On the Eve

I’ve been accused in the past of trying to make every bird hunt a “religious experience.” I laughed it off when first cast. But the truth is, that jab has stuck with me.

I’m unsure why.

But in the interest of being utilitarian and simple: I set up camp at the base of some mountains I intend to hunt tomorrow. I’ve had a few camper-temp drinks while I seer a thick-cut ribeye just long enough to be warmed through. The extra fat most would say adds flavor. The bird dogs will need to confirm this because I shared it with them. I felt like I needed to add something healthy to the meal so I forced myself to eat a half-can of lima beans. Those are healthy, right? And now I’ve poured another glass of wine while testing the new camp stove’s proficiency with peanut butter cookies. I think I can use the energy boost tomorrow.

Rain has moved in. There’s a voice in the recesses of my noggin that suggests I formulate a different plan for tomorrow’s hunt given the conditions. But the Shiraz and cookies overrule the recesses and I am left little concern.

The setter, Rio, is curled in the corner of a sleeping bag. She’s out, well aware that the dark hours are no concern for a bird dog. But Ida, the lab, just embarking on her second season refuses to allow more than a foot of space between us. Every move beyond the tap of this keyboard prompts inquisitive looks. Either she is jazzed to hunt or she’s hoping the steak scraps are not exhausted.

Many upland hunters await opening day ready to hit it hard at the crack of dawn. The long layoff of summer months builds a tension only satisfied by explosive coveys over fresh dogs and burnt powder. But the past few seasons it seems like the dogs and I have eased into the opening weeks, a metered approach. Those who know me well would likely raise eyebrows at that description since reserved isn’t often a term placed in the the same sentence. But, it has worked out better for us. It allows the dogs to get their legs under them. Allow this hunter to get his legs under him and prepare for a long, slow burn.

I no longer look forward to the season. Looking forward seems an affirmation of not living in the moment. I want to be a full-time bird hunter. How exactly to define that in the framework of seasons is still a riddle. I while away the off-months thinking of new places to hunt and new tactics to try. I work on shooting and fitness while averting eyes from calendars. I ignore the countdown posts of others, and silently detest photos and posts of previous seasons. It’s too much longing and want, not enough action. There’s a hopelessness to that mentality that I can no longer stomach.

Maybe I am making this upland pursuit more than it needs to be. Maybe I have become so consumed that I am no longer able to be simply objective. It’s just shooting birds, right?

But I can’t help searching for religion while following the dogs in the solitude of wild places. I want everyone to see that divinity and feel the perfect moments we share in the field. Otherwise, it IS just shooting birds.