The Nor’wester that blew through the valley couldn’t silence the bells. The deep clang came from Cider’s sheep bell, and it rang with the certainty of purpose. Rebel’s goat bell gave off a slightly higher timbre, and when they crossed paths it resembled a choir of bell ringers. A bass drum beat, too, but only I could hear it. It pulsed in my chest, a byproduct of a hefty second piece of pie made from ripe Cortlands and Macouns picked straight from the trees. The grouse would have to find something else to eat for supper besides apples, but that pie was a treat. At the time I couldn’t resist, but now I was paying for it.
Had someone been with me—my wife Angela, my daughter Morgan, or maybe a sampling of my hunting buddies—we might talk about the ensemble ringing through the river bottom woods. But today it was just me, a maestro enjoying the sound while catching glimpses of setters high-gradingpass-through covers to get to the productive parts.
Were I hunting with someone else, I’d remark on how good Cider was running. He had drive, and ran with more purpose than his Derby year suggested. He was an athletic dog, 45 pounds of muscle and speed with a brain packed with bird smarts. There’s always more work to do, but I was happy with how he came along. But there wasn’t anyone who’d listen to me sing his praise, so I’d have to think through that on my own. Of course I could talk to myself out loud, but that is nothing new and different.
I let ‘em run down to the bend in the river. Over the years, water levels raged with melting snowpack. Alder and poplar saplings washed away, and all that remained were enormous granite boulders. There was nothing to hunt, so I’d whistle ‘em up and redirect them toward my favorite upland section. In the back of a field was a white birch run that always held a few birds.
The setters knew the drill, and they’d rip down the two-track lined with mature oaks, maples, and pines. I followed along, thinking of the time when a blanket of snow dumped overnight. The grouse perched in the green pine boughs and there were enough of them to look like ornaments hanging on a Christmas tree. It’s easy to be nostalgic while hunting alone, but spending too much time in the past can short-circuit the present.
Rebel had a slight lead, but Cider wasn’t going to let that stand. He whipped around, bounded down the road, and blew by Angela’s dog. I’d be quick to point that out were she here, just as she’d make note if her dog got the first point. The truth was that they both were running good. They both ran hard and were competitive, but they were different and they were good.
We might also talk about how their drive made the bells clang like a halyard against a sailboat’s mast in a Nor’easter. I figured that Angela would mention the slight hitch in Rebel’s giddyup. I imagined her saying he might have cracked a nail near the rocks or that he abraded a pad. She’d have worry lines on her forehead, the kind I saw when the kids came in past curfew. She wouldn’t harp on it, but I knew she’d want to check it out. I’d give Rebel a once-over, and I’d tell her I noticed. Trust relieves many concerns.
But right now I just soaked it all in. The maple leaf canopies were a blend of burnt orange and red. The woods smelled sweet, a result of drying timothy cut for the last time. The sun’s rays weakened every day, but they were strong enough to keep the hay from rotting. I wouldn’t savor that smell until the first cut during next July’s heat and humidity, and I wondered if Mr. Beaumont would shift back to silage corn. These days folks had more horses than cattle, and I suspected he’d do more business with bales than ears.
Wait a minute: The bells had stopped. The drum beat quickened as I hustled to get up on the dogs. I’d be pleased if I found an honored point, but I’d be content if two separate points indicated the boys came to the bird on their own. They were in the jungle, and I could not see them—but hold on, there they were, right in the midst of the white trees with shaggy bark carrying leaves as yellow as fresh, sweet cream butter. Angela’s dog had the 1200 tail, while Cider’s sagged a bit. Rebel nailed the bird, and I could hear her telling me so. I played the following conversations in my head, happy all the while that both dogs were running well.
Part of me wished that someone was here to see it, to appreciate it, and maybe to kill the bird for them. The other part of me was glad I was here alone. I could enjoy the point in uninterrupted silence and etch it deep in my memory so I could relive it later on. Around here, grouse don’t much cotton to the spoken word, and since none flushed, I decided this was either a woodcock or a time when I did not talk to myself out loud.
Yet it was a grouse that flew straight away, a station 7 low house in skeet. He crumpled and fell, and I wondered how I would relay that story to my friends: Would I remark that it was the easiest shot in the book? Or would a snort of bourbon make me prone to embellishment? I’d tell the truth, for overstating a gimme now would diminish a Hail Mary later on.
There was a time when everyone bore witness to every shot, but my entourage had disbursed. We were younger then, and camp was always full of people and overflowed with dogs. Praise was lavished on solid performers; not much was said about those that struggled. Puppies were always welcomed, for they brought hope and joy with them.
Time went on. For some, work shorted out weekends just as girlfriends did when they became wives. Camp turned into one revolving door, cobbled together with some wrinkled faces meeting those that were fresh. Each week, a variety of shotguns filled the racks as new dogs loaded into kennels. Those days still are here, but more and more I hunt alone. It’s not bad, but it is different.
I placed the bird in my pouch and whistled in the dogs. This was a good stopping point to check Rebel’s leg. There were no tines, cuts, or broken nails. He was sore; he had aged like me, and I felt it too. We’d slow down a bit and go at our own pace. I’d sit him out in the next cover and let him catch his wind. Maybe I’d run the puppy in a small cover and hunt with my Nikon instead of my Parker. Or maybe we’d just sit on a log by the river and eat a sandwich. Solitude is a welcomed friend.
But too much of it is like being a monk in an abbey. Solitude doesn’t offer either the excitement or the camaraderie of friends running their dogs. No grief is given on a missed shot. There is minimal rubbernecking while driving down a road, which means fewer new covers are found. If you find a new cover alone, it’s best to wait until a buddy is around to name it. Naming a new cover alone is the epitome of misery.
At the end of the day, the smell of woodsmoke in the fireplace is as good alone as it is with friends. So is listening to the haunting cry of the loon that echoes across the water from the far side of the lake. When I let the dogs out before putting them up for the night, I saw the moon while listening to dried leaves swirl around the porch in the night air. When I stepped outside I heard the deck planks groan. I’ll replace them in the spring, I thought, and then forgot about it until next year.
Neither whining nor complaining has ever ranked high on my to-do list. But put me on a frigid beach in a coffin blind covered in dried cord grass and bladderwort, and I’ll carry on like a cold kindergartner. Isn’t it odd that if I’m on the same beach with my buddies, I don’t notice the arctic temperatures or that my frozen hands don’t work? Solo waterfowling is a challenge, but running the uplands by myself is different. I may be lonely on a bird hunt, but with my string of dogs I’m never alone.
Author Bio: Tom Keer is an award-winning writer, columnist and blogger who regularly writes for over a dozen outdoor magazines. He owns The Keer Group, a full-service, outdoor marketing company and hunts and fishes with his wife and children. Don’t hold it against him, but he’s a setter guy. Visit him at www.thekeergroup.com or at www.tomkeer.com.
