That musky smell of a canvas vest that has been stored for a season, the smell of fresh mown hay at the opening day of dove season, the smell of bird dogs after they have run all day and you take them out of their box after a days hunt, my grandmother's smothered quail and biscuits while you still had the sent of Hope's #9 on your hands from cleaning the L C Smith 20 that your father got from Santa in 1938 when he was 12, and the smell of a spring bream bed: best described by my long time hunting and fishing companion, MLC, III as " fish pussy"