The old man’s truck bounced down the gravel drive leading to Jim’s house. It was the quintessential Dakota farm home. It’s white siding was stained a slight brown from the constant barrage of wind-blown dust. There were two rocking chairs that sat on the front porch, the kind of chairs that weren’t just for show, but had the worn appearance that only years of prairie sunrises and sunsets could offer. The yard was quaint and bordered by flower beds filled with figurines and perennials that brought a simple beauty to the landscape. In the back, the old man could see two large barns where someone might store tractors and the equipment so necessary for this way of life. He saw Jim walking out of one of the buildings as he put the truck in park and shut off the engine. Jim was up to the truck, hand stuck out for greeting, by the time the old man got out.
“Right on time, Tom, glad you made it.” Jim said with a smile, extending his hand to Tom’s. Jim had the kind of handshake that only men who have spent their whole lives using tools possess.
“Thanks for inviting us.”, said Tom, “I’ve got some ducks in the cooler here for you. I hope you will take them.”
“That sounds great. Are you sure? Let me take them into the house. I’ll grab my vest and gun and then we can be on our way.”
Jim grabbed the cleaned ducks and rushed inside to gather his things. The old man took another look around the land. He was surrounded by corn and grasslands for as far as his eye and stature would allow him to see. As flat and monotonous as the landscape might appear to some, the old man thought it looked like heaven. This was bird country and as far as he was concerned that’s as close to pure happiness as he could get while he was still breathing.
The old man spun around at the sound of Jim’s screen door opening again. Out came Jim with a beige, well-aged canvas shotgun case and his bird vest. He was followed by a woman the old man presumed to be Jim’s wife. She had a light complexion and a small frame, considerably smaller than Jim’s more stocky, farm-grown build. The apron tied around her waist had the fresh smatterings of flour and what looked to be tomato sauce, he wasn”t sure. She stood up on her tip-toes to kiss her husband off the porch and then took a moment to give a wave and a sincere smile to the old stranger beside the truck.
“That’s my wife, Dottie.” said Jim. “She says dinner will be ready around 6:30 so we have four good hours to hunt before coming back.”
Jim, without hesitating, opened up the back glass of Tom’s camper shell and began sliding his things in. He shut the glass window and made his way around to the passenger seat.
“Come on, let’s go. The first spot is just a 1/2 mile north and it’s a good one, that is, if my cousin’s boys haven’t been out there yet.”
The old man climbed his way back into the driver’s seat and they were on their way.
Over the half mile, the two talked about what all hunter’s talk about, birds. Jim showed Tom the spot where he killed his first sharptail grouse back in the days when pheasants weren’t the end-all-be-all. Jim’s family owned most of the land around in this area. He also bragged that a piece of his flesh could be found on most of the fence posts in the 2 square mile block they collectively owned. He talked about how his grandfather and his father worked this land back before all the new equipment made operations so much bigger. Jim wasn’t complaining. He liked farming for what it was now and way back then. He seemed to be thankful for the opportunity to just carry on the tradition of his relatives, even if it wasn’t exactly how they did it in the past.
The old man mostly listened, he liked hearing Jim’s stories. He liked trying to picture what the landscape must have looked like 50 years ago. He tried to imagine the young man that Jim was describing himself to be. He enjoyed reliving the tales right along side him, even if all he really had to go on was Jim’s description.
Jake didn’t even seem to acknowledge all the talk. The bird dog had his nose stuck out of the cracked window, seemingly sucking up all the different smells he could draw in. His tail would wag a little harder when he found one he liked on the breeze.
They stopped the truck at the end of a grassy two track. Over the dash, Tom could see the wide expanse of crop lands, bordered by hedgerows of cedar and grasslands. The view appeared to go on for miles.
“It’s pretty isn’t it?” Jim asked, “This is one of my favorite spots, always a sure thing in the afternoons. If Jake back there is half as good as he looks, we just might find a few huns, too.”
“Huns?” Tom looked at him, wideyed, with an almost child-like grin.
“Oh yea, they love those field edges where the grass runs into the peas. Do you see that ridge over there? I’d bet the tab for tomorrow’s breakfast that we will find some over there.”
“You’ve got yourself a bet.” Tom replied, “And don’t worry about Jake, he will carry his weight, for sure.”
The two men gathered the guns and enough shells for what they hoped to be a very successful walk. Right out of the truck, Jake’s tail was showing signs of birds. The old man was beside himself with anticipation.
Just 300 yards from the truck Jake became the staunch statue that would make the cover of any gundog magazine in the country. The two men hurried up to him, guns at the ready. When they got in range, Jake began to move forward again.
“Bird must be running.” Jim said.
They followed the cautious dog another 30 yards before Jake stopped again. The bird dog’s head was pressed hard into the breeze. He looked as though he would tip over if not for the steady wind pressing against him. When the men got in range again the first bird exploded on Jim’s side, peeling back quickly, putting distance and elevation between the hunters and itself.
“Hen!” Jim shouted.
Another bird exploded, this time just at the tip of Jake’s nose. The cackle and closeness was too much for the bird dog and he lunged forward, nearly catching the long tail of the rising creature.
“Rooster!” both voices echoed out simultaneously.
Jim’s pump gun rang out the first shot and the bird crumpled at 30 yards.
“Nice shot, Jim” said Tom, as he began to kneel down for the approaching bird dog. Jake brought the bird back to the old man. After he stroked the elaborate feathers of their first kill he handed it over to Jim to place in his vest.
Over the next quarter of a mile, Jake went on to point a dozen more times. Almost every point produced multiple birds and the men took turns displaying the marksmanship that only comes with age and experience. All the while, Tom couldn’t help but want to move closer towards the ridge where Jim suggested those huns might be. He was practically salivating at the thought of them. He enjoyed pheasant, sure, but a shot at Hungarian partridge? He’d only ever seen videos and pictures of the souped up rockets, oversized quail that flew just as hard with the same intense covey rise as their smaller cousins. Would he be able to keep it together for a good shot? Would Jake bump the birds before a shell could even be fired? That hill on the horizon taunted him, he HAD to get there.
The sun’s low hanging position was starting to show the age of the day when they approached the ridge. The old man was literally praying that Jake would not find another pheasant. He didn’t think he could handle anymore delay.
Jake was making wide loops now, working the cover in front of them, back and forth, covering large swaths of the windswept field 100 yards out. And just like that, the canine was stopped in his tracks. He was out in the stubble of a pea field but his entire body pointed to the grassy edge just upwind of him.
“That must be those huns. Are you ready to buy my breakfast?” Jim said with a hint of a smile in his voice.
Tom didn’t care about any tab for a meal at that moment. By this point he would have bought Jim a brand new car if it meant seeing those birds. It took every faculty he had to keep from sprinting to the covey.
“Be ready. These huns can get a little flighty.” Jim said as he pushed forward, closer to the dog.
Tom gripped his shotgun a little tighter. He felt like a kid again, flashbacks of his first bird hunt on his grandfather’s property many, many years ago kept replaying in his head. He just hoped he shot better this go around than he did that first day.
As the old man made himself ready and tried to push all the other thoughts out of his head, the covey rose. In a flash, the entire ground erupted with sound and feathers and motion. They rose all at once and went in every direction. Tom couldn’t tell if there were 10 of them or 100. He struggled to pick out the first bird, but one caught his eye and he began to swing. The moment the butt of his gun touched his shoulder he squeezed. The gun roared and the old man longingly watched as the ball of energy and feathers took a downward slant into the grass. On instinct, he swung the gun back, found another mark and let go with the second barrel. This one was a little further out but the modified choke and number 5’s did their job. Then there was silence.
“I got two. How’d you do?” Jim said.
“Huh?” came Tom’s reply. “I mean, I got two.” He paused for a minute trying to gather his thoughts. “That was incredible! What a show! Did you see that?”, the old man said as he realized how child-like his demeanor must seem. He couldn’t help it. The build up, the anticipation, and then to see it all unfold like that, well, he felt lucky that he could even form any words at all.
“It is incredible. Those little firecrackers get me everytime, too.” Jim chuckled.
Jake picked up the down birds and the two hunters decided that it was time to call it quits. They walked back to the truck with the setting sun over their shoulders. Tom kept replaying the moment over and over in between bits of conversation.
“Tom, will you stay for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. That would be great. But I think I’m the one who owes you a meal.”
Jim laughed, “Yes, you do. I like cheese in my omelets and my coffee black.”
The Fall Experience 