BOB KORNEGAY: Where I’d like to go

It is said by some that God does not deduct from one’s lifespan those days he spends hunting and fishing. If that’s true, then there must also be a special part of heaven reserved exclusively for hunters and fishermen.

When I die, I’d like to go to hunting and fishing heaven, although gaining entrance might prove rather difficult. To qualify, I’ll first have to be accepted into regular heaven, a step about which I am not all that confident.

In hunting and fishing heaven, the way I see it, there are no irate spouses who yell at you when you track mud across the carpet. They’re not forbidden entry, mind you, they just can’t holler and gripe.

There, nobody worries about things like fat and cholesterol. You can fry your catfish and catfish fillets in pure lard if you desire. It doesn’t even matter if that’s the sort of cooking that got you there in the first place.

In hunting and fishing heaven you’re reacquainted with all your old dogs. The good ones will still be good. The bad ones will still bust coveys and blow easy retrieves. The big difference is you will praise the good ones as they truly deserve and won’t be so quick to severely punish those that make mistakes. You’ll love them all equally. After all, ALL dogs go to heaven.

In this true sportsman’s paradise, you’ll still make bad casts and your baitcasting reels will continue to backlash. Fly fishing shall continue to baffle you with its complexities. But none of this matters. You are past worrying about such trivialities.

Those far-flung, dreamed-about hunting and fishing trips shall no longer be out of the question. Colorado elk and Saskatchewan whitetails are always within easy walking distance. Yellowstone trout and Gulf Stream marlin are as accessible as farm pond bluegills. Licenses are free and guides accept no tips.

In hunting and fishing heaven, the fish and game are as immortal as you. You shall learn a new concept called shoot-and-release. The quail that falls amid a cloud of wispy feathers will fly off into the sunset when you open your hand. The deer that succumbs to your well-aimed rifle will later arise, unhurt, to match wits with you another day. No fish here can be foul hooked or killed.

Old buddies will be your constant companions. They’ll tell the same stories and retain their abilities to exhilarate and aggravate equally. They’ll still lie outlandishly. Lying is not a sin in hunting and fishing heaven. Mutual affections, you’ll find, haven’t changed. As with those old dogs, you’ll discover your old friends’ faults are a lot more tolerable.

In hunting and fishing heaven all the favorite places you knew as a young outdoorsman are still there as you remember them. They never disappeared. God just moved them for you. There are no condominiums, no shopping malls. Again you’ll walk through briars and bramble, picking sandspurs from your pants legs. You’ll smell the pungent black swamp earth in the reincarnated hardwood bottoms. You’ll rub your eyes, seeking concrete, asphalt, and steel and see only the creek and the woods, the life that once was yours and now is again.

An old man (any old man will do) will often join you on your rambles.

“Buckeye tree down the trail a ways,” he’ll say. “Wanna let’s go put one in our pockets before we head back to the house?”

You look up at his kind, wrinkled face.

“How far?” you ask.

“Long ways,” he answers.

“How long?”

“Forever. Think you can make it?”

Yep. I reckon I just might.