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November 1958. "Successful hunting party Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Murphy (left), Mr. and Mrs. Vic Bergeron, and retired Navy Captain and Mrs. Clayton McCauley pose before DC-3 in San Francisco with field dogs and one-day bag of game birds. Lumberman Murphy's Flying M Ranch, a 4,000-acre preserve near Yerington, Nevada, is a 65-minute flight from California. It is only a short walk from the Flying M's 4,500-foot landing strip to the five-bedroom ranch house with adjacent bunkhouse, cookhouse and manager's quarters. 'Before we bought the ranch,' Murphy says, 'we didn't have any place of our own to hunt pheasants'." Kodachrome by Toni Frissell for the Sports Illustrated assignment "Upland Game Birds in Nevada." View full size.
According to the New York Times, Mr. Murphy died in 1972 at the relatively young age of 53... which would make him an improbable 39 in this photo.
Also the NYTimes reports his name as Stanwood Murphy, whereas the Wikipedia page on the Flying-M Ranch very confidently names him as Stanfield Murphy. I'm inclined to believe the NYT since there is a Stanwood A Murphy Elementary in Scotia, CA that is named after him.
As far as his age goes.. I can't find any references for the Sports Illustrated
"Upland Game Birds in Nevada" that don't point back to Shorpy. But I'm inclined to think he was 63 when he died, not 53.
Trader Vic is smoking a Culebra style cigar.
What on earth is Mrs. Murphy putting into Trader Vic's mouth? I first assumed a cigar but why would she hold it for him? And it sure looks more green and twisted than a cigar. I'm mystified. Maybe it's just a rich person thing that I'm incapable of understanding.
[Smushed cigar? - Dave]
Pheasants not peasants -- jolly good, what?
His (or her) main and only job was to alert (or "point out") to the hunters where the quarry (birds) were located by pointing at their location through scent or sight. The hunters would then shoot said birds and the Weimaraners would retrieve the dead birds. As a dog, I always wanted to be a "pointer".
I wonder how they spent their evenings, since six people make only one and-a-half bridge tables? I would rather be doing this than hanging out at La Coquille in Palm Beach, contracting melanoma or, at a minimum, turning my skin into an old leather handbag.
Stanford Murphy's ranch and airstrip ended up in the hands of Barron Hilton and served as the departure point for the ill-fated last flight of Steve Fossett. Hilton eventually sold it to the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation (for the water rights), who granted him a life estate which only ended up lasting about three years.
"We didn't have any place of our own to hunt pheasants"
... the horror ... the horror! (said in Boston accent)
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