I WAS SWEATING in my waders in the June midday heat, my bloodshot eyes straining to find even the smallest drop of blood as I searched on hands and knees. Finally I had to accept what I had known ...

, I’ll find myself walking through a freshly plowed field. Inevitably, I’ll spend as much time peering downward as I do listening skyward. I can’t help myself. I might be hunting gobblers, but I’m ...

Hidden for thousands of years beneath farmland, arrowheads wait patiently for the eyes—and hands—of Johnny Dickerson. Blue jean pockets empty after an hour spent tracking dirt rows beneath an ...