As I sit with what little snow exists melting as though spring was pushing open her door my truck sits ready for ice. Portable shelter, heater, shovel to bank the sides, gas auger, filled with gas, ice reels spooled and rods neatly tucked in the case, lantern stowed and gas bottles ready when needed are all there when called on. The problem is the calendar says February 2 but the temperature has a moist spring smell. This morning the dogs waited anxiously at the door wanting, watching for it to be opened. As they raced in squirrel search mode from one side of the yard to the other my mind slipped four months into the past. Sometimes it seems a long time ago but as I shut my eyes it was really just a moment in a lifetime.
Each year I wait anxiously for the fall season to arrive. Don’t get me wrong spring and summer are fun. Warm temperatures, the smell of cut grass, days on the water they’re all a great part of life but fall is a magic time. As the years have passed they’ve become even more special. There is no one reason why but there are small things that when added together become undeniable. It begins with leather boots ‘n wool socks. Past miles have made their fit so comfortable that putting them on, lacing ‘em up feels just right. The old Pheasants Forever ball caps, either camo or orange are brow-stained from past walks, the bills curled perfectly but they too feel good. Every once in a while when standing in the back room here at home I glance up at the one my dad wore as we walked together and am taken back to another time. Then there’s the shotgun. Just a couple years old but that over under Beretta comes up so naturally and has spent many hours resting on my left shoulder as we’ve walked in search of birds. Probably the most important part of fall now that the boys are either off to college or in the professional working world is time spent with the dogs. Beginning prior to the season we venture into WPA’s or WMA’s armed only with water bottles. Together we walk through fields hunted the year before but also expand our hunting horizons into new areas. It doesn’t matter where because even familiar fields have changed in a year. I don’t think the dogs care either if it’s water bottle or gun they’re doing what they’ve been bred to do, searching and endlessly searching. Early season grasses bend with cattail marshes still off-limits, well maybe not really but it’s a personal thing. The birds are young and still living in grass areas venturing into corn or beans to feed during the day. Together we are physically getting ready for the opener too. It’s one thing to walk a tread mill for a couple miles a day but totally different to spend a day following dogs with shells and gun. Just 4 months ago, with pedometer in play the first 5 days of the season logged almost 30 miles with boots on the ground.
Opening day comes an anticipation unlike other days. A tradition has evolved for 7-9 of us including my boys, friends Matt, Steve, his son John and Bob St.Pierre. It starts at the cabin the night before beginning in earnest at 9 the next morning. With excited dogs, hearts pumping, guns in hand as the clock gets round to the time shells are dropped in chambers and another year begins. Some birds retrieved are young, not fully feathered, some missed to land in the distance, some take flight too soon and others will fall as I watch.
But as the days and weeks pass there are fewer birds, the days get shorter, my wind and legs are stronger as are the dogs’, the wind blows colder and we trade ball caps for stocking hats as the snows of late fall come blowing in from the northwest. Collared shirts are traded for sweaters, standing corn fields reduced to plowed furrows and cattail sloughs now need be walked. The grass no longer bends but crunches and breaks like dead twigs beneath the foot. Water turns hard and birds remaining are the survivors. They have been educated well during the past months. The brilliant colors of a rooster reflect sun as he bursts into flight under the ever searching nose of my 4-legged partners. This was Snap’s first year afield and Tess’ 9th. While the light came on for the young dog as she learned a bit about the ways of the pheasant Tess’ heart said “I can do this” but muscles stiffened and joints ached at days end. Soon it will be time to pass the torch, a little at a time to the young one but that is just the way it is. These late-season birds are indeed trophies if one holds long enough for a good shot. They should be valued much the same as a trophy buck! They are about as hard to put on the ground!
Too soon there is one weekend left and weather in late December can be uninviting at best. I have walked many miles and with still two days remaining I said “uncle!” I’m tired!
So until next season we will have just those memories of what was but wait with eager anticipation for what will be! Snap is curled up on the couch to my left, Tess with head on paws sleeps to my right and Acea stretched out and fast asleep on the other side. You see we may only hunt 3-4 months but they are my buddies 12 months a year and that is as it should be! You see we are each bird hunters and together we are better than going it alone. So now I wait!
How bout you?
Capt’n
© 2012
