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I want to experience all the cold-water streams being stocked with trout again, not just a few like today. The streams that run through valleys, small villages, towns and down mountain ravens so all kids can walk to and enjoy the pull on the end of a line.
I want to go back to when small game was king. I want to return to the days prior the assignation of President Kennedy, which brought on the right to own a firearm debate. I want to see the majority of mountain land and farms be void of No Trespassing signs, like they were back then. I would like to once again know all the hunting rules and game bag limits by heart, due to the small digest I carried in my license holder, pined to my back, which I would read when times were slow hunting. I want to experience the excitement once again of a 14-year-old boy who discovers the trap missing from a dirt hole set, then hears the rattle of a chain against rock and the sight of a red fox tangled in the fence row where the drag held tight. I would love to see the joy in a young face on a Thanksgiving Day, when his parents informed him that due to his hard work through the summer, along with the money earned from the trap line they would give him, as an early Christmas present, the extra money he needed to buy the Winchester 94 down at the feed store.
Yes, I want to go back to the simpler times of yesterday
 

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Im only 37 yrs old but that sounds pretty awesome.I can't really imagine no posted sign lots of pheasants.It does sound like great times.
 

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Im only 37 yrs old but that sounds pretty awesome.I can't really imagine no posted sign lots of pheasants.It does sound like great times.

I can and I want to go back with him!!!!!! :D
 

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There were mornings at the breakfast table when my grandfather would say "Skip your chores this morning. Go get your grandmother something to make for dinner". No fireman has ever dressed as quickly as I would. Canvass brush pants, matching jacket and hat, and a pair of WWII army surplus boots. The gun was grandpa's Wards Hercules sxs twelve gauge, and the shells were always Winchester high brass sixes. I'd hit the swale behind the barn first. It was growed up in that yellow stuff we called Indian Grass and about nine times out of ten it was good for a couple of pheasants. By the time I got done in the swale the Sun would be full up and there would be frost on the noses of my boots. I'd stop back at the house to drop off the birds, grab a couple of biscuits leftover from breakfast and a cup of hot tea. After that I'd go right back out again to hit the hedgerows for rabbits. No siree, I wouldn't mind having one of those days again at all.
 
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