Author: Greg Staggs
Three simple words ended a three-year quest. Of course, even those couldn’t be that simple.
Three years earlier, I accompanied the man who had moved in next door to my family to Colorado for his 34th straight trip to the Rocky Mountains. I had met Larry Pierce at what we affectionately called “Crappie Camp”, where a few friends of mine had a cabin on one of the local lakes. Somewhat of a crappie-fishing legend, he came in a week early every year and caught all the fish for the fry that would feed upwards of 30 grown men with nothing but filets on a weekend night.
He had sought out the owner of the vehicle with the personalized BOHNTR plates pulled to the side, and we had formed a fast friendship. When he and his wife, Jo, moved in next door a couple years later, it was a true Godsend as they quickly became a very special, loving third set of grandparents to my two boys.
Tagging along those first two years with Larry, I came so agonizingly close to punching my tag each year. Once, I was working my way back from a remote meadow up the draw back to camp when I had a nice 5x5 come down and slip in behind me across the canyon bottom. A quick cow-call with my mouth stopped him in his tracks as I snapped to full draw, but...