Our friend Phil - Patagonia Regional Times

In the wake of Phil Caputo’s passing last month, the PRT invited local friends, neighbors and admirers to share their reflections on the renowned author with our readers. Here are some of the many responses we received.

Bob Bergier: I met Phil Caputo in the 1990s when he first came to Patagonia to spend the winter and bird hunt. At that time, several writers and some of their friends were wintering here. I met Phil and his wife Leslie through a mutual friend, Jim Harrison. All of that group of people were very interesting and lots of fun. I had not met people like these. I had lived most of my life in Patagonia.

**Bob Bergier and Phil enjoying a bottle or three of wine. |** Photo courtesy Bob Bergier

One story about Phil and I. These friends were all at Molly and Peter Phinny’s house in Hog Canyon. Quail was being cooked on the grill and Phil was making his mother’s famous risotto. I was told not to talk to Phil and distract him. It seems risotto is hard to make and easy to mess up. Phil and I had a great time talking, and laughing, but the risotto turned out like glue. I got a lot of grief — “We told you that would happen if you distract Phil.”

Phil and I had some good hikes, some good food, and lots of great wine with that group of friends.

Molly Phinny: Leslie and Phil were friends through Jim and Linda Harrison. We shared many a dinner with colorful tales from men who had experienced LIFE. Phil was gutsy and confident, always looking for a good story.

Leslie, a writer, painter and athlete, was a supportive partner with a grounded perspective. Despite her merits, she never craves the spotlight. Good trait if you marry an alpha male. Patagonia will miss Phil, while embracing Leslie in 2027.

**Phil and his wife, Leslie, share a laugh at a particularly joyful Patagonia Public Library function where many authors had gathered. |** Photo by Lars Marshall

Dave Brown: My introduction to Phil’s work began years ago while I was stationed at a Canadian Army Base in Petawawa, Ontario. During our intense light infantry training, his book, A Rumor of War, was a staple among the soldiers in the barracks. It was a compelling account that resonated deeply with all of us.

Twenty-one years later, I had the pleasure of meeting Phil at the Wagon Wheel Saloon through our mutual friend, Danny Cantou. Once I realized who he was, I shared how his book had circulated through my unit. That initial meeting led to a friendship built on shared conversations about Mearns hunting, bird dogs, and fly-fishing.

**Phil fly-fishing for bass on Pena Blanca Lake, 2020. |** Photo by Dave Brown

Eventually, we began hunting together. We operated on an “old school” philosophy of keeping our coveted spots private, often splitting up for the morning and reconvening at our trucks for lunch. Phil was a passionate conservationist, always ready to discuss topics ranging from quail bag limits to the benefits of catch-and-release fishing. Despite his stature as an elite writer, he remained incredibly humble, even appearing flattered when I asked him to donate signed books for Quail Forever fundraising dinners.

I also had the opportunity to take Phil fishing for bass and panfish. Those trips were filled with his spellbinding stories of fishing in the Florida Keys alongside figures like Jim Harrison, Jimmy Buffett and Thomas McGuane.

Phil was more than just a renowned writer; he was a giant sportsman and a dedicated conservationist. He will be greatly missed.

Lars Marshall: It is an understood courtesy that when you saw Phil working in the library, just leave him alone, he’s busy. I was one of the fortunates to which that rule did not apply. He would gesture me over and we would catch up, share anecdotes or just check in.

On one of those occasions, one of my middle school radio show girls saw us and just marched right up and started giving me grief and wanting to cause mischief — this is the basis of my relationship with her. She is a brilliant young woman and extremely funny. She was explaining to Phil how though I may be one of her mentors, I learn more from her than she learns from me. I think Phil may have been more bemused than amused. He just watched her face as she wove tales of how we were friends and worked together on plays, the radio shows and other things. Finally she had to go and exited by explaining to us that she had other things to do and couldn’t waste her time with us.

After she was gone Phil breathed a sigh of relief and said who was that little pistol?

I explained our friendship and told him that she wants to be a writer some day. We laughed about her boldness and parted ways.

About three weeks later, I happened to be in the library and saw Phil sitting at the table with the same little 12-year-old going over something she had written. They were both very serious so I didn’t bother them. The fact that a middle schooler was getting advice from an award-winning author was a dream come true and something she can tell forever. I thought, Only in Patagonia, and only Phil.

I will miss his kindness.

Gary Paul Nabhan: I was blessed to meet Phil the first week I moved to the Sonoita-Patagonia watershed 15 years ago and had at least one fine dinner and one astounding lunchtime talk with him every year since then.

Yes, he was a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist on the frontlines of war and interracial urban conflicts. Yes, he was the author of 18 glorious books, including novels and non-fiction commentaries on the border where we lived together. But Phil also knew how to be a fast friend: to his lovely and brilliant wife Leslie who happened to be my editor at Audubon magazine years ago; to Jim Harrison, about whom he once said “It was hilariously hard to travel with Jim and keep him out of mischief”; and for many of us in our little pueblo on Sonoita Creek, where he volunteered on trail building crews well into his seventies.

When we were alone together, we often talked about Chicago writers — Nelson Algren, Mike Royko, Studs Terkel, and the like — or about keeping our Catholic faith as we swam in a sea of secular writers, many of whom are cynical about religion.

But in his last great talk for our wisdom-keeping town librarian Jade at our little public library, Phil admitted that he was somewhat of a brash, thrill-seeking adventurer into high risk conditions until he got his legs shot out from under him covering one of the many wars that devastated Beirut, not far from the street I lived on in Lebanon’s capitol for three months.

That, he said, was the moment that he returned to the faith he had as a child, humbled by the fact that as a journalist, he could retreat from the front lines, but the people he was covering had to live in such chaos day in and day out.

And so, for me, he was a writer with enormous empathy for others, whether in the jungles of Viet Nam, the streets of the Middle East, the slums of Chicago, or the liminal space we call the Borderlands.

I will carry him in my heart, yes, but I will also miss him. Bless you Phil, in every way.

Jade DeForest: It’s difficult to come up with one or two memories of encounters with Phil. It seems that almost all of them were memorable, but this one stands out because it shows his quick wit and sense of humor.

**When Phil’s dog Luna was named “Dog of the Month” at the library, Phil got so excited that he had to touch her photo on the library’s “dog wall.” |** Photo by Kelly Lorta

Phil was a regular at the Patagonia Library, and would spend hours in the Reading Room with his laptop and faithful dog friend, Luna. Luna was exceptionally patient and would sleep quietly while Phil wrote, but periodically she would decide it was time for a break. She would stand up, stretch, sit directly in front of him and stare. Usually, Phil noticed her right away and would take her for a walk, but if he didn’t respond within a reasonable length of time, she would give a very soft “woof.” This usually got his attention. On this particular day the staring tactic was not working, so she gave her little “woof.” No response from Phil. A second “woof,” with tail wag. Still no response.

I walked over and said, “Phil, I think it’s time for a potty break.” Startled, he looked up at me in surprise. “I’d be happy to take her out if you’d like,” I said, reaching for the leash. He stared at me a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you mean Luna needs a potty break. I thought you meant me!”

Jac Heiss: According to the story in Genesis, Methuselah lived to be 969 years old. Chronologically speaking, Phil Caputo lived just a fraction of that time but in terms of life experiences and adventures, undoubtedly Methuselah was far short of Phil’s record.

I have read nearly all of Phil’s books and marvel at how he was able to compress the lifetimes of any one hundred of us mere mortals into just 84 years. He consorted with the rich and famous; interviewed leaders of foreign countries as well as powerful politicians here at home. His group of colleagues was comprised of renowned journalists and authors such as Mike Royko, Hunter Thompson, Hedrick Smith and Jim Harrison, to name a few. He once spent a week with actor Robert Redford while on assignment with Esquire Magazine when Redford was directing the movie, “A River Runs Through It.”

Despite his association with people of notoriety, most of the time Phil would talk about the salt of the earth type folks he had come across in his checkered life. He shared stories about the guys he served with in Vietnam, his parents and Italian grandparents, and other friends and family members. My impression was if you were a decent, responsible human being, you were worthy of his friendship. But anyone short on integrity might not be spared the wrath of his pen.

Phil loved to talk about encounters with large, fearsome creatures like Tsavo lions he reported on in Kenya. His eyes would widen when he spoke about angry bull elephants bluff charging his vehicle in Africa or the herd of menacing wood bison that surrounded him and his wife Leslie on their way to Dead Horse, Alaska in his book, “The Longest Road.”

Of course, not all of his adventures were cited in the books he had written. He once told me about the time he swam across a crocodile infested river that seasoned Australian outdoorsmen warned him not to do.

“Well, why did you do that?” I asked.

“There were some attractive Australian women on the other side,” he replied. “Besides, I’m a pretty good swimmer,” as if he could outpace a hungry crocodile.

No type of beast, bomb or bullet was able to take Phil’s life, but ultimately, he succumbed to the unseen. Wherever Phil is laid to rest, I hope the epitaph imparts the message that a national treasure is buried here.