I was introduced to Cory Wells on August 5, 1971 at my first TDN concert staged  at Bowman Field in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, a benefit show for muscular dystrophy.  Thirteen years later, following some correspondence via Cory's Malibu P.O. box and an acquaintance with then-bass player Richard Grossman, Cory met me for the first time in Moosic, Pennsylvania, near Wilkes Barre, on the last night of a tour.  Though I was by then living in Southern California, as fate would have it, the band was performing there the same weekend as my 10-year high school reunion some 90 miles away. 

At that time, the band consisted of Danny, Chuck, Cory, Michael, Jimmy, Floyd, and Richard.  So Richard called the house upon the band's arrival at its lodgings, a quaint establishment with a bar/restaurant/intimate entertainment venue and rooms constructed out of old railroad cars.  As planned, Hubby and I borrowed my parents' car and headed out to meet the band. 

One central topic of my correspondence with Cory had been fishing.  So we talked about the outdoor articles he'd been publishing; as I recall, he had a couple sample issues with him.  Then he offered this gem of an "ice-breaker:" When the band first hit it big in the early years, he said, Chuck and Danny used to receive piles of fan mail from all these voluptuous women who'd enclose their photos.  Meanwhile, Cory lamented, the bulk of his fan mail was written in crayon.  But now, he quipped, all these years later, Chuck and Danny's fans were "old" whereas his were now grown, still young, and gorgeous.  He'd met a Canadian fan, in particular, who was now a professional model. 

We talked on, and before long, it was time to head to the venue.  In those days, the Dogs were touring by bus; and, as it turned out, the bus was too big to maneuver down the drive behind the outdoor stage.  So the guys would travel by limo--but it wasn't big enough to haul everyone.  So we were recruited to transport Richard and Floyd in my parents' car.  (Later, I assured my mom and dad that their car was forevermore special and invaluable, given its valiant mission of transporting two Dogs to a show.)  It was challenging keeping up as the limo flew down the highway, but I will always remember being motioned through the security gate on its bumper--and again, afterwards, rushing  backstage to a chorus of voices, "Come on, hurry up, we gotta go, we gotta go!"

Back at the railcars, an end-of-tour supper was being planned, and as last-minute chauffeur recruits, we were invited to dine with the Dogs.  A teen-age fantasy come true, coupled with a great-adventure story to carry back to the reunion.  Tables had been positioned end-to-end to create one long banquet table.  Jimmy, Hubby, Richard, probably road manager John Meglen, and a couple of others motioned me toward their little group at the far end of the table.  But I said, "No, I need to sit down here so I can hear fishing stories!"  Cory had recently encouraged me, in a letter, to check out a So Cal fishing conclave where his friend, Lefty Kreh, would be giving casting lessons.  Needless to say, I attended from start to finish, took copious notes, and picked up two stacks of every brochure and handout made available.  Would it be in poor taste, I wondered for half-a-second, if I hauled Cory's stack of conclave docs to the dinner table?  So I sat with my stack, alone, awaiting the rest of the band. 

Within minutes, everyone trickled in.  Cory took the seat opposite mine, Danny parked beside me, and Chuck was a couple of seats away...the Dogs, the road manager, the roadies, and Hubby and me.  It was, to say the least, a surreal evening.  As for my stack, Cory matched it with a fly box he soon opened, placing a long row of flies, end to end, across the linen tablecoth.  He then proceeded with an impromptu "lecture," explaining what each fly was called, what it was made of, dry fly vs. wet fly, and, of course, what prey each might attract.  I hung on every syllable, wishing the night would never end.  Meanwhile, Chuck had Canadian money to exchange, which Hubby gladly bought for a souvenir of Dog night.  Before the meal was through, I gladly traded desserts with Michael, as he'd wanted the variety placed before me. 

After dinner, there was late-night entertainment in the lounge.  Cory and the others were routinely interrupted by complimenting well-wishers and autograph-seekers.  That was one thing I could never do, ask for an autograph or photo.  I always wanted to be perceived as more friend than fan.   

The explicit details of the encounter are recorded in a packed-away journal, as are memories of most of the 70 or so concerts that followed.  Most days, I still cannot fathom Cory and Spooner are not "out there" on stage at the current gig--but I know they will always be there in spirit.