Wet Noses and Stiff Tails

A Week Well Spent

A rail hunt, an oyster roast, chasing bobwhites with old friends at Wintergreen and G&T 's on the house (the folks' house to be exact)  - Not a bad checklist for a week in SE North Carolina.  There also happened to be a holiday in there somewhere, involving turkeys and out of control grandmothers.  Here's a few shots from a week well spent.

The old man shooting rails, but still talking turkey

Morning sky over the marsh

Don't Shoot Too Fast

Special thanks to Capt. Seth Vernon of DoubleHaulGuideService and fellow guide Capt. Judson Brock for their marsh hen expertise.

"I'll take a lot. And put it in a bucket"

The old stomping grounds

Wintergreen Hunting Preserve

Orvis No. 8's

Absent on Opening Day

In grade school that always seemed to be the case on the first day of turkey season.  It was fun until I realized that sitting in the woods, not allowed to talk or move for hours at a time, and not seeing turkeys was just as boring as sitting in class.   At least at school I could raise my hand or get up and go to the bathroom.  But once I graduated from college, gained  a little more maturity, and became a fishing guide living at home for my first winter, I really didn’t have a choice come spring in my father’s house whether or not I wanted to turkey hunt.  All it took was twenty years of coercion and a healthy dose of winter unemployment and I was hooked.  There have been plenty of memories made over the past 5 seasons with the Old Man, but looking back, it’s funny how most of them don’t actually include seeing turkeys.

Like the time we set up on a gobbler in Jones County next to an outdoor grill in a tented gazebo.  It almost worked.   I was quite comfortable in my folding chair and boots in the sand.  Or another time where we had a grandmother and her grandkid on a 4-wheeler race down the edge of the field to get a closer look at our tom decoy.  I remember thinking, “Oh boy, this could be ugly…“ as Old Man stood up to welcome our unwanted guests.  I urged him to be nice, and not use any words like, “stupid…”
  


  “We are turkey hunting in this field, did you not see my truck parked down the road?”            The Old Man said.
    The grandmother snapped back, “Well, we ride in this field all the time, our land is right across the road, been in my family for three generations.” 
             “That may be, but this is not your property and I have written permission to hunt here.” He replied. 
        “Well, you just stay on your property and I’ll stay on mine. And if I ever see you on my  property, I’m calling the sheriff.”

She sped off leaving a cloud of dirt and dust as the grandchild bobbled up and down between the handle bars.   I remember being left with the impression,  “Well, that was a very adult conversation and quite the example for her young passenger on how to resolve misunderstandings. They must be lovely neighbors.”    At least our decoy worked…



Or how on our drives home, the Old Man would often let his eyes wander to empty fields alongside the road.
“That field there, used to be full of turkeys.” He would say.
My brother and I riding as passengers would notice the opposite and equal reaction of the steering wheel. The further the Old Man looked left over his shoulder, the further we drifted right. 
“Whoa, whoa whoa…” My brother interrupted. 
     “What? You see turkeys”  The Old Man looked right and the steering wheel corrected left. 
“We were headed right for that ditch!”
“Oh, We’re fine… and that field over there,” the Old Man would continue, “I always see turkeys in there”
 My brother looked back at me and braced himself against the door handle.  I made sure my seat belt was buckled.

I woke up this morning in NW Montana and absent on opening day.  Surprisingly enough, I received  a text and a picture at 6 o’ clock in the morning from the Old Man of a dead turkey.   When did my dad learn how to text?   And take pictures?  I hope it wasn’t from a smartphone.  This could be dangerous.  Parents these days and their technology....   

The 5 Essential Guide Gear Items

The 5 Essential Guide Gear Items

The most successful guides are the ones who are the most self-reliant.  If there is a possibility for an “Oh @W#%” moment, there is a plan, and more importantly, a box that contains all the items and tools necessary to overcome that obstacle.   Those boxes are built from about 20% foresight and 80% first hand experience of being unprepared, stuck on the water and looking like an idiot.  But a for guide, sometimes the most epic days of fishing or hunting start and end with the smallest of obstacles.  Obstacles that most people take for granted, such as waking up on time or bathing.   Most guides have little boxes for those situations too.  Here‘s what I put in mine.


1. A Reliable Alarm Clock
Cell phones and water don’t mix, no matter how much rice you cover it in.  If your day on the water, or in the field, with a guide starts at 8 a.m., your guide starts his day at 5 a.m. prepping lunches, packing coolers, and doing last minute checks on water, weather and gear.  Personally, I’m a snoozer.  I know I have three 5 minute snoozes before my alarm clock decides, “That’s it. If you’re still asleep, I’m not gonna waste my time and try to wake you up.”  That’s where a cell phone hidden under the bed, or still stuffed in a pant pocket comes in handy. Redundancy.  It works.  It’s the same principle behind nuclear launch codes.

2. Good Coffee
The real reason your guide has so much enthusiasm so early in the morning.   I don’t always have the luxury of electricity, or even a drive-thru coffee shop, so I pack accordingly.  Even in the most dire situations, I’m prepared with a jet boil, hand cranked bean grinder, a press and some good beans.       


3. First Aid Kit 
Selfishly, my first aid kit is loaded because I use it more on myself than others in emergency situations.  Most kits are pretty basic; Gauze, Band-Aids, Triple Antibiotic Cream, etc,.  Here are a few custom additions I always add.

 Nyquil: Not only does it work for the tough cold symptoms of Winter Olympians, it makes a great sleep aid without inducing a hangover.
  
Tums: Guide diets aren’t the always based on the healthiest of options, but more so, the one requiring the least amount of effort.  I once ate pizza for every meal for 48 hours.  The Tums helped.  Plus, I prefer my calcium in pastey, chalk form.

Advil/Ibprofen:  Good old vitamin A.  Always be prepared for a case of the I-B-Brokens. 


4. Flip Flops
 AKA flops, Lord Boards, Jesus Sandals, Slappies, call them whatever you’d like, but spending weeks or months in boots and wading sandals does funny things to the bottom of your feet.   You can always tell how many days a guide has been on the water, based on the pruney, morgue-like appearance of his feet.  At the end of a day, it's nice to put on a pair of dry flops to air out your feet.

5.  Hygiene Kit
There are certain inherit, occupational hygiene hazards of spending days upon days rowing down a river or hiking up and down hills chasing birds.  These include long hair, unkempt facial hair, itchy rear end and sweat stained hats, just to name a few.  Of course, a good hot shower will solve most of these symptoms.  But not all guides have access to this when they are living out of the back of their truck on the Missouri, or on a week long backcountry trip.  Here are a few simple cover-ups and cures for maintaining, or giving the illusion of,  a professional appearance.

Listerine:  The Pine-Sol of oral hygiene.  Whether you actually cleaned your teeth or not, at least it smells like you did.

Foot Powder: There’s nothing like realizing that weird smell in the room is actually emanating  from your feet.  Thank you, Dr. Scholls.

Moist Towelettes:  They do a great job of cleaning the lenses of your sunglasses and cleaning up after a shore lunch,  which is the professional reason a guide carries so many of them.  But in a pinch, they save you from the embarrassment of coming back to the boat or truck without a sock, or missing half of a sleeve.

Dr. Bronners:  One of the telltale signs of a freshly showered individual is wet hair.   Wet hair requires water.  Fortunately, fishing guides spend most of their day floating on this substance.  A good head dunk at the boat ramp, or a cupful of cooler water, and a little soap, go a long way fifteen minutes before you clients show up.  Plus, Dr. Bonners is a 100% biodegradable soap.

Deodorant:  Usually the final step in the daily ritual of a shower.  The beauty of this step, if done correctly, is that it implies that you didn’t actually sleep in the back of your truck next to your dog.  

A Final Note:

A much more experienced guide than myself once told me, “Just the like Wizard of Oz, if you pull away the curtain,  you'll find that there are a lot of levers and pulleys at work inside a guide’s head."

I've only failed the Drivers Test Once..

I remember a conversation with a fellow graduate student a few years ago regarding our plans after our impending graduation - The whole, "Oh s@#$, I won't be allowed in school anymore, what am I going to do with the rest my life? I need a plan!" situation.  My response was, "I don't have one, I have no clue where I'm going to be in 5 years, but I can't wait to find out."   Five years later, I've changed my residency 3 times, taken the written driver's test 4 times (I only failed once) and seen 38 states. --I reluctantly count Kansas because I had to there stop for gas--  It has been a journey to say the least, and an unexpected one at that.  And all because of a shotgun and a fly rod.  This winter finds me guiding in Idaho, with below freezing temperatures, two dogs, and a girlfriend who asked for a new pair of waders for Christmas.


I started Migrant Water three winters ago, to provide my hunters with a way to read about their day in the field, look at pictures, and to promote the outdoors in general.  Honestly, I assumed nobody ever read the thing.  But after the encouragement from a fellow guide at Wintergreen, I submitted some of my writing to the magazine Wildlife in North Carolina.

   
  This fall I saw my first article published, More Than a Brand, based on a post I had done on Migrant Waters.  Two months later, another article was published, A Different Look at First Light, based on my experiences of hunting wood ducks out of a kayak.  And this coming spring, I'll have another article on the comical experiences of turkey hunting with the Old Man.  So a lot of my time for writing has shifted.  Apparently writing is a lot harder than typing and pressing "Publish" on a blog.  
   So if  you haven't got your subscription to Wildlife in North Carolina, please do.  The illustrations accompanying my articles have been surperb and the folks there have been very kind to me.  Hopefully, I will have more material in print  throughout this year.

In other non-writing news, after a two week block of guiding for Flying B Ranch in Kamiah(kam-e-i), Idaho, I thought it would be a great idea to furnish our new home with a fostered shorthair puppy from their outstanding kennels. Her name is Gem, and I was told, "Bring her home for a bit, give her some people time, socialize her. Good hunting dogs, need good people time. " So I am proud to announce that under our care in the last month and a half, she has peed in 3 different peoples' houses(not including our own), on one couch(not our own) and on numerous spots on the rug(our own).   She has already learned several "tricks", such as "lets grab a sock and run outside in the snow before anybody notices" I did, two days later when it was standing upright and frozen solid.  And "The do you mind if I chew on you while to try to sleep game?" My 3yr old Brittany's favorite.  Not to forget, my personal favorite because it's always a surprise, "Guess what I just ate off the floor? You'll have to pry my mouth open to find out."  Who knew teaching tricks to a new puppy would be so easy.  

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned.

   

Thank You

Throughout the season,  I’m often asked, “So… how did you get into to guiding?”  The short version, I had an uncle who sort of laid the path before me -along with the help of two other guides, who I am forever in debt to for their encouragement.
So as this part of my season ends, I can’t say how fortunate I feel to eke out a living for the past five years sharing my passion for being outdoors.   It wouldn’t be possible without the people I am privileged to hunt and fish with.  So Thank You.  And to steal some words from Havilah Babcock.. the finest legacy a man could leave his grandson is a good gun and a good bird dog… 
I was lucky enough to have two.

The dogs are taking the summer off.  They've earned it.

Pictures are worth a thousand words

Pictures are worth a thousand words....

With a busy bird season, it has been hard to sit down and collect my thoughts. I am often asked, “Well... What do you do on the days your not guiding?” - Honestly, I try not to do anything at all. Most my guide days start at 6 a.m and bookend at 6 p.m with a car ride home in the fading light. But in the hours in between, hopefully my camera has captured the words that have seemed to escape my fingers. In the end, it’s hard not to feel good about having a job that let’s you take your dogs to work everyday.  Oh.. and the view from my office isn't that bad either...

 

Hit or Miss

I’ve missed more wood ducks this year than I’d care to admit. I’m not one to keep a tally, or try to quantify a successful hunting experience based on the statistics of my shooting. But when you miss shots on ducks right on top of you, it hurts. And the experience tends to stick you with. It can haunt you. Missing close shots like that is really kind of embarrassing when you think about it. Two shots from my over/under probably puts out how many pellets? 75? Maybe 100? And I couldn’t put one of those on target at 10-20 yards? Its got to be the gun’s fault with those kind of figures. Or better yet, wrong chokes or wrong load. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, in the face of numbers like that. Mind-boggling. I couldn’t put one out of a hundred pellets on targert?!?! One out of a hundred…nope.

My brother is actually a pretty good shot. He claims that your pattern comes out as a cone and the key to successful shooting is to put the leading edge of that cone on your target, so as the bird continues to fly, the full pattern follows the target on its flight path. Makes sense, I guess, if you’re into science and mechanical physics. But after I saw every bird he shot one afternoon expel a spherically uniform poof of feathers, I politely told him, “Well, however your using your “cone“, you can clean all the birds next time, because I’m tired of hamburger.”

Regardless of my shooting, wood duck hunting is hard. And even harder to get them right on top of you. But once you’ve had squealing woodies coming in fast, feet down, and wings cupped, you’ll hold back on the treeline passing shots. Still, at best, it is hit or miss. But decoys do work. And if you know how to use a wood duck call, it helps too.

 

Bartering Chips

I’m not so sure that my dog, Gus, doesn’t save a few birds as bartering chips at the end of the hunt. Maybe he gets wind of a couple birds right off the bat, and thinks to himself “ I’ll save those guys for the end of the trip, so I don’t have to go back in the truck.” But maybe that’s asking a lot. Maybe that “Ting, ting.. Ting..” sound that comes from the bell around his collar is just echoing that one marble rattling around in his head going, “Birds.. Birds, Birds…” Either way, I can always count on a few points from Gus on the way back to the car.

I warned my hunter, Ron, as his friends started towards the edge of the field.

“If Gus thinks we’re headed home, he’ll false point all the way back to truck. He knows how this works. If he’s on point, we have to come to him.”

Tim, Max and Bob were already laughing about the morning’s hunt, recounting the birds that somehow dodged 8 rounds of lead and escaped unharmed, as well as the ones that didn‘t. Gus locked up on a clump of reeds.

A large part of guiding with dogs is learning how to read their behavior, their quirks, and even their faults. Gus gets psyched out by mice hiding under rotted logs. And Dixie likes to parade her down birds in front of each hunter, then drop it a few steps away instead of retrieving it to hand, as if to say, “Let me make it clear: This is my bird. I did all the work. You come pick it up.” At almost 11-years-old, she’s too old and stubborn to argue with.

You learn how to read each point. The slight tilt of the head can indicate how close a bird is. A nose to the wind can tell you if a bird is running. A slow creep into a point more than likely implies, more than one bird. Little variations of behavior that allow you to know your dog. But most of the time, it’s all in the eyes.

Gus’ eyes were fixed in a frozen stare.

“Alright, you ready Ron? We have one last bird in here.” I said.

Ron’s Browning A-5 20 ga. cycled as the bird fell on his first shot.

“Is that an original or re-issue?” I asked.

Ron smiled, “Original.”

 

A Slow Walk Back To The Truck

The field in front of us was filled with covey calls, when a lonesome Bobwhite lit through the tall pines and landed 50 yards ahead of us.

I warned Johnny Ferguson and his hunting partner.

“Heads up, guys. We got birds wanting to covey-up just ahead.”

Dixie had been working close and tracking these birds for the past 30 minutes, and the errant bird gave us a goal line on our slow walk back. A few steps later, she froze next to a patch of Sweet Gum saplings and suddenly we were right in the middle of it.

“Alright, be ready for more than one bird to get up” I cautioned.

Johnny’s first step towards Dixie sent a bird sailing towards safety, weaving through the trees. The bird fell on his second shot. Another bird jumped. Johnny anxiously searched his pockets for his next two shells and quickly reloaded his top barrel. Suddenly, a chain reaction of nervousness set bird after bird into the air and a single shot rang out as the birds scattered unscathed.

Dixie still sat frozen.

“We still got more birds in here .” I said.

Johnny laughed, “Well, I’m out of shells.”

In just under 4 hours of hunting, we had already moved close to 50 birds. And the fact of the matter is this: The busier Wintergreen is, the better the hunting is for everybody.

I offered a couple of 20 ga. re-loads from my pockets and we set up on the final bird. The reluctant quail fell 10ft from his panicked covey mate who seemed so anxious to fly.

With singles scattered all the way back to truck, and the wind in the dog’s favor, we couldn’t have asked for a better way to ending the morning.

　

　



　

Gobble, Gobble... Bang!..(Wait.. for it..) Bang!

Two gnarly-looking, blue-ish heads covered in bright bulbous red bumps poked out of the treeline overlooking a field of waist-high wheat. The Old Man and I had been hunting these turkeys for the past four days. Most likely brothers, these two gobblers had been hen-ed up along the thick creek bottom below and wouldn’t budge. Finally hen-less, the scout stepped out into the open 30 yards away and the strutter followed.




“Ok, you take the one on the right and I’ll the one on the left.” the Old Man whispered.
“Ok” I whispered back.
“Ready?”
“Yeah”

The Old Man started to count, “One.. Tw..… “

“Wait!…” I interrupted.,“I don’t have a shot.”.
The strutter momentarily ducked his head behind a clump of grass, then reappeared.
“Ok, got it.” I whispered.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, One… Two…Thr..( BANG!!)


The head and neck of my gobbler disappeared behind the grass and the built up tension and adrenalin gave way to a sudden rush of endorphins. As I lifted my cheek from the stock of my shotgun, I realized I didn’t hear a second gun shot. Something wasn‘t right. My Dad’s gobbler startled and flushed six feet in the air towards the woods. Why didn’t he shoot? I looked over at the Old Man.

“!@##$ IT, SON!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!???” he yelled.

I shrugged my shoulders. Honestly, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. I felt pretty good. I was under the impression that I just shot a turkey. But then, the reality of the situation snapped into focus and put a pit in my stomach.

“You can’t count to three?! You have a @#$#-ing college degree, and you can’t count to @#$%-ing three?” he continued to yell.

I had messed up the Old Man’s count and blown his chance at the second gobbler. We had been waiting and hoping for this situation for the past week. And I literally jumped the gun. We had been over the Old Man’s count system numerous times. I was even reminded 15 minutes before the gobblers showed up.

“One.. Two.. Three, then shoot where Four is supposed to be, that way you have time to whisper wait if you lose your shot.” he explained.
So in my defense; it's actually a “on four” count--not a one, two, three, shoot count--, I had plenty of time to say "wait",  and it goes against everything you learned growing up about doing things as the same time.

“Will you help me lift this?”
“Yeah”
“Ok, on three.. One.. Two..Thhrree.” (The lifting happens on three)

“Wanna race?”
“Ok… Ready.. Set..Go!” (you break on Go!)

"Paper, Rock, Scissors?"
"Yeah..one.. two..three. (you throw on three)

“Ok, let’s jump on three..”
Do you know what happens to the person who waits after three?
They don’t jump.

　
So all the lifting,running,jumping, banging, etc.. happens as soon as you hear three.

The “on four” system is like giving someone a telephone number in the wrong rhythm.
“52-396-9-4”
“What? Did you just give me a social security number? Say that again.”
It’s just confusing.

So pumped up full of adrenalin, it was instinct to shoot “on three”. But the Old Man had reason to be pissed. The same situation happened to him the previous week in South Carolina with another hunter which ended in a blown shot at a double.  I stood up to take the next round of profanity.

“wa. wa.. Wait.” the Old Man interrupted.

In the 5 seconds in between my shot and the subsequent cursing, the second gobbler settled down and stepped back into the open. Probably the result of months of constant fighting and pent-up aggression, the sub-dominant bird moved quickly towards the dead strutter. He paused and craned his neck towards the dead bird giving the impression of, “It’s about time.. I’m gonna come over there and finally whoop up on your…”, but before he could make his move, the Old Man leveled his gun, bang!

The second gobbler flopped in the grass and the Old Man looked back at me. “@#%$#!...You’re the luckiest !@#$%#% alive.  Your  @#$ would have been walking home, if I didn’t get a shot at that bird.” I think the Old Man's natural ability to cuss, comes from a mixture of growing up under an old Southern mother who could cuss up a storm just as well as she could cook, and watching the HBO series Deadwood.  My brother-in-law's father is the only other person I've heard speak so eloquently.
 We both got up to check our birds.

Cookie cutter longbeards. One inch spurs, 10 inch beards.

The family’s first father/son double. After a few fist pounds and sighs of relief, the Old Man’s mood relaxed and I started to pick up my gear.

“Wait a sec..I’m not ready to go yet. I just want to sit here and bask in this glory.” he said.
“And you know, if I didn‘t get a shot at this bird, I probably had it coming. I can‘t count how many times I‘ve shot a gobbler out from underneath your brother. ” he added.

The Signs of a New Season

On my last trip to Wintergreen, my eyes scoured the green fields of winter wheat off the highway. It doesn’t seem long ago that the rust colored browns and fluffed whites of cotton littered the country-side like an exploded bag of popcorn-- the closest thing to snow I’ve seen this season. Carefully checking my speedometer to avoid the authoritative question, “Is there a reason why you were speeding?” and the painfully apparent answer, “ I was being stupid, officer…” I counted four different flocks of turkeys on my morning commute.   

And as my hunter and I chased down our last pair of singles, a wing feather from an old gobbler stuck out from the dead pine needles. Wintergreen has a couple different flocks of turkeys that lurk on the outskirts of the fields during bird season. Wing feathers and footprints aren’t uncommon, but rarely does a hunter see one. Like cryptozoological creatures, they stay hidden in the unexplored corners of the woods. A rumor among the clubhouse surfaced that a hunter’s dog flash pointed a bush only to have a Rodan-sized bird explode from cover.

My dog’s last point produced the usual-sized quail. But with an old worn wing feather tucked in my vest, I couldn’t help but look forward to hunting these fields without blaze orange.



….April 14th

Just like Hunting Woodcock

A pair of quail dodged a volley of gunfire and escaped to the thick, marsh-like bay at the edge of the field.

“Alright, I got ‘em marked.” I said.

Most hunters would look at that kind of cover, and leave it to the birds. But I knew Johnny Ferguson likes to hunt woodcock, so he would be up for the challenge. His partner David Upchurch, probably wasn’t as sure.

Even with the light of day, these kind of woods take on a characteristic from an Evil Dead horror film. Dense networks of twisted vines and briars grab at your arms, legs and torso and try to steal whatever loose items you might be wearing, such as a hat or a pair of glasses. They scrape at your knuckles, face or any other exposed skin.   

And the ground can be just as deceitful, covering stump holes with dead leaves or soft mud that rob you of sure footing. Often times, just as you are negotiating the next set of obstacles, head down and one knee bent on the ground, a bird flushes leaving only the sound of wing beats. At best, the bird only presents itself for a split second before it disappears deeper into the dense cover. And if you’re lucky, you get one shot. Prepared for it or not. A style of hunting more typical of grouse or woodcock, than Bobwhite quail. Quick and unforgiving. But if you manage to knock down a bird, it’s a shot that stays imprinted on your memory. Snap shooting at its best. I, for one, love it.

As we walked up on Gus’s point, Johnny found himself tangled in vines. And the briars grabbed my hands and shook my camera as I knelt down. On cue, the bird flushed and disappeared. None of us got a clear shot.


The next point gave us enough time and room to position ourselves before the bird unexpectedly flushed. Johnny and David both fired with a perfect sense of timing as a plume of feathers framed the bird between a window of two small pines. A second later, the bird would have been gone.

Johnny laughed. “This is just like hunting woodcock.”

Away from the familiar fields, I couldn't help but agree.

Behind Every Good Hunt is A Dog

When Dixie came nose to nose with two other Brittanies in the field, she cocked her head to the side giving the appearance of saying, “I don’t think I know you, so you better get out of my face.”  A simple, “Come on...” broke the stand off and reminded everybody that we were supposed to be hunting.  After a quick dozen of downed birds, Ryan Fulcher and I had met up with his hunting partners in the adjacent field with fellow guide, Ray Murphy, and his Brittanies.


“Is this your dog?” Ray asked as we headed towards the front corner of the field.
“I  inherited her from my uncle.” I answered.
“Really?  I sort of fell out of hunting for a while, so I booked a hunt with your uncle years ago on a whim.  I enjoyed the dog work so much that by the time I came home I had three new Brittany puppies.” He said.

As his liver and white Brittany went on point, Dixie and her brace mate respectfully backed.
Three Brittanies frozen in the tall broom grass. Struck by the scene,  Ray pulled out a camera.
“And...as a matter of fact, Dixie was the dog that got me back into hunting.” He continued.

I understood that statement all too well.  I grew up hunting with my uncle’s dogs at Wintergreen.  And if it weren’t for Dixie, neither one of us would have been walking the fields that day.   But my uncle's dogs aren’t perfect.  There are times when they bump birds, ignore commands, and rarely do they retrieve a bird to hand.  But I have never questioned their desire and drive to find birds.  And as hard as I’ve seen them hunt for me,  I’ll gladly  bend down to pick up a retrieved bird.  For better or worse, we are a team. 
It is a partnership tattooed in the evening sky during hunting season.  Each night, Orion the hunter and his dog Sirius silently stalk the eastern horizon in an eternal pursuit of cosmic fish and fur.   A ritual written in the stars and inherent to our human history.   A reminder that there is a certain happiness found in the bond formed from hunting with your dog.

Guns that say more than just a brand

One of my favorite things about taking hunters out is the guns. I am always excited to see what kind of gun my hunters pull from their cases. That being said, I’m not a gun buff. My working knowledge of shotguns is about the same as my knowledge of guitars; I know the classics, how to properly pronounce most brands, proper maintenance and cleaning, and the difference between a Stratocaster and Telecaster. And like shotguns, I can get around half way decent on a guitar. But ask me the specifics on why single coil pick-ups sound different than hum-buckers, and you’ll get a shoulder shrug and a blank face.

A Browning A-5 "Humpback"- Light 12 GA

Last season, I watched an “old-timer” pull out an original Browning A-5, Sweet Sixteen, “Humpback”. It is a horrendously awkward-looking gun. Compared to the sleek and smooth designs of modern Benelli’s, the A-5 with its straight edges and sharp corners looks like it was designed by a Kindergartner with a crayon. But it holds its place in history as the first semi- automatic shotgun. And immortalized in the writings and paintings of the “good old days” of hunting. My hunter went on to tell me that he had hunted with this gun since he was 12-years-old. And that it was passed down to him from an uncle who fought in World War I. He recounted stories of Geese before the days of steel shot, and shooting over countless coveys of wild Quail in the evenings after school. As he loaded the remaining shells in his hand, I realized I was looking a gun with more hunting experience than the both of us combined. “Still cycles 2 ¾ loads like a charm.” he added.

Johnny Ferguson shoulders his Huglu .410 side-by-side

So for me, there are certain guns and gauges that hold a special place in hunting. And I always look forward to the chance to see Johnny Ferguson hunt with his Huglu .410 side-by-side. Though Huglu is a relatively new manufacturer, the .410 has a long history and tradition in hunting.

For many hunters, it is the first gun they are allowed to carry in the field, but after a season or two, outgrown and left in its case. But the .410 holds a certain child-like nostalgia when you carry it as an adult. Its small, toy-like build reminds you of all the excitement you felt as a kid on your first hunts.

Though it can be a difficult gauge to shoot successfully, you can’t help but think, “What a nice little gun,” as you feel the weight of the still warm bird balanced against your gun.


Johnny is the only one of my hunters that shoots this gauge. And he does it well. On our most recent hunting trip together, I watched him and his hunting partner Jim, knock down bird after bird, only allowing three to escape unscathed

The type of gun a hunter carries can say a lot. The reasons for a certain gauge and gun can be just as varied as the hunters’ themselves. I’ve shot the same 20 gauge over/under for most of my life. And I doubt I’ll shoot another one. For me, it just feels good. I shot my first Grouse with that gun. My first Woodcock. My first double on Quail. It has no fancy embroidering on the receiver. No elegant etchings. The wood is weathered and worn from exposure and heavy use. The stock is riddled with scars from thick briar patches. And cured from the resulting blood and sweat of hard hunting. But it has a history. A character. And it was handed down to me from an Uncle.

Shout Out To SportDog™

Last weekend, my SportDog Beeper 400 started emitting crackles, squeeks, sometimes a beep, but more often than not, silence. I tried running three new batteries through it. Same result. I rummaged through all my product information- tucked away in two or three different locations- and found their warranty/customer service line.

Customer service: Do you have your warranty or receipt?

Me: No, but I have this yellow piece of paper that says to call this number?

Customer service: How long have you had your Beeper 400?

Me: Maybe a year? Got last fall/winter?

Customer service: Ok, can you find a serial number on your beeper?

Me: Hmm.. It is worn off, DS is all I got.

Customer service: Ok, why don’t you just give me your contact information, and we’ll send you a new one. Just send the old one back, in our pre-paid postage box, and this is fulfill your warranty. Your order should arrive sometime this week.


Done and done.