
Ruark worked in front of me like a dog that had been chasing pheasants longer than he
has- he quartered only steps ahead, following bird trails blind to me. His tail was
wagging fiercely as we weaved through the corn stubble.
Suddenly, he stops all together-everything but his tail- and is locked on the stalks
ahead of him. He only hesitates for a split second, almost in a pointing fashion, before
he rushes forward and I know that he has eyes on birds.
Two roosters explode under the spaniel’s feet; they take to the air in a flush of feathers,
cackling in distaste to their discovery. I already had my gun shouldered, and I turned
to follow the birds’ escape.
BANG!
Miss.
BANG!
Miss. Again.
I open the shotgun and dispense of the spent shells, the barrels smoking with my temper as I watch two more roosters coast over the next shelter belt. I can’t even bring myself to make eye contact with my bird dog as I shove the empty shells into the pockets of my vacant bird vest. He makes a show of running a couple a yards in the direction of the flush and sniffing the ground as if he’s searching for a downed bird.
“There are more birds to be had.” He says, returning to my side with a reassuring wag
of his tail. “You’ll get another shot.”
“How many more do I have at this rate?” I ask myself as I reload.
My pockets are full of spent shells that clatter in my vest, reminding me with every step of the misses I have accumulated over the last couple hours. I prefer to hold onto them for some reason; like I’m embarrassed to leave them behind as signs to other hunters: "I missed here. And here. And over there. Twice.”
Not that they would have any way of knowing the hits and misses of my hunt anyway,
but the witness of my bird dog is enough. Bird hunters across all platforms will agree-
there are few things as humbling as the look your dog gives you when you miss the
perfectly executed flush.
My imperfections are forgotten quickly by Ruark as we start again on the push. He resumes his quartering patterns and his tail beats to the same rhythm. I am grateful for his forgiving nature and the character of dogs in that they never hold your pitfalls against you. I wish I could practice that same for myself. But we keep pushing- Ruark following the birds and me reflecting on the lesson at hand.
In the narrative of the non-hunter, it is portrayed that I, the barbarian, backed by my
guns and the natural abilities of my canine counterpart, have, of course, an absolute
advantage to that of the game I pursue. It is simply unfair, and downright unfathomable why I would continue to partake in such an unnecessary past time and call it primal.
But I ask this: if all the above is true, that I am so equipped for success and nothing but
hits and kills and punched tags, why is it that I cannot hit a single bird today? Hunting, in all its forms, is not a sport for those looking to partake in a “win or lose”, “all or nothing” type excursion.
Ask any other hunter out there, and I guarantee that they will agree. You have to
exercise a great deal of modesty to be a hunter. Most days will be the text book
“unsuccessful”- your sits will produce nothing but empty snack bags and no signs of
anything but tweety birds and squirrels masking as approaching deer. Your dog that you've worked tirelessly with the entire off season will magically forget all his
commands soon as you bring him to the field to perform. You’ll enter the corn stubble
behind him the next day, his nose work and execution absolutely seamless, only for
your pull to be too far back and the birds too far gone. It is simply the way of the game.
But what most don’t understand, is that regardless of the outcome, you come home
with something equally as valuable- those hours upon hours spent with “nothing to
show for it” has produced miles on your boots not to be had had you decided to forgo
the outing at the first sign of…well, nothing at all. Your frustrations and embarrassment in failed execution with your dog has produced a new level of bonding; a deeper understanding of how your partnership works as an integral part of your
many seasons to be spent together. And, though your pockets are now the graveyard to empty shells and lost roosters, your dog has had the chance to build on his own instincts, and has gained confidence not only in himself, but in the fact that there are more days ahead just like this one, and that is enough for him.
Not everyone will understand or accept the hits and misses- of hunts or anything else- but there is plenty to be learned from both; should we not come to expect either or. You will have another shot, just as I will, long as you keep pushing the stubble and keep your eyes on the shelter belt ahead, and your value on something greater than yourself. Keep your nose to the ground and your gun shouldered when the bird flushes. The rest will fall into place.
“There is no score worth keeping…all we should ever count is hours; never birds, nor
length of horn or hits or misses. If we want to do something where we can’t lose, then
we must accept the proposition that we cannot win. We are not involved in a contest,
but a very simple and pure journey that promises each day will each day out will be
different, unrepeatable, unrecapturable.” - Gene Hill, A Hunter’s Fireside Book