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Flying with Firearms

As sit down to write this month’s column, I find myself sitting in a hotel room in the Lone Star state, 2195 miles from my home in northeast Maine; the opening of the small game and partridge seasons well under way. I was trapping for bear and my fall turkey tag has yet to be filled. It is the second week of October and when I left Maine, the foliage was a riot of reds, oranges and yellows. Here in southern Texas it’s just hot.

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