The Southern Gentleman, Lost in Laramie

It's been a couple months since The Golden Trigger's last post. This is mainly due to a lack of spare time from an ongoing job hunt. However, I'd be lying if I failed to admit that following a break-up with Rachelle I had considered abandoning the site. Having gotten that out of the way I'll turn my attention to the present.

I am undergoing a period of newly found perspective. After the Roaring Gap season ended in early August I moved to Laramie, Wyoming. There were a number of reasons for the move. The most important of which is that my sister Maggie is currently writing her dissertation. This is typically a difficult undertaking. When taking her 3-year-old and 10-month-old daughters into account, it seems an insurmountable task. Especially while she is applying for professorships at 30-or-so schools and her husband, Sam, works about 50 hours per week. Needless to say, they needed a hand and I needed some time to plan my next move. I feel it is necessary at this point to point-out that following my graduation from the University of South Carolina, I am completely humbled.

As of now, I have no official plans to return home. I am quite desperately homesick, however, and have developed a even more profound adoration of the South. Laramie is a fantastic town, don't get me wrong. It has the tendency to force cowboys, hippies and hipsters into the same cramped bars. And while these three groups greatly differ in political and social philosophies, they share that same landlocked angst that comes with nine months of winter and no discernible sea-breeze (It's understandably difficult to buy into the butterfly effect in the bitter vastness of Wyoming).

While here I have managed to fit slightly into all three groups of locals, while not genuinely sharing much with any of them. I'm currently working at a vegetarian cafe, which pleases the hippies. I get around town on a fixed gear bicycle that has become the favorite mode of transportation for hipsters since a slew of viral videos crept out of the hills of San Fran. And I wear either Tony Llamas or Ariats daily, which grants me entry into the cowboy circles.

While I have grown to enjoy the cultural here, I can't help but feel lost. Granted, my father contends I would feel lost anywhere, and I have to agree. I miss the South. Massey, sweet tea, southern belles, and at this point even beaus.

But this trip is all about perspective. I'm been reading two books in my down time here. Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake, and the famous Lakota autobiography, Black Elk Speaks. What these two works have introduced are two very different and dynamic ideas. Vonnegut's argument is basically that human-beings are the only living animals on Earth that have the capacity to hate being alive, and we're all at least a little miserable. Black Elk's humble story however is a dry explanation of simplicity in life and finding inner-peace while still maintaining the capacity to hatchet fat pioneers to death. Using Laramie's social scene as a catalyst I am stuck trying to uncover the meeting place between these two ideas, and thus where I fit in their great spectrum and where I ultimately want to be.

With my newly discovered listening pleasure Mumford & Sons as the soundtrack for my stay thus far I'm going to continue searching within and outside myself. The Golden Trigger soldiers on.

The Sportsman's Companion

In the eyes of The Golden Trigger, their are three types of canines. There are working dogs, pets and those who bridge the gap between these two extremes.

My father, being a sportsman, owns two female pointers (Penny and Dixie) that live in a lot behind my parents home in Roaring Gap, N.C. Our family's two black labs (Hugh and Luke), who were great natural talents acting as stand-in retrievers on duck hunts in our swamp in South Carolina, live between the backyard and the house.

My adoration for these four purpose-serving quadrupeds is immense. I honestly know of no more beautiful sight, than Dixie backing Penny on point at the Fourth Creek Game Preserve in Statesville, N.C. The "girls" provide me with the means to spend time with father doing what I love the most. Likewise, there is something about our near-decade old "boys" lying by the fire that always validates my love of our home.

However, after my beagle Susie (that was given to me when I was two) died and I moved off to college. I missed having an honest and genuine pet. For me, a pet tends to be a very special thing. Like art, a pet serves no function but to exist in itself and to please. So after my sophomore year at the University of South Carolina, I made the decision that I had to have a dog.

My parents were justifiably furious. And I was consistently warned that taking a dog in only to ship it off to the pound can be rough on an animal. But my mind was made up; following the logic that if I had to take care of some other living being, it would force me to take better care of my self (understand I was a naive 19 at the time).

I spend the summer looking at breeders and trying to figure out what type of dog I wanted. At first I wanted a lab, like any southern boy. But the more I thought about it the more I felt my life as a southern man was becoming too cliche. (Keep in mind, at the time I drove a dime-a-dozen white Tahoe and I still live between Sperry's and Toni Llama's) So the lab was out. Then I wanted a husky. But having a husky in South Carolina seemed torturous and cruel. So I settled on a great dane. They were majestic, low energy, short-haired and, perhaps above all, I was convinced that women love them.

My junior year was set to begin and I still had no dog. The main reason being the tremendous expense the comes with buying a dane. My roommate Todd had however decided that he wanted a pug; surprisingly for the same reasons I wanted a great dane. We decide we would both buy our dream dogs and name the pug, Harley and the dane, Tux. However, before either of us got out our wallets we decided to go check out the local shelter.

The previous year I didn't have time to do any actual volunteer work, so once every week or so I would drive out to the shelter and walk or play with the dogs. Sure I had seen some adorable pups, but none that I ever had to take home.

On this particular visit however, one caught my eye. She was a dark tan with white socks and looked like some kind of mixture between a boxer and a lab. Todd and I both browsed on our own for a while before he approached me and said he couldn't see himself having a dog at the moment.

He was in turn shocked when I immediately responded, "I'm taking this dog home with me."
"Are you sure," he said.
"Absolutely," I responded.
"Okay," Todd said (I should point out that Todd is the kind of guy who always has your back).

While I was standing there, looking at this pathetic little mutt I had an epiphany. No matter how I try to present myself, as an American southern man, I too am a mutt.

The truth is, we were entrusted with control over this world and all its life forms by our creator with the stipulation: if we take care of her, she will take care of us. As I look around today it seems like in a several areas we aren't holding up our end of the bargain. Now The Golden Trigger is by no means a forum for eco-babble ranting, however I believe social responsibility fits into the lifestyle of southern gentleman well. It just seemed that perpetuating the puppy mill system, while there were so many dogs in that particular shelter seemed irresponsible.

Beyond not needing another status symbol, in that dog I saw something that was missing from my life. The sportsman is absolutely in need of a pack to serve him in the field, and is therefore bound to canine ownership. However beyond this functionality and necessity, he likewise needs a companion.

I named that dog Massey, after a Massey Fergusen tractor my grandfather ran over about a dozen dogs with over the years. I've now had her for about three years, and I couldn't imagine a piece of paper regarding her bloodline could have made her any better.




The Golden Trigger wouldn't otherwise be used to push any type of social agenda, but I have been in Wyoming for about a week now and this morning I went with my brother-in-law to take two mares to the sale pin in Fort Collins. Apart from missing Massey (since she is back home), knowing what happens to a lot of horses at auction forced me to think about how the true sportsman and southern gentleman handles his responsibility to take care of this world, and all its living creatures.

The Southern Gentleman's Equestrian Events

This year I was given the opportunity to attend three spring horse races. The first being the Carolina Cup, located in Camden South Carolina, which I have already discussed. The second event was the 15th Queens Cup in Charlotte, and the third was the ever popular Kentucky Derby.

While I have to admit that experiencing the Derby and pretending I belonged among the horse owners and country music stars that paid visit to the large estate like room we watched the races from was immensely fun, I'm not sure it is something I would do again.

The posh atmosphere, gambling and dining were entertaining to say the least, but the whole event seemed to lack a certain southern charm.

In all honesty, by far the favorite equine event I attended this year was the Queens Cup. While unfortunately I wasn't able to stay for the entire day, what I experienced at this relatively new and unknown steeplechase was so much more casual and civilized than any of the others.

Not only would I call it the most beautiful track I've visited in the southeast, but I would dare to say the event was the most relaxed and old-fashioned I have attended. All to often people mistake class for wealth. The Queens Cup however felt genuine and unpretentious. Their were families and children everywhere, and while Rachelle and I were both grossly overdressed I felt unmistakably at ease. This allowed for a laid back feel that let us enjoy the company of those surrounding us, and the events events we actually showed up to watch.

I certainly don't mean to bash the Kentucky Derby. Churchill Downs is an overwhelmingly beautiful facility, and I adore the people who took me and joined me there. I would encourage absolutely anyone to attend at least once. However, if you're looking for somewhere to buy tent, I have to say that Charlotte continues to impress.

(Although I did not attend this year, based on several past experiences the Golden Trigger would also have to recommend Sunday matches at the Aiken Polo Club, in Aiken, S.C.)

The Southern Gentleman's Unique Heritage

The one thing I have never grasp about the great confederate flag debate in South Carolina, is the claim that the flag is our state's heritage. As if to say that this emblem in some way reflects the entirety of what as a state South Carolina represents.

I accept the fact that our great state started the war of northern aggression, and it should absolutely be preserved as a brief moment in our history. I, and the true southern gentleman, reject the idea that the five years our state claimed succession solely defined our heritage.

The Golden Trigger understands the heritage of the South in a different manner. Southern charm, wit, class and style are all un-confederate, and perhaps more surprisingly, un-American.

When the first shots were fired on Fort Sumter the state of South Carolina had been a member of this union for less than 100 years. Before that, the red, white and blue took another shape over this land; in the form of the union jack, more commonly know as the British flag.

Spend any amount of time with a British individual and you will soon recognize the connections between our cultures.

Politically, we differ greatly from the United Kingdom, sure. This nation's political system, after all, was founded as an antithesis to the oppressive rule of England. But we share more with the limeys than language and an affinity for fried food. Especially and uniquely in the South.

The Sportsman's Vehicle

Last fall I made the biggest purchase of my adult life. I bought my first car. Granted my father has given me two cars, both in better condition and worth more than my latest edition, this four-wheeled piece of heaven is titled and insured solely in my name.

After my father and I flipped a 1966 Ford Galaxie 500 the year before, I developed a business model and decided I would try my hand at flipping desirable cars on my own. However, I made a huge miscalculation. In searching for my first project, I happened upon what has been a dream car of mine since childhood.

The Range Rover County Classic.

This particular car was found on Craigslist, and at a price way above what I could feasibly spend. But I gathered what cash I had, and convinced the owner to sell me the classic Rangie for half of what he was asking.

I accidentally fell in love. Where my family and girlfriend saw 6,000 pounds of poor judgment from 1993 with unsightly clear-coat damage, I saw an Aegean blue British bombshell batting her brush guards and begging me to bring her back to life.

My family has now accepted her into the family, and even my mother admits she is a very cool car, even though I have decided to keep the last car my father gave me, a 2004 Tahoe.

The Tahoe has been a great car, and will continue to be for a long time. I've enjoyed throwing a load of gear and friends into the back and going camping or paddling for years. But what the Tahoe will always lack is any sense of passion. If you were 12-years-old, you wouldn't have a picture of one on your wall. And for me, that was the original Range Rover.

Beyond all of this, in buying my Rover I stumbled upon what is perhaps the greatest sportsman's vehicle ever made. Honest mud seems befitting on the Range Rover, even on your way to a nice dinner. The four-wheel-drive, after 17 years, still outperforms anything in its class. It's spacious enough for guns and dogs and the functionality of the tailgate and parcel shelf are ever present.

It has likewise been surprisingly reliable. Despite its 170,000+ miles, it being a pre-BMW Range Rover, even the factory six-discs-player, sunroof and heated seats work

It really is the perfect meeting place of form and function. And all that is not to mention that you look good in it. Toss on a Barbour jacket and tortoiseshell sunglasses and look out Savile Row.

My girlfriend's mother recently bought a 2010 Range Rover and it is an absolute technological triumph. It is stunningly good looking, unbelievably powerful and more comfortable than any 4x4 I've driven. The interior is its decadent showpiece, where brushed aluminum, soft leather and solid timber meet to create a unique and pleasant place to sit.

However the classic is just more masculine. The steering and brakes are heavy and industrial feeling, and the radio has a button just for the NOAA weather band, so anywhere in the lowcountry you can pretend you're in the Coast Guard. Beyond that, it's more exclusive. I almost never see another County in Columbia, and therefore people constantly commend me, even if it's just a smile from a passing pedestrian.

With all that said, it has become obvious to me that there is one car for the modern dignified sportsman. New or old, nothing tops a Land Rover.

I truly love my Range Rover. In recent months I've made a few upgrades including all-terrain tires, a Yakima rack and even a union jack plate for the front. Oh yeah, and of course a proper British name: Mildred.

My Last Few Months on the Congaree

In my time spent at the University of South Carolina I have enjoyed Columbia's rivers to a great extent. Not only do they offer the best way to battle the Midland's infamous heat, but they provide a serene outdoor atmosphere in the heart of downtown.

After I graduate in May I will be leaving Columbia, and the more I think about it, the more I realize how much I am going to miss paddling on the Saluda and Congaree rivers. Last Sunday Rachelle and I went on a short trip down the Congaree in my 16 foot Dagger Legend canoe. I found the shell of the canoe in the woods in Roaring Gap last summer and the Roaring Gap Club's manager (my boss during the summer) said I was welcome to it. After pressure washing and waxing the shell my father and I refitted it with new seats, a thwart and yoke. Now the 20-year-old boat is one of my favorite all time possessions.

As Rachelle and I sat and talked in the flat water of the Congaree, I began to fall prey to nostalgia. I spent three years as a river guide on the Saluda and Congaree and, though I love my summers in Roaring Gap, it has been my favorite job to date. Mostly because it never felt like a job.

As an Eagle Scout myself, guiding groups of local Boy Scouts was always my favorite, despite their tendency to not tip. I would always joke that blue herons were in fact pterodactyls, and call common loons, "Daffy Ducks."

I always loved the process as well. In the same way that I love preparing for a hunt, I took pride in tying off boats and giving my spiel of safety instructions.

For example: It is nearly impossible to roll a canoe as long as you never touch the gunwales. This is my number one rule. Do not touch the gunwales.

Guiding was a great job, but just as I said farewell to my dreams of being a rockstar after high school and an astronaut before that. This part of my life has become another casualty of change.

I've since put up my Perception, Mr. Clean (a whitewater kayak) for sale on consignment along with several other gear I won't need after my next move. But beyond the Shandon rapids and the endangered spider lilies, the true beauty of the river is that wherever I go, I know its flow will be unwavering. She will always be flowing, and I can always pay her a visit.

The Fleeting Innocence of the Carolina Cup

Every March college students, among others, flock to Camden, South Carolina for a day of racing, a taste of spring, and seemingly above all else the opportunity to ruin their Sunday best with failed keg stands and spilled Jello shots.

I, admittedly, love the Carolina Cup, but in all honesty this love has been fleeting over the last several years.

Growing up for the most part in Sumter, S.C. My family often attended the Cup, and each time I marveled at the elegance and opulence around me. Likewise, I was fascinated by the sport of racing.

As a college student, unfortunately, my innocence is long gone. I am reluctant to say that any semblance of class has diminished entirely, but in the college park area dignity was rarely visible or audible.

I recognize that the sophistication soapbox was not the original purpose of this blog, but southern lifestyle is a large part of what makes me tick. Frankly, I was embarrassed by fellow university representatives. I'm all about having a good time, but restraint and humility are key to maintaining the level of class that the professional and social realms in the South demand. Having said that, I recognize that it is perhaps better to get it all out of your system now.

The girl on my arm, as usual, is my lovely girlfriend Rachelle. Rachelle, as a woman, is perfect. As a companion, she is without fault. And as an accessory, well just look at her. At some point in this blog I will address what makes the perfect southern sportsman's girlfriend, and why finding that girl is absolutely essential.

Rachelle wore a light blue gingham Lily Pulitzer dress with a standard white hat. I originally bought her a dress at a local boutique, but also as usual, her style represents a monumental triumph over mine. I tried to avoid the pastel and bow-tie cliche often seen on stumbling frat boys at the cup and went for a more equestrian look: Gucci bit-loafers, Burberry's leather belt, and a jockey themed Salvatore Ferragamo tie; all to accompany a light blue Lacoste oxford and tan and white seersucker slacks from J. Crew.

If you are planning on attending Cup in the future, here are a few tips to make your trip a little easier.

• Find some friends and charter a bus. It's still cheaper than a DUI.
  
• Bring enough food and drink to get you through the day. This includes water.
• Wear comfortable shoes and sunglasses.
• Stay Classy.