|
I hadn't been pheasant hunting with
my dad Phil for about 10 years.
Sure each season we made plans,
but things just seemed to fall through at the last minute.
This year, we found the time and
we would be hunting over his red lab Sailor, which was a new
ordeal for both of us.
My dad always has been a pheasant
hunter, but he has always been on the business end of a pointer
- specifically, a Brittany Spaniel.
Converting a pointer hunter (such
as a Brittany) to a flusher hunter (such as a lab) is like
converting a dry fly trout angler to a plastic worm slinging
bass angler.
Usually, they are as compatible
as ying and yang. Nonetheless, we were hitting the fields of the
Hillside Springs game farm without an animal that points right
to where the bird hides.
As I drove the two hours to the
field, many memories scrolled through my head. I thought about
the first time I used my first shotgun, in Tennessee with my dad
and my late grandpa Eli. It was an old 4-10 shotgun. An old
coffee can was the target and at 10 years old, I was scared to
death.
"Just take a breath,"
Eli said, "and pull the trigger."
I did, and to my amazement, the
coffee can jumped from the push of several hundred lead pellets.
I was on top of the world.
I also thought of the first knife
I had ever owned, a pocket knife that grandpa gave me with a
stiff warning: "Don't cut yourself."
No problem, I thought. After all,
Eli used his knife like a maestro with an obeying orchestra. I,
however, slit my hand open in a few strokes.
I thought of my first pheasant
trip with my dad when I got to carry a gun. I had been with my
dad when he carried me along on trips with his buddies, but then
I had to only endure the brush.
This time, armed with a pump
Remington 870, I was not just a spectator, but also a hunter.
On that day, in the Scuppernong
public hunting grounds, I whiffed like no other. Each time our
dog pointed, a bird flushed and I missed. Dad gave me the first
two shots before he took the bird down. It happened at least
five times that day, and I was in tears - how could I miss so
much? Dad said I probably helped slow the bird down for him.
I was nervous as we pulled into
the lot of the preserve. It's not that I expected to be a crack
upland game hunter overnight, but it was because I would be
hunting with a semi-auto Browning that my dad recently had given
me. It was a gun he had been given from his dad, and I was about
to carry the torch.
"They don't make Brownings
the way they used to," my dad said. "They just aren't
the same."
I agreed. Pump guns I had used in
the past felt sluggish and clumsy, but this gun felt smooth and
deadly. Still, would the weapon make up for this hunter's lack
of upland skill?
When Sailor put up the first
bird, I shot ... and the bird fell. I still think I was given
the first shot as always, but this time he didn't have to make
up for a mistake.
The next bird that flushed also
fell, and all I could do was look down at the fine weapon that
had so much tradition, and so much feel, and thank Eli's spirit
for the luck.
I was 2-for-2. And I was
beginning to believe that Sailor was a stud. This young flusher
meant business.
"I hate to brag about my
dog," my dad said, "but he's got a nose on him that is
better than any dog I have ever owned. And he works as hard from
the first bird to the last."
At the end of the day, we had 10
birds down out of 12 released. I had been responsible for about
five of the kills, and I couldn't have been happier. As I put
the old Browning into its plastic home for the day, I couldn't
help but thank grandpa for the gun and my dad for the training.
It was a day I will not soon
forget, and one I will hopefully soon relive, maybe even my
sons.
But my boys will have to take
their lumps with my old Remington because the Browning is mine -
all mine.
(Dan Durbin writes a weekly
outdoors column for The Freeman. Call Durbin at 644-7940, or
e-mail him at ddurbin@bastdurbin.com
if you have a story idea.)
|
