In 2023, Maggie Williams tracked down 98-year-old duck call champion and former field golden retriever handler, Gail Camp, after seeing a viral video of her calling. What began as an interview turned into a connection across generations built on a shared love of duck hunting, duck calling, and field goldens. In July 2025, three days shy of her 100th birthday, Gail passed away. Here, Maggie recalls their friendship and honors Gail’s memory. 

I met Gail when she was in her nineties. It started with a video: a little clip shared by Mossy Oak’s Cuz Strickland that went viral. In it, a silver-haired woman wearing a green dress suit stood on a stage, steadying herself upon a walker, with a duck call in her hand. She brought the call to her lips and blew a hail call that turned heads. Sharp. Confident. Beautiful in the way only earned talent ever is. She was magnetic. I had to meet her. 

So, I opened the phone book. Gail Camp. Gail Camp. Gail Camp. Nothing. I kept digging. I felt like Kate, my retriever, nose to the ground. I finally found Gail’s daughter, Ann Camp. When Ann answered the phone, I told her I wanted Gail on my podcast. She told me there were folks already lined up to interview her mother and asked for my availability over the next couple of months. I asked what Gail was doing tomorrow. 

The next morning, I loaded my podcast equipment and Kate into the truck. When I had asked Ann if I could bring my retriever, she said, “Please do. My mom loves hunting dogs. She is actually known for handling champion field golden retrievers.” Something warm sparked in my chest then, as I looked at my own golden retriever champion, shining in the morning light. 

Two of my friends, both female duck hunters, tagged along on the short trip across the Mississippi River bridge. When we arrived at Gail’s Memphis home, we were met at the door by a sweet, red-headed woman who could only be Ann. 

Ann ushered us into the living room, a cathedral of Gail’s life. Every wall held a story. Lanyards dripped with calls. Paintings froze goldens mid-retrieve. Championship caller jackets hung proudly. A Canada goose she had mounted with her own hands looked on.

When I made my way to the recliner, I was faced with a queen on her throne. Gail Camp herself. She was elated to talk hunting. She walked us through her life, one artifact at a time. I sat in awe of this woman, 98 years old and sharp as a tack. 

We sat down to record a 60-minute podcast. Three and a half hours later, we were still talking. She was everything I hoped I might one day grow into. Sassy. Brave. Kind. Fierce. A conservationist. A woman shaped by birds, dogs, water, and the raw beauty of a life lived outdoors.

Gail asked to hear me and my friends blow our duck calls. We called in unison, and Gail joined in. The room turned into a waterfowl rest area, with realistic calling that would put most any blind to shame. Gail called a notch louder than the rest of us. She knew exactly who she was: a world-champion duck caller. 

After our interview, Gail insisted on seeing my dog work. As a champion retriever handler, she was intrigued by Kate’s capabilities. Gail sat in a patio chair, hooping and hollering as Kate stopped on a dime with every whistle, took hand signals with ease, and carried herself as if she were at the Grand itself. I threw a bumper and offered to let Gail send her, like old times.

“Kate!” she commanded. Kate rocketed forward. She returned with her tail wagging, met by Gail’s gentle hands patting her for a job well done.

Driving home later that day, I couldn’t shake the sound of Gail’s voice when she told me she didn’t get much company anymore—or the way her eyes watered when Kate pressed her head into her hands.

The stories Gail told about her old golden named Buff echoed through my mind. I thought about what it must feel like to live almost a century, to give everything to the outdoors, to the dogs, and to the land, and then to sit in a quiet house. Tears fell down my face as I followed the white lines of I-55. 

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I knew I wasn’t done with Miss Gail’s story. 

The day after meeting Gail, I called Ann. I told her I wanted to give Gail a golden retriever and asked if she would allow me to try. She warned me gently: It’s no small thing to find a dog for a woman of her age. It had to be a mature golden, sound in body and mind.

I posted Gail’s story in a Facebook group called Field Golden Retrievers. Within minutes, the story took on a life of its own. Folks from all over the country shared it, commented, prayed, searched. Then Jacqueline Schepler from Golden Plains Goldens told me she’d been considering rehoming a five-year-old female. Retired from hunting due to a lack of drive, but the perfect household companion. I replied before I could think twice: Yes, I will come get the dog. Yes, that’s the one. 

Then Jacqueline told me she lived in western Nebraska. I looked at the map. East Arkansas to western Nebraska was a trek. That’s when another piece of grace walked into the story. A man named Steve Hall messaged me. An upland hunter. A man who raises English setters at Cast Iron Kennels in Iowa. He told me he wanted to help get the dog to Gail.

Steve picked the dog up from Jacqueline in Nebraska and drove her across the plains with care. I drove north until Missouri gave way to Kansas sky. When I met Steve, it felt like the world had stitched itself together through the kindness of strangers. He sang the highest praises of Jacqueline before telling me how good dogs have shaped his life. 

And then I laid eyes on the most beautiful alabaster-colored dog. She was perfect. Her name was Sori. 

Before I knew it, Sori was in my passenger seat, and my truck was pointed toward Gail’s house. We arrived nine hours later, Ann meeting us in the doorway. Gail’s face lit up when she saw me, and then she exclaimed how thrilled she was that I’d brought my dog again, too.

I shook my head.

I told her, “This is not my dog. This is your dog.”

Gail covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes filled, and she wrapped her arms around Sori with the tenderness of a woman who had finally been given back a piece of her own heart. Sori leaned into her as if she had been waiting her whole life to come home.

A few months into knowing Gail, I had the honor of joining her on one last hunt. Flooded timber isn’t easy for anyone, let alone a 98-year-old. Luckily, we were able to hunt the place she called home: OK Hunt Club, in her favorite hole.

Gail borrowed a pair of my Chene Gear waders. She threw on an oversized jacket and her old lanyard, stacked with bands and adorned with her favorite duck calls. 

The ducks at OK Hunt Club were stale on that December day. The birds in the area had been sitting for a while, and we desperately needed a cold front to push more down. But none of us minded. 

I sat there with Gail and Ann, and the three of us hens had the biggest time together. We spent the entire morning calling ducks, laughing, and eating biscuits.