Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/554642
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 8 7 orking from life and at great personal risk, John James Audubon painted this nine-banded armadillo with little or no protection for himself. W G oof Findlay grew up hunting gators in the Everglades, before back-to-back hurricanes ended his dreams and drove him as far north into Florida as he could tolerate. Goof is a large man, tall and lean, with skin like yew bark, ageless, with a fine sense of humor and gentle in his ways . . . that is, unless he's crossed by man or beast. Then, he can become a dangerous, devious man, who'll likely give the knife an artful twist both on its way in and on its way out. These days Goof makes his living running dogs and hogs and operating a deer camp and guiding bass fishermen and alligator hunters. Even runs a small-space ad occasionally in some of the high-end sporting magazines, hoping to snag the occasional unsuspecting nimrod and show him a good time. And this time, Goof had hit the mother lode. W e could tell by their equipment and attire they were sure- enough big game hunters the minute they stepped from their sleek, British-racing-green Land Rover with the faux international license plate centered in the front bumper. "Edward Toaraster-Alice," declared the older of the two as he presented himself formally, with the finest elocution. "And this is the pro, for he had made darn well certain they were outfitted with nothing but the best and most expensive gear in the Empire— new boots, new hunting pants, new waxed cotton coats that whispered loudly as they exited their coach, and big flat-brimmed Stetsons with faux leopard hat bands. Fact is, a lot of faux stepped from that shiny new Land Rover. We knew immediately that Sir Edward was the real deal—he told us so himself, without needing to be prompted, regaling us with exploits from here to no-matter for all manner of beast and bird. He then pulled a brand new .338 Lapua tactical rifle, all fitted out with a big tactical scope, from its hand-tooled leather case, as if to assure us he was ready for the biggest, meanest swamp deer this side of the Suwannee. Chad was impressed. Goof just grinned, rather mischievously it seemed, and I averted my face. "Tell me, sir," Sir Edward then asked, his faux accent dripping pretension, "are there any snakes or spiders or crocodiles or such around here that should concern us?" I glanced over at Goof, and I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was positively elated to be in the presence of such fine folk with whom he could share his abundance of wisdom and wit. The good gents from the Mother Country had come to hunt deer. But little did they realize, one of them was about to encounter the most fearsome creature in Florida. Michael Altizer a m b l i n g s R Chad," he proudly proclaimed, as he motioned with an overly elegant sweep of his leather-gloved hand to his young askari. Chad was a tall blond youth with long wavy hair and wearing crisply tailored tweeds and wellies that fell barely short of Sir Ed's sartorial splendor. The salesman who'd seen them coming had obviously been quite