I’m often asked which sport I prefer, hunting or fishing.

Wow! That’s a difficult question to answer. Both sports require the same dedication, study, attention to detail and drive to be constantly successful at. Both take you outdoors into God’s countless wonders and provide peace, solitude and time for reflection, but to choose one over the other is difficult. Perhaps various examples of each might help me decide.

The alarm blared, various moans and groans came from the huddled and crumpled lumps lying warm under their covers at camp. Oh, my, 4:30 a.m. Once up we dressed, a piece of toast or twoo, then out into the darkness. Spring gobbler season at its finest.

I crossed the field in darkness, finally found a decent place to set up and waited for daylight. Three gobblers lit up the dawn, of course they were on the opposite side of the valley. I shook my head in frustration, I was always on the wrong side, the gobblers unpredictable. Fog shrouded the valley, large patches slowly drifting aimlessly, thinning and thickening without pattern. I called softly, just a few clucks and whines. The gobbler answered. They hear so well it’s a little scary. Then he gobbled off and on for 5 minutes. I called again and he immediately gobbled back. He was interested. Again, I called softly, enticingly. He gobbled again. My hopes weren’t high, he was over 500 yards away and would have to cross a road. Then to my complete astonishment, out of the fog, like a big black airplane the big gobbler miraculously appeared and landed in the field in front of me. What just happened? Of course he was behind a clump of branches in front of me. Afraid to breathe I waited as he X-rayed my position with his keen eyes. Finally he took two steps to his left and I fired.

What a hunt! The thrill of the completely unexpected, a 20-pound gobbler and what a story to tell! I was bubbling over, frothing with excitement and pure joy.

It had rained off and on, the air saturated, a cool breeze blowing across the forest floor. I was in Missouri, hunting deer, but with my rain gear and heavy clothing I was warm enough. I’d been seeing deer regularly this day, passed some decent bucks and a huge coyote. It was 4 p.m. and I’d been in the stand since 5 a.m. Then at the limit of my vision, a doe. I froze, staring intently, then motion behind her. A large deer, suddenly a flash of horns. A buck. As the deer passed an opening I saw large G-2’s and 3’s. Big enough? A decision had to be made instantly, a few more yards and he’d disappear into the cedars. The buck passed in the last narrow opening, making my decision I fired.

Upon reaching the deer, a heavy horned 8-point scoring over 130, I leaped in the air and yelled, “Yes!” A month of hunting suddenly bore fruit. What a feeling.

Geese flew overhead, the lakeshore trees glowing red, yellow, orange and green in the fall sunlight. The lake sparkled in the sun as the boat came off plane and we began our drift parallel to the weed bed. My chrome Bomber flashed close to the boat when the lunge shot out of nowhere and smashed it. The vicious strike startled, scared me momentarily, but when the big fish thrashed the water white, then jumped, my fishing rod alive, throbbing in my grip, the muskies savage power flowing into my hands, wrist and arms the focus of that moment carried me away with its intensity into a higher plane of life. The battle raged, you’re praying the fish doesn’t escape, every run, jump, thrash putting your heart in your mouth. Then the relief and joy exploding in your soul as the big fish is swung into the boat and you stare marveling, almost disbelieving your good fortune, at the great fish lying there.

The water rushed swiftly by, the stream slightly over its banks and milky white. Casting far upstream my worm bumped down the current then stopped. Setting the hook brought an instant response, the trout surging back and forth in the current until I slipped the net under an 18-inch holdover brown. Quickly to the next hole, nothing until the worm was placed just in front of my boots next to the flooded grass. A hit, battle, my 4-pound straining in the current. A 20-inch brown. Crazy. The next hole was a 14-incher, then another 18-incher, another 20, a 19, 18, 16, 21 and 20. The big ones were feeding ravenously. In an hour it was over. The limit was 10 in New York back then, I could barely carry that limit of fish back to the car. My relatives and friends were astonished at my catch, as was I. It’s wonderful to be the hero for a moment, the center of undisguised admiration. My heart still warms at that memory.

So many memories, such remarkable stories to tell, countless marvelous encounters with fish, game and the friends and people you share them with. My life has been splendid, wonderful and I almost feel vaguely guilty at its sweetness when I behold the trials of others.

Fishing or hunting? Well, if forced, I’d choose fishing. Everything considered, it takes less effort and patience, plus you can always let them go if you don’t wish to clean them.