CharBroiled
Active member
For me, the memory is still as fresh as it was some 33 years ago.
It was a cheerful Friday afternoon as the third weekend in November kicked off in 1988. I don’t remember the day, I don’t remember school, I just remember being home at 3:30 when I heard the phone ring. Mom called to me and told me Dad was on the phone.
“Hey, Rust, what are you doing?”
“I just got home from school,” I answered.
“Don wants to know if you want to go hunting?”
“Yes,” I practically screamed in answer; after all I was an excitable 12 year-old.
“Ok, I’ll be home in a bit and he’ll pick us up.”
At this point of my life, I had been allowed to walk without a gun on our Opening Weekend excursion with the group known as the “Louisiana Boys.” I get it now, I was 12 and had never pheasant hunted before. With such a large group, I’m not sure I would trust a green hunter either the first time in the field with a loaded weapon. But on this Friday, I was finally going to get my chance to bag a rooster.
I was racing through the house, trying to find whatever kinds of clothes were available for the hunt, with my goal to wear something bright so I could be seen. There wasn’t a thread of hunter orange in my wardrobe but Mom was helpful as we pieced together a functional ensemble which could do the job of safety. Dad came home and hurriedly changed as Don’s old blue Ford crunched into the rock driveway.
We walked one field, with Don giving me instructions on how to move ahead when on an edge to protect a corner. Nothing flushed but I was confident in my gun holding ability, never pointing the barrel anywhere but up. It was Grandpa’s bolt action .410, a great beginner gun, and even though it was equipped with a sling, I wasn’t about to do anything but carry the gun. Dad was waiting for us as a blocker at the end of the draw, and as we got to the end and explosion of brown with bits of white came busting from a clump of grass. I watched the group of birds zip off to the south, only to be asked why I didn’t shoot.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what they were and I don’t want to shoot anything I can’t,” I said.
I was informed it was a covey of quail which had scattered through the hedge. Mentally I took stock of what happens when a covey breaks, which can still startle you if you’re not ready.
We had time to walk one more field, with Dad blocking the end of another draw. Don went down one strip of grass and told me to walk another and wait for him to catch up as he worked the draw to the north.
Of course nothing flushed but I remember how intense I was, paying attention to every step and every rustle of grass in whatever breath of breeze there was. As I stood where I was supposed to, I surveyed the Kansas landscape. The sun was setting at my back, a bright red-orange ball with the trees seeming to reflect the light on their withered leaves. The sky was a mix of deep navy with purple clouds signaling an overnight weather change. The air was warm with the smell of deep fall.
Suddenly, two roosters flew into view. They were almost glowing red-orange, with their dark heads and white rings emblazoned in the most spectacular contrast against the purpling sky. I took a shot, my gun spitting a plume of bright yellow flame. Of course I missed, but I was still enthralled by those birds, entranced by the smell of spent gunpowder hanging in the air and I was hooked for life. We went for supper and stopped off at ALCO for some legitimate hunting gear for the next morning as we were going out again. Now I had orange gear, a vest, a hat and I was ready to continue what I didn’t know was going to be a lifelong obsession of chasing those pimp-suit wearing chickens.
Every hunt is a chance for a new adventure or the chance to make another vivid memory. I remember fondly some great shots I’ve made. On the flip side, I also remember glaring misses or missteps in the field, pitching face first into tall grass or sliding down the bank of a creek on my butt, splashing into icy, cold water. Each season brings with it anticipation and this one is no different.
I’m still hooked and hooked all the way into the depths of my very soul.
I'm always ready for the "hey, you want to go hunting," phone call.
It was a cheerful Friday afternoon as the third weekend in November kicked off in 1988. I don’t remember the day, I don’t remember school, I just remember being home at 3:30 when I heard the phone ring. Mom called to me and told me Dad was on the phone.
“Hey, Rust, what are you doing?”
“I just got home from school,” I answered.
“Don wants to know if you want to go hunting?”
“Yes,” I practically screamed in answer; after all I was an excitable 12 year-old.
“Ok, I’ll be home in a bit and he’ll pick us up.”
At this point of my life, I had been allowed to walk without a gun on our Opening Weekend excursion with the group known as the “Louisiana Boys.” I get it now, I was 12 and had never pheasant hunted before. With such a large group, I’m not sure I would trust a green hunter either the first time in the field with a loaded weapon. But on this Friday, I was finally going to get my chance to bag a rooster.
I was racing through the house, trying to find whatever kinds of clothes were available for the hunt, with my goal to wear something bright so I could be seen. There wasn’t a thread of hunter orange in my wardrobe but Mom was helpful as we pieced together a functional ensemble which could do the job of safety. Dad came home and hurriedly changed as Don’s old blue Ford crunched into the rock driveway.
We walked one field, with Don giving me instructions on how to move ahead when on an edge to protect a corner. Nothing flushed but I was confident in my gun holding ability, never pointing the barrel anywhere but up. It was Grandpa’s bolt action .410, a great beginner gun, and even though it was equipped with a sling, I wasn’t about to do anything but carry the gun. Dad was waiting for us as a blocker at the end of the draw, and as we got to the end and explosion of brown with bits of white came busting from a clump of grass. I watched the group of birds zip off to the south, only to be asked why I didn’t shoot.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what they were and I don’t want to shoot anything I can’t,” I said.
I was informed it was a covey of quail which had scattered through the hedge. Mentally I took stock of what happens when a covey breaks, which can still startle you if you’re not ready.
We had time to walk one more field, with Dad blocking the end of another draw. Don went down one strip of grass and told me to walk another and wait for him to catch up as he worked the draw to the north.
Of course nothing flushed but I remember how intense I was, paying attention to every step and every rustle of grass in whatever breath of breeze there was. As I stood where I was supposed to, I surveyed the Kansas landscape. The sun was setting at my back, a bright red-orange ball with the trees seeming to reflect the light on their withered leaves. The sky was a mix of deep navy with purple clouds signaling an overnight weather change. The air was warm with the smell of deep fall.
Suddenly, two roosters flew into view. They were almost glowing red-orange, with their dark heads and white rings emblazoned in the most spectacular contrast against the purpling sky. I took a shot, my gun spitting a plume of bright yellow flame. Of course I missed, but I was still enthralled by those birds, entranced by the smell of spent gunpowder hanging in the air and I was hooked for life. We went for supper and stopped off at ALCO for some legitimate hunting gear for the next morning as we were going out again. Now I had orange gear, a vest, a hat and I was ready to continue what I didn’t know was going to be a lifelong obsession of chasing those pimp-suit wearing chickens.
Every hunt is a chance for a new adventure or the chance to make another vivid memory. I remember fondly some great shots I’ve made. On the flip side, I also remember glaring misses or missteps in the field, pitching face first into tall grass or sliding down the bank of a creek on my butt, splashing into icy, cold water. Each season brings with it anticipation and this one is no different.
I’m still hooked and hooked all the way into the depths of my very soul.
I'm always ready for the "hey, you want to go hunting," phone call.
