Day One

The truck choked, spat, and finally roared to life in the predawn chill. It was cold, even by November standards, and the 25-year-old Toyota wasn’t shy about its distaste for running on a morning like this. Behind us rode enough gear and food for a day and half of hunting, though we planned on being gone for three. If we found the birds we were expecting, we’d be fat and happy. If not, we’d be dirtbagging it like we’d done dozens of times before. It didn’t matter. We were going hunting.

The brightening skyline indicated that we hadn’t risen early enough. My watch claimed to know when sunrise was that morning. It was wrong. Turning off of Highway 97, we trespassed through a town that had died decades before our arrival. Crumbling brick walls advertised mercantiles and feed stores, vestiges of ancient farm bills that allowed towns like this to survive. The few storefronts that still saw traffic were shuttered until their owners decided that it was worth opening their doors for the day. Ten o’clock. Eleven, maybe. At the edge of town, the grain mill was was alight. Something here was still alive.

Thirty minutes of undulating wheat and basalt brought us to the cutoff we were looking for. Pulling into the campground, it became apparent that our desire to hunt the canyon’s bottomlands was not unique. Wall tents with belching chimneys lined one end of the asphalt trail, tubular oar frames stacked like pallets next to the campers’ stable of diesel trucks. Maybe they were just fishing and would leave the birds to us. Steelhead were still running, even if the river was looking bonier than I’d seen it in years. We picked one of two remaining sites, made the last-minute decision to bring only light shot, and headed downstream. The hunting unit was new to us and, per some cursory internet research, assumed that we’d be chasing valley quail or the errant chukar if we had the legs to push up those rimrock washes that lined the canyon. They were only one ounce loads, but we’d be fine.

Molting cottonwoods broke up the endless acres of sage and thistle, veritable watchtowers for gangs of robins and songbirds too small and elusive to name. We wove through sticky, resinous thickets of Artemisia, layers of waxed canvas providing the armor needed for navigating the labyrinth. We both relish hunting without dogs, but it comes at the cost of battered bodies and fried nerves when the quail refuse to flush from such a place. Hours passed with no birds seen or heard. Maybe they just weren’t here. Maybe they wanted us to earn our keep. I could deal with that, even appreciate it. Assigning more wisdom to these birds than any person should, we decided to punish ourselves on the scree slopes above.

By one o’clock we were back in camp with empty game bags, eating fried Spam and crackers and making a game plan for the afternoon: Coors Original, a few swung flies, and smoked brats by the campfire, as one does when the birds don’t cooperate. We still had two more days of hunting, and the other members of our party wouldn’t arrive until after dark or early the next morning. No use in beating ourselves up on the first day. As the sun began to fade, a fire became more of a necessity than a novel convenience and we kept the flames knee-high to ward off the cold that had settled in the canyon. Cedar smoke burnt and irritated, but it was better than the alternative. We shared the dregs of a forgotten bottle of whiskey and curled up in the truck, dreams of hidden quail flickering with the last of the campfire.  

The birds were here, somewhere…

Photos by Ben Matthews

SUBSCBRIBE TO STRUNG MAGAZINE