Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/433799
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 1 9 noticed me. Then I waited for him to finish helping a customer who, somehow unaware of his stature, had asked about something as inconsequential as paint thinner. Ever the gentleman, a rare quality to find in a celebrity even back then, Mr. Fairchild never let on that they were keeping him from me. After graciously concluding the transaction, he never failed to thread his way down the narrow aisles, find me, and offer his hand. I then posed a carefully prepared yet casually delivered question affording the opportunity to try out one or possibly several big words new to me. The longer it had been since our last visit, the more he seemed to be impressed by my expanding base of knowledge. One time, I recall pointing at the shoulder mount of a huge moose as an excuse to fire the first volley. "Did you say that one came from the Talkeetna Mountains or the Tanana Flats? He has the look of an interior bull." I was careful to pronounce "tal-keet-na" and "tan-na- naw" just like an old sourdough. Then I hung on his answer as it generally grew into a story that took me along with him to the Great Land. If Mr. Fairchild spotted me waiting in the gun department critically inspecting his Model 70s, sporterized Springfields, and the odd Weatherby, he seemed to make his way over rather quickly. I came to recognize this for a pattern after it happened a few times but didn't want to embarrass him by admitting that I also preferred that part of the store to any other. When he approached, I'd be ready. "What do you think of the trajectory [tra-jec-toe-ree] of the aught-six compared to that three hundred—the Weatherby, not the Winchester?" I knew he'd be impressed that I called it an "aught six" instead of "thirty aught-six." He then held forth on the related variables of bullet weight and barrel length, summing up by observing that either will do the job "if whoever pulls the trigger does theirs." Dad always showed up all too soon to remind me that work, lunch, or something else of similar insignificance was waiting for us at home. Then he thanked Mr. Fairchild, I guess just for letting us come into the store. W hen I was 12, a shotgun showed up under the Christmas tree. It became even more special when I learned that Mr. Fairchild had helped dad pick it out. A year or two later I unwrapped a Model 70. Same story. Old enough to work that summer, I earned the money to buy my own scope. Mr. Fairchild mounted it, then offered to help Dad and me find zero. After dialing it in at a makeshift range, I asked him when he was going back to Alaska. "I don't think I'll ever make that trip again," he replied softly, his head turning away so his eyes could better focus on something of interest in the distance. "It's hard on my back, and my legs don't seem to have what it takes anymore." After studying whatever it was that he was studying for a longer than I thought comfortable, he looked back at me. "Anyway, it's your turn now, or it will be soon. You go climb those mountains and wade those cold rivers. I'll just stay here and remember what it's like. Remembering is almost as good as being there. That's a good thing, too. Comes a time when remembering is about all a man can do." T he author's memories include this Alaskan grizzly and a hometown hero who encouraged him to visit the Last Frontier.