Those of you who read the last “Words of Wisdom” and did not sleep through high school English will no doubt notice the foreshadowing of this review. Lest you should be surprised by the appearance of such a sophisticated literary device, bear in mind the many times I have told you there is nothing short about this operation. – Ed.
Anyone passingly familiar with hook-and-bullet literature has read the first-hand account of a peerless sportsman who has performed some amazing feat of outdoor prowess. Perhaps he hiked alone into Montana’s Bitterroot Range, lasered a bull elk at 400 yards with a custom rifle based on a wildcat cartridge of his own design, quartered the animal and packed it back to base camp, and then lit a campfire by striking a match on the stubble of his grizzled chin. Or maybe he caught a 1,000-pound marlin from a kayak on a hand-tied fly dangled from an 8-weight rod he built himself. Who are these demi-gods of the outdoors? Not Bill Heavey.
Heavey, an editor at large who writes the humor column for Field & Stream, is more recognizable to us ordinary mortals. As fellow F&S editor David Petzal writes in the foreword, “Bill is a everyman who may be the most inept sportsman ever to grace the magazine’s pages. On the other hand, he may simply be the most honest . . . In short, his boneheaded mistakes are our boneheaded mistakes.”
The quote in “Words of Wisdom” epitomizes Heavey’s writing. Note that he does not expect to see a deer. Note also that like many of us late in the season, he is out there freezing anyway. He begins the same chapter with, “I never expected to say this, but here goes: I’m glad the season is almost over.” This combination of enthusiasm and fatalism is the essence of why we do it. We are disappointed when we don’t succeed, but not overly much, because we really didn’t expect this time to be any different than the last. But next time, just maybe, next time . . .
Heavey’s misery is not confined to hunting season. Of fishing, he writes, “Did you ever have one of those days on the water when you happened to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time and caught fish until you were sick of it? Me neither.” Instead of a demi-god, we find in Heavey an actual human being. We find ourselves, which is what we really seek in all literature if you believe certain critical analysis. “Like many ineffectual people, I am addicted to the transitory endorphin buzz that comes from impressing somebody besides my own mother.” Folks, that’s me, that’s probably you, and that’s certainly armchair.
Should you wonder for a moment whether Heavey has the true humor writer’s faculty of gently ripping your guts out with a serious tale, read the shattering “Lilyfish,” an account of the passing of his baby daughter. If weeping openly before others bothers you, maybe save this one for a private moment.
In short, Field & Stream continues its tradition of disgustingly good writing and Heavey makes his own mark on a publication that’s been around longer than all of us have been alive. That in itself is no mean feat, Mr. Heavey. Your mother and the rest of us are impressed.
