The Birdy things in life

Few things can stir me like pheasant hunting. There are a select few experiences that can compare to that of a flushing rooster. Maybe the feeling of bungee jumping, sky diving, or hitting the slope of a black diamond. A cackling rooster at the nose of a well trained dog is the original extreme sport. An adrenalin dump that no artificial drug could replicate. The greatest gift to us hunters is the feeling of your first flush, its almost indescribable. The greatest part of this gift? We can receive it every time afield, and its just as exciting as the last. Following a dog that you trained and you put on the ground can be the very definition of euphoria. From the first aroma of puppy breath that you can't seem to get enough of, to the utter disgust you feel from a missed opportunity. A missed opportunity brought upon yourself by you, and your own short comings as a trainer. It's almost comical how a dog can run your life or make or break your day. You can spend a entire hunting trip "training your dog" and when the sun sets, you know where you end up? Right where they wanted to put you. No not for a split second could our highly evolved and superior brains even entertain the notion of us being trained. It's a ridicules thought, a human being conditioned to go here or there to find birds. If you ever have a spare second in that brain of yours,(I have millions of them) stop and think how you learned what type of grass looks "Birdy". Did you just know it? Did a cricket in your pocket yell "hey dumb-ass over there"? Probably not. Odds are your dog found a bird in a similar slice of ground and you learned there could be a bird in there. I'd be willing to bet that is "conditioning" at its highest degree. No matter how you sling it, a bird dog is a hunter, a comrade, a best friend, and most of all a loved one.

Worlds worst to the worlds greatest

Over the last weekend (and this entire last year for that matter) I have experienced failure, after failure, followed by more failure. When you sit and think though, that's what comes with the title HUNTER. Your not a killer, your not a executioner, you are a hunter, you are apart of nature, a care taker of the land. 95% of the time I tell people I am going hunting I come home with nothing more then a depleted gas tank and wet socks. I cant say that I would have it any other way. Without failure there is no need to be nervous, no need to panic, and no need to miss. I could not dream of it any other way. If I ever lost those feelings I would quit,I would stop everything, That would be the end. I would take up golf or checkers, or some other activity that signaled the end of my life force. No matter how experienced in the woods I feel I am, It doesn't take much to find out where I truly stand. It's evident that an animal with the brain the size of an acorn can make me look like my mom crossed my Velcro shoes that morning. With a description like that most people who knew me would say "well that could be any critter". Which for the most part is true but today I am speaking of the Eastern Turkey. Granted hunting a hour away from where I live with no scouting might have been a hindrance,(mere details). In all actuality Id say I'm probably the best hunter I know of really, so I'm not sure that should have any relevance at all. To top off all that magnificent woodsmen-ship we were trying to get it all on film. My odyssey began on a Thursday night "putting thunder chickens to bed" and me feeling like the guru of Turkey-dom. Me being the great outdoors man that I believe myself to be, figure I have six days to complete my quest, A feat any novice could accomplish in two days or less. Oh of course I didn't figure arrogance into the equation, or a general lack or preparation,and ring rust from scoring zero deer this year. The next morning I begin my quest with my lovely lady and one of my best friend's mini hunter "Moto bear". In a vale of masculinity, I figure I can bag this bird and show my might not only to my women but the future of hunting. Well, like one or two other times in my life I was wrong. We got on the roost but could not get the one monogamist Tom in the woods to say "Hey". It would be my luck that I had the only tom that would not respond to our late night, bad decision, beer goggle calls. The morning ended with no birds on the ground but the brightest smile from a young man hearing his first gobbler in the turkey woods. That right there was enough for a life time of timber trips. I figure hell I still have five days or so left so I might as well give it a try. The next few days consisted of a cat and mouse game reminiscent of episodes of Tom and Jerry played on a school yard backwards day. My Monday morning consisted of a bad cappuccino and beef jerky from a second rate gas station. While my buddy Matt (BG Bear) rides shot gun with his signature Pepsi Max. The night before we had pretty much narrowed our blind selection down to two places, An area of probably not and maybe. We went with maybe. That morning we got in way before the dark crept into our pre-set blind, and the first crow called. We settled in with our drinks and loud ass nine dollar Walmart chairs. We dreamed of a magnificent gobbler dancing across our field of view. Now if you put us both in a deer stand we can both sit still all day long. We could out sit a bum in Central park if we had too. BUT put a set of gobblers within a 100-yards of us on the roost being difficult, and we're ready to tap out faster then Snooki at a weight watchers convention. Its about this time where I try and regain my self composure and try not to do anything stupid. Again not the easiest thing for me to do. So when In doubt in the blind I read a book. Being the considerate friend I am I have two books. A book for fathers to be and a book on gun dogs. In Matty's hesitation, I threw him a plethora of daddy knowledge while I caught up on my hounds. 45 minuets in to our book club meeting, I declared out loud that "I am the world's worst F'n Turkey Hunter". Matt laughed and I deliberated if we needed to move or not. As I came to the conclusion that the only logical thing to do was to move, BG Bear hush's me and says "look out the window". I can't very well describe to you how fast my response was, but I'm pretty sure the only thing I've ever done faster was accept a free drink at the bar. While Matt was getting the camera ready for a Hollywood appearance, I was announcing the presence of a Browning 3 1/2 inch blast. The woods went silent, well...... at least for a few seconds before I sent another one down range for good measure. We got nothing on film but a gun shot. Matt Laughed and I smiled and prayed it wasn't a lapse in judgment and a bearded hen. After some flapping and jumping BG and I approached our Trophy. No matter who scores it, its a trophy in my book. It was a 2 year old Jake with a 4 inch beard and weighed around 20 pounds with quarter inch spurs. Will you read about it in a book of records? no. Will you see it in the paper? no. BUT will Matt and I tell you the story on how it happened multiple times over too many beers? YES, and that's all that matters to me.