Arrival of the Hunt

With a turn of the key the ignition switch rotates off and the engine comes to a stop. I sit there and breathe a sign of relief, now knowing that I am but minutes away from beginning what will surely be a full day out chasing birds, watching the brown dog, and getting lost in the sagebrush.

I can see out the window that the shrubs and grasses are moving gently with the wind; a light breeze favors the dog and puts us both in a position to be successful. I know that far too often the trip is preceded and accompanied by winds that serve to twist you into submission. Birds hold tighter, your hands get colder, and the dog loses focus; wind, so often your best friend and sometimes, your worst enemy. Today I feel like I haven’t seen that friend in a very long time, and she looks great.

As I reach for the handle and extend open the door the crisp November air hits me. The dog, invigorated by the smell is now at full attention. I swing my legs out and as my boots hit the ground I begin to stretch and take a deep breath. Farley, not almost unable to control himself is planted on the driver’s side seat, barely hanging on with all fours. He looks at me, longingly, practically begging for me to give him the word. With a few false gestures I finally give him the command, “Alright, go get ‘em!”, and he is off. As I watch him circle the truck his nose is plastered to the ground, littered with the feathers of birds from previous outings. He smells each one, marks a few shrubs and is quickly checking the area for sign of our upland friends. His excitement is infectious.

After a quick scan of the surrounding skies I head to the back of the truck. The sky is sunny with a mix of clouds, both gray and white. Shade weaves its way in and out of the landscape and the sun shines down, providing much welcomed warmth. With the tailgate pulled open I reach over to slide out my gun. I slip it out of its case and with a spare rag I wipe it down, making sure that there is nothing that will interrupt the hunt. I dry fire several times and then lay the gun down. This Remington 870 has now taken down many birds and I’m hoping it will bring us both continued success today.

I strap my bird vest on, snap the center buckle, and pull out a box of shells. I’ve thought carefully about the shells I want to use. Too light and the bird is simply crippled, off to die somewhere far away. Too heavy and the birds get what may be considered overkill. So after many trial runs, the shot shell size and weight are chosen, providing consistent and ideal results. The shells are dumped into my vest pockets and with the weight evenly distributed I am ready to go.

The front of the car is checked once more and I quickly do a rundown to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. The doors are locked and I head back to close the tailgate. It is at this point I can feel how close I am. The shotgun is brought up to my chest and one, two, three shells are loaded. The hollow thump as each shell is loaded and the clicking of the action are Farley’s cue to lift his ears and stand at attention. The sight brings me endless joy.

With one last look over my shoulder I begin to walk and the first sagebrush shrub brushes my leg. Farley is off without warning and he is soon lost beneath the understory. I wait in anticipation, knowing that any moment birds might fly and I will have to be ready. I love this moment more than any other moment. It’s the moment that man and dog are united, working as one, ready to take on the landscape. It’s the moment we all wait for, that we all anticipate, that we all love; it’s the moment the hunt begins.