CharBroiled
Active member
It all started when I was 11 years old in the fall of 1988.
My parents wouldn't allow me to take my Hunter's Safety course as a fifth grader, when you could take it without having a parent present. Not a big deal to me, I enrolled in the class during the fall in sixth grade and complete the course from the greatest Hunter's Safety instructor to ever teach the class, Jim Unruh.
Being 11, I was only allowed to walk along, without a gun, with the big group we hunted with during the Opening Weekend in Nov. of '88. The following Friday afternoon, I finally got to experience my first hunt carrying a loaded gun. From the moment I saw two roosters flying by me with the setting sun at my back, almost glowing bright orange-red against the purple sky, the hunting bug had me deeply hooked. (For the record, I missed the shot.)
It's not about the killing. It's about everything else.
As I've gotten older, I truly appreciate everything which goes into the whole hunting experience. It's about the rekindling of old friendships from near and far as groups come together the day before, some of whom don't get together outside of the hunt. It's also about the making of new friends, people whom you might not ever be introduced to, because they share the same passion for the sport as you. It's the retelling of tales, spinning of yarns, the busting of each other's chops from adventures with dubious endings. Some of the stories get retold from year to year; the laughs are heartier even though the story ends the same.
It's about the nod and a friendly wave to those people who are traveling up on I-135, pickups loaded with dog boxes, a hint of blaze orange in the window. Hunters get it and with the simplest of gestures, respect is conveyed and the underlying "good luck, stay safe."
There is nothing like watching a dog working in front of you, quartering back and forth, suddenly snapping perfectly rigid. The adrenaline rush begins as you move into position, with the knowledge this pooch sees or smells something you can't, culminating in a burst of feathers, buzzing wings and cackles, as the smell of spent gunpowder soon hangs in the air.
It's about watching honor pointing dogs, lock up because another dog is on point thanks to the proper training, instinct and possibly an unspoken canine agreement. The dogs with which we hunt seem to light up after their work has been rewarded when a pheasant goes into the game bag. I've even seen a dog look over its shoulder at an owner who missed a rooster, fixing him with a look of disbelief and a glare of frustration.
It's about standing in the Kansas countryside, enjoying places in the world which are only affected by farming, nature and the passage of time.
Our Opening Day will be another special treat, as for the second time in consecutive years; my hunting partner's father-in-law will join us after yet another surgery to "re-plumb him" using his words. See, he has both the colostomy and urostomy bag so he's a bit limited in his ability to walk all day, even after the latest surgery. He did join us a couple of times last year, walking along one draw, smiling as the hunt took him back to younger days, enjoying the dog work, the new friends and the pursuit of our quarry. I suspect he'll try to walk, but he's content to block, as we drive birds towards him. Last year he finally knocked a rooster down, exclaiming with mirth, "It's good to know, I can still shoot a little."
There is nothing like pheasant hunting in Kansas. From the first cup of coffee in the darkness while the rest of the world sleeps to the hot, hearty supper served after a day afield, everything seems magical, year in and year out.
It's better than Christmas.
My parents wouldn't allow me to take my Hunter's Safety course as a fifth grader, when you could take it without having a parent present. Not a big deal to me, I enrolled in the class during the fall in sixth grade and complete the course from the greatest Hunter's Safety instructor to ever teach the class, Jim Unruh.
Being 11, I was only allowed to walk along, without a gun, with the big group we hunted with during the Opening Weekend in Nov. of '88. The following Friday afternoon, I finally got to experience my first hunt carrying a loaded gun. From the moment I saw two roosters flying by me with the setting sun at my back, almost glowing bright orange-red against the purple sky, the hunting bug had me deeply hooked. (For the record, I missed the shot.)
It's not about the killing. It's about everything else.
As I've gotten older, I truly appreciate everything which goes into the whole hunting experience. It's about the rekindling of old friendships from near and far as groups come together the day before, some of whom don't get together outside of the hunt. It's also about the making of new friends, people whom you might not ever be introduced to, because they share the same passion for the sport as you. It's the retelling of tales, spinning of yarns, the busting of each other's chops from adventures with dubious endings. Some of the stories get retold from year to year; the laughs are heartier even though the story ends the same.
It's about the nod and a friendly wave to those people who are traveling up on I-135, pickups loaded with dog boxes, a hint of blaze orange in the window. Hunters get it and with the simplest of gestures, respect is conveyed and the underlying "good luck, stay safe."
There is nothing like watching a dog working in front of you, quartering back and forth, suddenly snapping perfectly rigid. The adrenaline rush begins as you move into position, with the knowledge this pooch sees or smells something you can't, culminating in a burst of feathers, buzzing wings and cackles, as the smell of spent gunpowder soon hangs in the air.
It's about watching honor pointing dogs, lock up because another dog is on point thanks to the proper training, instinct and possibly an unspoken canine agreement. The dogs with which we hunt seem to light up after their work has been rewarded when a pheasant goes into the game bag. I've even seen a dog look over its shoulder at an owner who missed a rooster, fixing him with a look of disbelief and a glare of frustration.
It's about standing in the Kansas countryside, enjoying places in the world which are only affected by farming, nature and the passage of time.
Our Opening Day will be another special treat, as for the second time in consecutive years; my hunting partner's father-in-law will join us after yet another surgery to "re-plumb him" using his words. See, he has both the colostomy and urostomy bag so he's a bit limited in his ability to walk all day, even after the latest surgery. He did join us a couple of times last year, walking along one draw, smiling as the hunt took him back to younger days, enjoying the dog work, the new friends and the pursuit of our quarry. I suspect he'll try to walk, but he's content to block, as we drive birds towards him. Last year he finally knocked a rooster down, exclaiming with mirth, "It's good to know, I can still shoot a little."
There is nothing like pheasant hunting in Kansas. From the first cup of coffee in the darkness while the rest of the world sleeps to the hot, hearty supper served after a day afield, everything seems magical, year in and year out.
It's better than Christmas.
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, for now that would be too much to keep up with since the twins are still "young".
