and myrtle that loomed above the cultivated fields.
Hedgerows striped the land and patches of native
grasses, berries and plants stood at the head of woods
and the juncture of fields.
Those were the places Matt and his father found
quail. The birds lived in the swamp borders and fed
out to the grain fields, coveying along the maze of
hedgerows and ditch banks.
Matt left the house and walked out onto the
weathered back porch. He went to the kennels and
released two veterans, Swish and Dan, and one of the
pups. He walked to the truck, pulled on his chaps
and vest, loaded the 16 gauge with No. 8 loads, and
put 10 rounds in his
pockets.
The remaining frost
cover had melted away
with the morning sun.
It was a fine day for
bird hunting. Cold,
clear and ripe with the
smell of cut soybeans, it
was the kind of day his
father had loved.
Matt walked a
brushy path down
below the house to a
point where a thick
hedgerow met the field
near a head of dense
full-growth forest. A small triangle of short cover bor-dered
the wood’s head, the base of the triangle lying
along the tree line with the point opening toward the
fields and hedgerows beyond.
A stream ran amber-colored through the forest
edge. Red and yellow leaves drifted in the shallow
current, spinning slowly toward the distant river.
Matt crossed the stream where it was narrow and
climbed up the other side to come in behind the tri-angle
at its base, hoping to catch a covey on the back
track and flush them through the clearing away from
the forest into the hedgerows.
On the far side of the creek, the cover was damp
and cold and the scent conditions perfect. The dogs
had worked out the edge and both stream banks,
finding nothing, and had moved toward the triangle.
Suddenly they struck birds, slinking to a crawl, trail-ing
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upwind through heavy gallberry toward a stand
of wiregrass, their noses in the forest floor. The two
veterans worked side by side, the quivering wide-eyed
puppy honoring the lead dogs. The hot scent of quail
was deep in their noses as all three inched closer to
the open triangle almost on their bellies.
As suddenly as it began, the movement stopped.
Morning light fell in deep shafts through the forest
canopy, illuminating the scene. The dogs were frozen
like white statues, Dan’s head cocked slightly left,
Swish staring straight ahead, eyes transfixed. The
puppy no longer quivered but held solid, head high,
backing the point two paces behind Swish.
Matt stood just behind his dogs at the base of the
triangle, and though he had seen a thousand points,
still he felt the rush of excitement, the peculiar bond
of man and dog and place, the strong undiminished
emotion of the hunt.
But he also felt the stark in that day — a day he
thought would never
come but now he faced.
As he stood there, a
wind came across the
fields whispering wild
into the thicket, moving
through the ancient
walls of willow, musca-dine
and bamboo. As
it did, and in those few
quiet seconds before the
world thundered into
flight, time seemed to
melt away, the present
becoming the past, the
hallowed forest sud-denly
revealing a little
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boy alone and standing ready, his small hands holding
the .410 at port arms.
And for those seconds, the boy, in quiet desperation,
longed for his father. Longed for him to see the point
just one more time, longed to watch again the fluid arc
of the shotgun as it came to his father’s shoulder, the
swing, the squeeze, the bird falling out cleanly. Longed
to brush up against him, smell the bay and pine on his
coat, see once more the gentle smile; thank him one
last time.
A hawk screamed high above, its piercing call shat-tering
the eerie calm, and suddenly the boy was gone.
Matt’s eyes focused again. He looked over the setters,
lightly touching the safety of his shotgun, tracking
where the birds would flush, choosing an opening for
the shot.
Matt breathed the sharp morning air and his
strength returned, the lesson having come to bear yet
once more, and he stepped into the first flush of a
very special season.
First Published in Quail Unlimited Magazine, January
1997.
59
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