Dave McCracken
Moderator In Memoriam
It was the late 60s and hunting season. I was home on leave from the military. Pop's mid life crisis had hit just about when my teenage rebellion was at its peak, things got rocky between us for a while. We had moved beyond that to a vigilant peace.
Besides, my brother was giving the folks more trouble than I had.
In some ways, Pop and I were twins, born 27 years apart. His pictures as a child were distinguishable from mine only by the clothes and cars in them. Both of us were big, strong, stubborn, bright, and loved hunting. He had barely survived WWII and was medically retired from the Army. I had yet to walk through the Valley of the Shadow,but it was close. My war was coming, it would be my turn in a few short months.
We had gotten up early, eaten a cholesterol packed farm breakfast with plenty of strong coffee and loaded up guns and dogs. We went after Pheasant and Quail at a farm up in Carroll County where Pop had been training. He'd been running dogs and keeping up with them, he was flat bellied and had good wind. So was I.
The farm mandated good wind. The fields were on ridge tops, with gullies and bottoms falling away to all sides. We heard a quail call lost before we had the dogs out of the station wagon.
Pop had pretty much switched to upland hunting by this time. Goose populations had plunged, a combination of dry seasons in the breeding habitat, loss of same to agriculture and hunting. Well beyond what the flocks could stand. We had been part of the problem, thinking there was no end to the bounty. Silly us¦
The dogs this day were German Shorthair Pointers. Pop had started his own breeding program with all liver colored dogs. To this day, I do not know why he thought them better than the ticked versions with white on them, but I have to admit he knew more about it than I did,or do. They exited the wagon energetically, sniffed the air and emptied themselves. Ready to hunt, they waited as we uncased the guns.
Pop used his old and well worn O/U, a Savage. He had brought that along simply because it was what he used all the time. The old "Beware the man with one gun" canard applied. He was deadly with it.
I uncased my 870,long of barrel and tightly choked. I checked the barrel and safety, and dropped a trap load of 7 1/2s in the port. Closing the action, I backed it with two 1 ¼ oz loads of 6s snicked up into the magazine. Pop dropped a trap load in the bottom barrel and the other in the top. Mix loading was a new thing, but he had tried it and found the results excellent. I still do it.
The dogs were a pair of litter mates, females named Gail and Sherry after friends.Sherry was a classic GSP hunting, she worked close and methodically, never missing a bird and usually within 40 yards of us.
Gail was a study in opposites, she loved to run and usually went on point out on the horizon. She ran like a greyhound but was staunch on point and had a wonderful nose.
She took some puppy trials and ended up as a top producer of young, though Pop bred her to old German style dogs to reduce her ranging style.
Between these sibs, few birds got by us. We had to move briskly, though, if we wanted to get close enough to Gail when the flush happened. Even then, Pheasants ran like the wind.
So, we fell into the old routine, with Pop to the right and myself left, the dogs ranging out before us, on a cold November morn with the sun behind us and the breeze cooling our faces.
We hit the first brush and had the dogs birdy in short order. For once, Gail stayed head to head as they drilled into the brambles and slammed into dual points milliseconds apart. I had my index finger on the safety as we inched forward and Quail erupted from the briars. Waiting until the quail was out in Full choke territory, I took a straightaway bird while Pop had a crossing shot. Both dropped, and both dogs went after Pop's.
We grinned at each other. "They sure know who's been feeding them now", said I. Popping the 870 open, I took out the two loads of 6s and dropped in another trap load. As I swung around to see if either dog was going after mine, I saw Gail loping back to us with a Bobwhite in her jaws. I was ready to follow up the singles but Pop shook his head.
"There's just 8 or 9 birds left in that one, leave them for seed. Besides, I have more fun with the covey flush". I nodded, and we swung to the far side to pick through the edge cover. 10 minutes had passed when I saw a flicker of movement in a tree 40 yards ahead and called "Mark" just as Pop did. I had a clear shot as the gray squirrel didn't get behind the tree fast enough and heard Pop shoot as the squirrel fell. I though he'd be mad at wasting a shell, but one of the dogs was mouthing a dove. Pop had seen it just as I was mounting to shoot the squirrel. We laughed, and a bit more of the reserve between us eroded away. As I went to reload, Pop said to just load 6s, we were getting into some places where Pheasants lived and shots might run a little long. Besides, he said through a grin, if I was going to waste shells on "Tree Rats", I might as well use the field loads instead of those expensive target loads.
Then, he led us through to another field which had been let return into meadow. 3 or 4 years had let the weeds come back. There were a few volunteer stalks of de-hybridizing corn and some sunflowers. It should have had a sign posted about the gate saying " All Pheasant hunters entering here all Hope abandon". Past that was a bottom, dark with shadows. There we hunted.
It was thick, and every other plant had thorns. Some of the ones that didn't were poison ivy and oak. I looked at it, swallowed hard and waded in after Pop. The dogs were already out of sight.
It was thick, it was nasty, and where it wasn't on a steep slope it was muddy. It was jammed full of Pheasant. How Pop knew the dogs were on point I still haven't figured out, but we went unerringly to where one or both braced and shot ringnecks so close we went for the head to save the meat.
We fought the brush, we cussed and bled a little from scratches. We hunted until the sweat ran into our eyes and until the dogs' tongues hung out. A canteen of water had come along, and the dogs got most of it.
Six Cock Pheasant later, we dragged ourselves out to a clear spot and sat down. The dogs needed little urging to do likewise, and we checked them over for cuts. All was well and we say there watching the woods and fields around us.
And we talked. I forget which of us said exactly what, but the gist ran like this....
Men and dogs have gone out together and gotten food for their tribes and packs since time immemorial. When we need relief from the tensions and strife that Life and "Civilization" give us, the wild and silent places can heal. Hunting with someone we share a bond with can deepen and broaden that bond. And it also can heal.
Pop spoke of things unpopular now, like Duty, Honor, and Country. He said something he often said, that our world was filled with unsung heroes and unnoticed beauty, but if we looked for them, we'd find them.
We eased back to the car, even Gail walking close from fatigue. Usually the dogs jumped onto the tailgate, today we lifted them up. I took a moment to savor the pleasant tiredness of my legs, then started the car to drive the hour back home. The guns would need cleaning, the dogs should be checked again and fed. I'd get home to find a message from a girl Mom wouldn't have approved of. She was a long legged lass whose libido matched mine. Her sendoff that night was all a soldier could want..
On reaching home, Pop and I looked at each other before getting out. As if by telepathy I knew his thoughts.
"May God Bless and Keep you all the days until we see each other again".
As for me, I knew I didn't have to look far nor hard to find a Hero.
And then, twins born 27 years apart carried shotguns and prey into a grey and well loved farmhouse.
Besides, my brother was giving the folks more trouble than I had.
In some ways, Pop and I were twins, born 27 years apart. His pictures as a child were distinguishable from mine only by the clothes and cars in them. Both of us were big, strong, stubborn, bright, and loved hunting. He had barely survived WWII and was medically retired from the Army. I had yet to walk through the Valley of the Shadow,but it was close. My war was coming, it would be my turn in a few short months.
We had gotten up early, eaten a cholesterol packed farm breakfast with plenty of strong coffee and loaded up guns and dogs. We went after Pheasant and Quail at a farm up in Carroll County where Pop had been training. He'd been running dogs and keeping up with them, he was flat bellied and had good wind. So was I.
The farm mandated good wind. The fields were on ridge tops, with gullies and bottoms falling away to all sides. We heard a quail call lost before we had the dogs out of the station wagon.
Pop had pretty much switched to upland hunting by this time. Goose populations had plunged, a combination of dry seasons in the breeding habitat, loss of same to agriculture and hunting. Well beyond what the flocks could stand. We had been part of the problem, thinking there was no end to the bounty. Silly us¦
The dogs this day were German Shorthair Pointers. Pop had started his own breeding program with all liver colored dogs. To this day, I do not know why he thought them better than the ticked versions with white on them, but I have to admit he knew more about it than I did,or do. They exited the wagon energetically, sniffed the air and emptied themselves. Ready to hunt, they waited as we uncased the guns.
Pop used his old and well worn O/U, a Savage. He had brought that along simply because it was what he used all the time. The old "Beware the man with one gun" canard applied. He was deadly with it.
I uncased my 870,long of barrel and tightly choked. I checked the barrel and safety, and dropped a trap load of 7 1/2s in the port. Closing the action, I backed it with two 1 ¼ oz loads of 6s snicked up into the magazine. Pop dropped a trap load in the bottom barrel and the other in the top. Mix loading was a new thing, but he had tried it and found the results excellent. I still do it.
The dogs were a pair of litter mates, females named Gail and Sherry after friends.Sherry was a classic GSP hunting, she worked close and methodically, never missing a bird and usually within 40 yards of us.
Gail was a study in opposites, she loved to run and usually went on point out on the horizon. She ran like a greyhound but was staunch on point and had a wonderful nose.
She took some puppy trials and ended up as a top producer of young, though Pop bred her to old German style dogs to reduce her ranging style.
Between these sibs, few birds got by us. We had to move briskly, though, if we wanted to get close enough to Gail when the flush happened. Even then, Pheasants ran like the wind.
So, we fell into the old routine, with Pop to the right and myself left, the dogs ranging out before us, on a cold November morn with the sun behind us and the breeze cooling our faces.
We hit the first brush and had the dogs birdy in short order. For once, Gail stayed head to head as they drilled into the brambles and slammed into dual points milliseconds apart. I had my index finger on the safety as we inched forward and Quail erupted from the briars. Waiting until the quail was out in Full choke territory, I took a straightaway bird while Pop had a crossing shot. Both dropped, and both dogs went after Pop's.
We grinned at each other. "They sure know who's been feeding them now", said I. Popping the 870 open, I took out the two loads of 6s and dropped in another trap load. As I swung around to see if either dog was going after mine, I saw Gail loping back to us with a Bobwhite in her jaws. I was ready to follow up the singles but Pop shook his head.
"There's just 8 or 9 birds left in that one, leave them for seed. Besides, I have more fun with the covey flush". I nodded, and we swung to the far side to pick through the edge cover. 10 minutes had passed when I saw a flicker of movement in a tree 40 yards ahead and called "Mark" just as Pop did. I had a clear shot as the gray squirrel didn't get behind the tree fast enough and heard Pop shoot as the squirrel fell. I though he'd be mad at wasting a shell, but one of the dogs was mouthing a dove. Pop had seen it just as I was mounting to shoot the squirrel. We laughed, and a bit more of the reserve between us eroded away. As I went to reload, Pop said to just load 6s, we were getting into some places where Pheasants lived and shots might run a little long. Besides, he said through a grin, if I was going to waste shells on "Tree Rats", I might as well use the field loads instead of those expensive target loads.
Then, he led us through to another field which had been let return into meadow. 3 or 4 years had let the weeds come back. There were a few volunteer stalks of de-hybridizing corn and some sunflowers. It should have had a sign posted about the gate saying " All Pheasant hunters entering here all Hope abandon". Past that was a bottom, dark with shadows. There we hunted.
It was thick, and every other plant had thorns. Some of the ones that didn't were poison ivy and oak. I looked at it, swallowed hard and waded in after Pop. The dogs were already out of sight.
It was thick, it was nasty, and where it wasn't on a steep slope it was muddy. It was jammed full of Pheasant. How Pop knew the dogs were on point I still haven't figured out, but we went unerringly to where one or both braced and shot ringnecks so close we went for the head to save the meat.
We fought the brush, we cussed and bled a little from scratches. We hunted until the sweat ran into our eyes and until the dogs' tongues hung out. A canteen of water had come along, and the dogs got most of it.
Six Cock Pheasant later, we dragged ourselves out to a clear spot and sat down. The dogs needed little urging to do likewise, and we checked them over for cuts. All was well and we say there watching the woods and fields around us.
And we talked. I forget which of us said exactly what, but the gist ran like this....
Men and dogs have gone out together and gotten food for their tribes and packs since time immemorial. When we need relief from the tensions and strife that Life and "Civilization" give us, the wild and silent places can heal. Hunting with someone we share a bond with can deepen and broaden that bond. And it also can heal.
Pop spoke of things unpopular now, like Duty, Honor, and Country. He said something he often said, that our world was filled with unsung heroes and unnoticed beauty, but if we looked for them, we'd find them.
We eased back to the car, even Gail walking close from fatigue. Usually the dogs jumped onto the tailgate, today we lifted them up. I took a moment to savor the pleasant tiredness of my legs, then started the car to drive the hour back home. The guns would need cleaning, the dogs should be checked again and fed. I'd get home to find a message from a girl Mom wouldn't have approved of. She was a long legged lass whose libido matched mine. Her sendoff that night was all a soldier could want..
On reaching home, Pop and I looked at each other before getting out. As if by telepathy I knew his thoughts.
"May God Bless and Keep you all the days until we see each other again".
As for me, I knew I didn't have to look far nor hard to find a Hero.
And then, twins born 27 years apart carried shotguns and prey into a grey and well loved farmhouse.
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