As tributes to a sporting life go, this one might be hard to top.

When a 78-year-old hunter and fisherman died earlier this year, he asked that he be cremated and that his friends celebrate his passing by loading his ashes into shotgun shells and blasting them across a lake.

Columnist Phil Luciano told the story recently in the Peoria Journal-Star. Luciano wrote that the sportsman, identified only as "Terry," had hunted and fished all across North America.

When Terry died of brain cancer in January, members of his family called the late sportsman's many friends and told them there would be no funeral. A few weeks later, though, those same friends received an invitation from the family.

The invitation explained that one of Terry's last wishes was to have his friends attend a memorial party, and to shoot his remains over Turkey Lake, a private pond on his favorite piece of hunting property.

Terry even wrote a poem for the invitation:

"So drink my booze and eat my food, for good time's sake; and shoot my ashes in the Turkey Lake," it read.

Luciano's column didn't say whether Terry's unique internment had taken place yet or not. If it has, it's certainly a novel way to go out. But it's not exactly unique.

A few years back, a renowned clay-target shooter - from Ireland, as I recall - had a similar request. He asked that his ashes be mixed with lead shot, and that his friends spend one last day blasting targets with him.

When a 78-year-old hunter and fisherman died earlier this year, he asked that he be cremated and that his friends celebrate his passing by loading his ashes into shotgun shells and blasting them across a lake.

Columnist Phil Luciano told the story recently in the Peoria Journal-Star. Luciano wrote that the sportsman, identified only as "Terry," had hunted and fished all across North America.

When Terry died of brain cancer in January, members of his family called the late sportsman's many friends and told them there would be no funeral. A few weeks later, though, those same friends received an invitation from the family.

The invitation explained that one of Terry's last wishes was to have his friends attend a memorial party, and to shoot his remains over Turkey Lake, a private pond on his favorite piece of hunting property.

Terry even wrote a poem for the invitation:

"So drink my booze and eat my food, for good time's sake; and shoot my ashes in the Turkey Lake," it read.

Luciano's column didn't say whether Terry's unique internment had taken place yet or not. If it has, it's certainly a novel way to go out. But it's not exactly unique.

A few years back, a renowned clay-target shooter - from Ireland, as I recall - had a similar request. He asked that his ashes be mixed with lead shot, and that his friends spend one last day blasting targets with him.

When you think about it, the aforementioned shooters' requests weren't terribly unusual. They just employed an unconventional method to accomplish a conventional task.

Many people want their ashes to be scattered in one way or another. I've often said that I'd like for my friends to take my ashes and sprinkle them over the waters of my favorite trout stream. The reason? The nutrients contained in my bones would help, however little, to sustain and support the stream's food chain. Locked away in a vault or crypt somewhere, they'd be of no use to any living thing.

When my father died suddenly a few years back, his wishes closely paralleled those of Terry, the fellow who asked to be shot across the lake. Long before he passed away, Dad had let it be known that he wanted to be cremated and that he didn't want a formal funeral.

After months of talking it over, we family members devised a fitting tribute - one that we knew Dad would have approved.

We all bought tickets to a West Virginia University football game and, with the urn containing Dad's ashes prominently displayed in a place of honor, participated in a rollicking tailgate party. Shortly before the game began, we opened the urn and dispensed the ashes into paper cups. We carried the cups into the stadium and watched the first half. At halftime, we walked to the grassy slope on the scoreboard end of the field and, after saying a few words in Dad's remembrance, spread his ashes across the grass.

My father absolutely loved WVU football. Throughout most of the 1980s, he purchased season tickets for family members and friends. Every home game was a party.

On the day we spread Dad's ashes, the sun shone brightly and WVU thumped its opponent. I doubt if Dad could have imagined a better sendoff.

In my mind's eye, I can imagine a mayfly nourished by the calcium in my remains riding a swift current and being eaten by a rising trout. I can't imagine a more fitting legacy to leave.