The Perfect Hunt

It was mid-November 1972, and we didn’t have eighth-grade basketball practice that Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. Instead of goofing off with a couple of buddies on the six-block walk from school like usual, I hustled straight home. Granddad and Grandma had arrived the evening before, traveling from their home in Canon City, Colo., to stay with us over the holidays. I was looking forward to spending time with them.
When I burst through the door, cheeks red from the brisk November wind, Grandma smiled and in her soft, slow drawl, asked me where my hat was. I told her it wasn’t cold enough for a hat, and she just clicked her tongue at me. Granddad motioned for me to sit with him. I settled next to Granddad on the couch, and he patted my knee and mentioned something about pheasant hunting. I had been looking forward to hunting together over the weekend and assumed that’s what he was talking about. My eyes got as big as saucers when he clarified that he thought we had time for a short hunt that evening.
“We visited the farm this morning,” he said. “Dale got the milo on our eighty cut, and I think we have time to walk the stubble before it gets dark tonight. He said he’s been seeing some birds along the road,” Granddad added with a wink.
I exploded off the couch and tore through my bedroom, tossing clothes off a pile in my closet while looking for old jeans and my hunting boots. I changed, grabbed my tan hunting vest and cap, cased my 20-gauge and was back in the living room before Granddad could finish tying his boots. He chuckled, “Slow down, son. We’ve got time.”
The 10-mile drive to the farm seemed to take forever, and as we drove, I thought about how we could hunt the stubble. Dad and I had hunted the 80 earlier that season before the milo was cut, and we’d seen birds. But as we pulled up on the west end of the field, I silently wondered how just two of us would flush any pheasants in the open stubble. I was only in my second hunting season, but I knew enough to be skeptical. Granddad sensed this, so he laid out his plan.
“I think we can split up. I’ll let you off at this end, and I’ll drive to the other. Then we’ll walk toward each other. That might confuse an old rooster long enough for one of us to get a shot. We’ll have to keep each other in sight and be very careful about where we can shoot safely,” he added as I quietly slipped out of the car.
As I watch Granddad drive off, I was still unconvinced. The field was flat, and I could easily see him as he walked to a row about half-way in and waved to me. We started our slow walk toward each other. I wasn’t expecting to see any pheasants, at least not within shotgun range, but when we were about 80 yards apart, I heard something to my left. As I swung around, a magnificent rooster cackled its way into the sky. The noise and shock of a rooster flush always flustered me (it still does), and my panic was doubled because I was so complacent. I rushed my gun mount, and the butt plate slipped too high on my shoulder. I slid it back into position, but by then the bird was out of my range. The shot was futile.
“Dang it,” I mumbled under my breath, as I grinned sheepishly and shrugged at Granddad. “He was right.”
Granddad just nodded and continued walking methodically toward me. Five steps later, another rooster flushed near me, taking the same route as the first. I was more ready this time and only half has flustered. I swung through the bird, shot once, and it crumpled. I was in disbelief — because I got a second chance and because I dropped the bird stone dead.
That was the hunt; 45 minutes, two birds flushed and one in the bag. I was elated. I felt proud of our success, and it didn’t hurt my ego when Granddad bragged about the shot I made. Thinking about that afternoon is still gratifying. I can see a snippet of my life that was perfect. No 13-year-old boy loved his grandfather more than I loved that man.
Forty years later and I can still immerse myself in the thrill of that hunt and my feelings for Granddad. Granddad’s been gone 32 years, but I am forever grateful for our relationship and can’t imagine my life without it. Hunting and fishing together was part of our bond, and I know now I was one of the lucky sons. Never underestimate the power of passing it on.