on field judging sheep. Jenni practiced weekly at long range shooting and questioned biologists and locals who knew sheep well, she particularly wanted to know sheep habits and what to expect on this hunt. The couple couldn’t get away for any pre-scouting so the day before opening morning, they tried to cover as much ground as possible. Opening morning found the 2 climbing the open hillsides up from the Snake River below. After gaining 1500 ft. elevation the two stopped to glass an area Jenni thought looked promising. Soon she spotted a pair of rams bedded 500 yards above them. One ram looked good but not this early in the hunt.

They moved to the next bench, several hundred feet above. Here Dale found a pair of rams bedded in the sage below them. The largest ram wore nearly full curl horns but Jenni wasn’t going to risk a 300 yrd. shot with a 40 mile an hour crosswind and the ram bedded only feet from a nasty canyon. The rest of the day was spent checking new areas and glassing more sheep. The next morning the two were joined by Dan, a local they had talked with over the phone several times. Together the three checked side canyons locating 2 different bands of rams but each time Jenni declined. She now referred to the ram that Dale had found yesterday as “Her Ram” and wanted to see if they could find him again. By mid afternoon he was relocated and a stalk was planned. After loosing him for awhile in a side draw he emerged on a bench below. With her Browning 270 in hand and her toes dug into the rocks to keep from sliding down the canyon she prepared for the shot. Finally the ram turned broadside and a solid thunk confirmed the 386 yard shot. As the three approached the downed ram they were in awe of his size, both body and horns. With meat and a full body cape on their backs the adventure was far from over. The treacherous pack out reveled the true meaning of “Hells Canyon”.

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