On August 14, 2026, my dad, Henry V. Felsher, Jr. would have turned 100 years old. He only made it to 68, another tragic smoking statistic.
A U.S. Navy veteran of World War II and the Korean War, he never claimed to be the best sportsman in the world. He never shot a deer or a turkey. Back then, few deer or turkey lived in our area. He never even owned a deer rifle. He mostly hunted ducks and small game.
He just loved hunting, fishing, camping and everything outdoors. He valued making memories more than bagging trophies and never put a mounted fish or animal on the wall. He never fished in a tournament. He always felt that fishing for money or prizes took something away from the sport he loved.
More than anything, Dad loved taking children fishing. With youngsters, he seldom even touched his fishing rod or fired his gun. He would much rather see a young child catch a 4-ounce bluegill than himself land a state record bass.
When he did fish, Dad always used his same favorite baits and techniques. In salt water, he fished dead shrimp on the bottom. In fresh water, he usually threw topwaters or cast floating poppers with a fly rod.
Dad had four children to feed. We all ate our share of fish and game. As the youngest, I enjoyed a special bond with my dad. Since I came along much later than the others, I had Dad all to myself for my formative years.
Often, we shared fishing boats and duck blinds, but sometimes, we simply went for a walk in the woods. Dad always tried to turn every trip into an adventure, even if we just went to pick out Christmas trees on a cold night. He called every place “out in the middle of nowhere.” Some truly were “out in the middle of nowhere.” He called any patch of trees “The Bear Woods.”
Dad always took time to point out the wonders of nature. He explained the great interconnected web of life before it became politically fashionable. Even if fish were biting like crazy, he paused a few moments to watch a mother otter swim with her babies or a hawk dive to catch its breakfast.
Although he loved his favorite familiar spots, Dad also enjoyed exploring new places. Whenever we ventured “out in the middle of nowhere,” Dad always told us that no one had ever passed through “The Bear Woods” or up this stream since the Indians lived there.
On one exploring trip with my two older brothers and our cousin, we really did venture “out in the middle of nowhere” this time. We motored our small johnboat through ebony waters bordered on all sides by tall cypress trees festooned with Spanish moss. Every tree loomed with danger and mystery.
After centuries of everyone trying to eradicate them and almost succeeding, few alligators remained. Ever the prankster, Dad told tall tales of monster alligators waiting to devour any human trespassers who dare enter their territory “out in the middle of nowhere.” Full of teen-aged bravado, my cousin and brothers tried to outboast each other as they jockeyed for the honor of being the first to dive into the gloomy water with a knife clenched in his teeth to fight any alligator that appeared!
By this time, the alligator population started to rebound, but none of us had ever actually seen one yet. Then, we rounded a bend in a narrow, winding channel. There, an eight-footer sunned itself on a log barely a few feet away. Dad pulled out his knife and offered it to my brothers and cousin. “There he is, boys. Who’s going first?” No takers, but a lot of backtracking!
On another occasion, we made a duck hunt in the swamp on a dark, misty afternoon. This time, we traveled in an 18-foot wooden boat that Dad built by himself. Recent rains swelled the river with roiling flood waters. The swift current carried debris and entire uprooted trees.
After the hunt, we headed back to the landing in total darkness with only the dim red and green bow light and stern light to guide us through the light mist and fog. Carried mostly by the current, we idled slowly downstream with visibility nearly zero. Fully taking advantage of this opportunity with a captive audience, Dad began telling us a tall tale of the river monsters that lived here waiting to eat people. We listened raptly.
Fueled by our imaginations compounded by the stygian darkness, we chugged past gnarled old trees along the ill-defined swampy shoreline. Every cypress tree draped with spectral Spanish moss looked like a hairy giant. In the clutching darkness, branches extended over the stream, resembling bony hands reaching out to snatch anyone who passed too close. Every fallen tree looked like a monster climbing up on the bank.
Right about the time Dad reached the part of the story where the monster leaped from the water, the boat hit an entire tree floating in the swirling currents. Upon impact, the trunk twisted in the water. A large curved root covered in dripping aquatic weeds suddenly erupted from the surface into gloomy view right next to the boat. It looked exactly like the famous Loch Ness Monster photo.
The “monster’s” sudden appearance got everyone’s attention! I think it even spooked my dad. Fortunately, at such a slow speed, we didn’t damage anything, except our pride. Nobody said another word until we got home. Dad never told another “swamp monster” tale again.
Time is the most precious, fragile and unforgiving of all gifts. Take a child outdoors. Create adventures and memories for generations coming after us. Remember, with small children, teach them properly, and let them catch the fish or make the shot.
A parent will never meet a better partner than one created from sweat, time, patience and perhaps even a few drops of tears and blood. I miss you, Dad.
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An avid sportsman, Felsher is professional writer, photographer and radio show host who has written thousands of articles for many publications. He’s always looking for ideas or outdoors adventures that will make good stories. Contact Felsh at [email protected] or through Facebook. He also hosts an outdoors tips show for WAVH FM Talk 106.5 radio station in Mobile.