A Hunt Etched In Memory

It was mid-November, and I was out of eighth-grade basketball practice early. Granddad and Grandma were in town, and Granddad told me he thought we had time for a short pheasant hunt before dark. I tore through my room, rummaging through a pile of clothes in my close to find my old jeans, boots, tan vest and hunting cap. I dressed hurriedly, cased the 20-guage and ran through the house to the living room where Granddad patiently waited. I was READY.

In 20 minutes, we were parked on the land Granddad and Grandma still owned from the family farm. It was milo stubble, and while we'd seen birds in the field before the milo was cut early in the season, I was not optimistic that the two of us would find any birds. I was a rank beginner, but I had a couple of pheasant seasons under my belt, and I knew enough to know that wily rooster pheasants would easily out-maneuver two hunters in the open stubble. However, Granddad a plan. He dropped me off at one end, then drove to the other other end. "We'll walk toward each other," he said. "And we might be able to get a bird to flush between us. You'll have be really careful, and know where you can shoot safely."

I still wasn't convinced, but I was game. It wasn't a large field and it was flat, so I could easily see Granddad when he got in position. After he waved, we started a deliberate walk toward each other. I distinctly remember when were about 70 or 80 yards apart that a rooster flushed in front of me, flying to my left away from Granddad. It was a safe, open shot, but in my panic to shoulder the gun and shoot, I pulled the butt stock clear above my shoulder. By the time I pulled it back into position and took a shot, the bird was likely out of range, and I missed. The flush of a rooster pheasant always flustered me, and it still does today. I remember thinking that maybe Granddad knew what he was doing, after all. I looked back to him and shrugged and he just grinned and kept walking toward me at a measured pace. I was on full alert when another rooster flushed. This one was closer to me, and it followed the same route as the first one. I swung the shotgun up and through and pulled the trigger. The bird crumpled.

That was it for the evening. Two birds flushed, one bagged, but I was ecstatic. I'll never forget how proud I felt, and it didn't hurt that Granddad bragged about my shot when we got home. I don't think any 13-year-old boy every loved his grandfather more than I loved that man. That was more than 30 years ago, and the spontaneous hunt that lasted less than two hours remains one of my most treasured boyhood memories. Never underestimate the power of passing it on.