As is typical with my pointer, Karl’s day was a mixed bag of brilliance and embarrassment. There was no denying his passion for the task at hand; his points (once he settled down) were more intense and steady than I’ve ever seen from him and his energy seemed boundless. As further testament to the dog’s desire he at one point began to run after a Cessna he saw flying south of us—thought for sure it was the “catch of the day”.
So now I sit in reflection and evaluate the hunt (as I typically do) thusly: how did the dogs do? And it troubles me that that question is spiritually askew. But like it or not, I tend to live vicariously through my dogs while in the field. I want my companions to be impressed with their performance, and I want them to tell me what great hunters my dogs are. If they do I feel good about the day; if they don’t, I assume that the dogs’ erratic performance (some degree of which is almost guaranteed) has somehow diminished the quality of their experience afield. And I then flagellate myself for not being a better trainer. But even in these circumstances when I’m apologizing for the flushed-out-of-range birds and the busted points I’m secretly cherishing the time I’ve spent with my 4-legged hunting companions without regard to their mistakes or my friends’ evaluations. I’ve had the pleasure, no, the privilege, of sharing with them a moment of sheer bliss; they with noses full of intoxicating bird scent and me, well, just watching them enjoy themselves. Henceforth, that will be enough!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt
“Gentlemen,” I announced, “I’d like to welcome you all to the first annual Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt!” I’d prepared a lengthy speech in which I would proclaim the righteousness of this hallowed event, introduce the significance of each of the attendees, make some comments about how it was not about us but about the dogs, then reveal the intricate logistics of who would hunt with whom, where, how, etc. My introduction was met with an attitude of dismissal, which I took as a warning not to get all full of myself; some of them had heard me pontificate before. “Alright, alright, here’s the plan. We’ll all walk up to the cemetery as a group and let these hounds blow off some steam. John, you come with me and Casey. We’ll hunt the east half of the cornfield, the rest of you can hunt the west.”
I shouldered the Auto-5 and started toward the cemetery, Casey and John close behind. “Come on Jake, let’s hunt ‘em up!”, said Oscar, and I turned to see the pointer, headed due north, disappear over a little rise with Karl in hot pursuit. “Shit! He’s headed straight for the fencerow”, I said to Casey. We’d planted several birds in the cover along the fence, hoping to give Oscar and the boys some realistic shooting opportunities toward the end of their trek. Logistics be damned, the hunt was under way!
That was the last I saw of Karl for a while. He’d gotten a snootfull of that bird and his trigger had been tripped “Come on, let’s head east”, I said, intent on following the plan I’d outlined. “He’ll see I’m gone and come looking for me”. But he didn’t come. I whistled and yelled and seethed internally but nothing would deter him. . He was like the berserk Marine with the cartridge belts strung across both shoulders and the machine gun sweeping down legions of Viet Cong, oblivious to danger, oblivious to everything but the task of seeking out and destroying his prey. I was frustrated, embarrassed and angry. We’d spent countless hours marching countless miles just to avoid this very situation. I watched him, 200 yards distant now, as he vacuumed the corn stubble and the edge of the woods. His movement was controlled frenzy, fluid, graceful, and totally focused. I was torn between wanting him with me and wanting to catch and wail the tar out of him.
I continued east, as per my plan, with Casey and John for a while, but the yells of excitement and the sound of gunfire in the distance were too much. “I’m going after him”, I announced, and headed off to join the fray and reclaim my pointer.
Karl hunted with me for a while, but not really. He hunted for Karl and it was our job to keep up with him. He pointed brilliantly and pointed staunchly, and Riley retrieved with the fervor and maturity of a dog that had had many more birds shot over him. We retired to the trucks after and hour or so to take a break. Karl passed Hershey’s syrup from his rear end and puked bile. Later that day I would loose him in the woods, intent on tracking down a wounded cock pheasant. John, Ira and I spent 15 minutes combing the leaf strewn floor to no avail. I called Karl when we’d thrown in the towel, listened for his rustling through the woods, but heard only silence. He was still on his own, I figured, and there was nothing I could do to get him back other than trust his homing instinct to find me when he’d had enough.
But as I stepped over the trampled barbed wire fence that separated the woods from the corn, I heard the unmistakable squawk of a pheasant about 15 feet to my left. I made my way over to the source of the bird’s plea for help and found Karl standing locked and loaded over the bird. He’d apparently tracked the cripple through the woods and driven the now flightless bird into a clump of brambles. I dispatched the wounded pheasant, hugged and petted and fussed over Karl, and removed his e-collar. All was forgiven, and a sense of pride and love and admiration swept over me. “Sometimes”, I thought, “it is indeed hard to see the forest for the trees.”
I enjoy the fancy guns and the rugged clothes, the nature walks and the fellowship of hunting with a good friend or two. But at the core of my love for hunting is my love for the dogs that accompany on my outings. And I say with no reservations whatsoever that were it not for the dogs, all the accoutrements that hang in my closet or on my wall would be disposed of or relegated to another use and my hunting career would cease. It is a rare pleasure to have the opportunity to watch one of God’s creatures at their very best, doing that one thing they were designed specifically to do with near perfection. And that is what I witnessed from Karl that Sunday.
It is a modern convention, I suspect, to introduce things like discipline and handling into the pursuit of wild game. Our progenitors who hundreds of years ago used their canine companions to help send gamebirds to flight were in the fields for an entirely different reason than I. Their very lives depended on the meat they would gather, and there was certainly no concept of sport. Consequently, I have to believe that had some 1700’s bird hunter been in the field with my ‘disobedient’ dogs that day they’d have regaled their family with recollections of the efficiency of the dogs and the passion with which their supper had been presented to the gun.
Karl’s helter-skelter meandering was a lesson in passion. “Live with passion!”, proclaims Tony Robbins, and he gives the techniques that one can apply to develop this powerful tool in their lives. Hogwash! Passion is not intellectual, it is primal. It is the outward and uncompromising expression of that which is basic and unique to our nature, that thing which drives us to a greatness that is our destiny, that thing that most of us will never have the insight or courage to personify in our own lives. It is the power of an unknown and universal force we call ‘God’ flowing directly through us, unrestrained and uninhibited. Passion is a Mozart symphony, a Jordan slam-dunk, Microsoft, Inc., a young Mohammed Ali pummeling an aging Sonny Liston. Passion is not effort so much as it is surrender to the inevitable.
Late in the day Karl walked beside me through the corn stubble, exhausted from his efforts, and looked up at me with his pale green eyes. It was almost apologetic, that look, as if he was trying to make me understand why he behaved the way he did. I set my shotgun on the ground and bent down to hug him. “That’s okay boy, you did great today. You’re a good boy and a great hunter.” I understood and I forgave him. He trotted off to my right where Oscar and Dave were walking the edge of the woods looking for one last shot while I shucked the last of my shells to the ground. It was over for me this day but not for him. “Karl’s locked up, he’s got one!”
I shouldered the Auto-5 and started toward the cemetery, Casey and John close behind. “Come on Jake, let’s hunt ‘em up!”, said Oscar, and I turned to see the pointer, headed due north, disappear over a little rise with Karl in hot pursuit. “Shit! He’s headed straight for the fencerow”, I said to Casey. We’d planted several birds in the cover along the fence, hoping to give Oscar and the boys some realistic shooting opportunities toward the end of their trek. Logistics be damned, the hunt was under way!
That was the last I saw of Karl for a while. He’d gotten a snootfull of that bird and his trigger had been tripped “Come on, let’s head east”, I said, intent on following the plan I’d outlined. “He’ll see I’m gone and come looking for me”. But he didn’t come. I whistled and yelled and seethed internally but nothing would deter him. . He was like the berserk Marine with the cartridge belts strung across both shoulders and the machine gun sweeping down legions of Viet Cong, oblivious to danger, oblivious to everything but the task of seeking out and destroying his prey. I was frustrated, embarrassed and angry. We’d spent countless hours marching countless miles just to avoid this very situation. I watched him, 200 yards distant now, as he vacuumed the corn stubble and the edge of the woods. His movement was controlled frenzy, fluid, graceful, and totally focused. I was torn between wanting him with me and wanting to catch and wail the tar out of him.
I continued east, as per my plan, with Casey and John for a while, but the yells of excitement and the sound of gunfire in the distance were too much. “I’m going after him”, I announced, and headed off to join the fray and reclaim my pointer.
Karl hunted with me for a while, but not really. He hunted for Karl and it was our job to keep up with him. He pointed brilliantly and pointed staunchly, and Riley retrieved with the fervor and maturity of a dog that had had many more birds shot over him. We retired to the trucks after and hour or so to take a break. Karl passed Hershey’s syrup from his rear end and puked bile. Later that day I would loose him in the woods, intent on tracking down a wounded cock pheasant. John, Ira and I spent 15 minutes combing the leaf strewn floor to no avail. I called Karl when we’d thrown in the towel, listened for his rustling through the woods, but heard only silence. He was still on his own, I figured, and there was nothing I could do to get him back other than trust his homing instinct to find me when he’d had enough.
But as I stepped over the trampled barbed wire fence that separated the woods from the corn, I heard the unmistakable squawk of a pheasant about 15 feet to my left. I made my way over to the source of the bird’s plea for help and found Karl standing locked and loaded over the bird. He’d apparently tracked the cripple through the woods and driven the now flightless bird into a clump of brambles. I dispatched the wounded pheasant, hugged and petted and fussed over Karl, and removed his e-collar. All was forgiven, and a sense of pride and love and admiration swept over me. “Sometimes”, I thought, “it is indeed hard to see the forest for the trees.”
I enjoy the fancy guns and the rugged clothes, the nature walks and the fellowship of hunting with a good friend or two. But at the core of my love for hunting is my love for the dogs that accompany on my outings. And I say with no reservations whatsoever that were it not for the dogs, all the accoutrements that hang in my closet or on my wall would be disposed of or relegated to another use and my hunting career would cease. It is a rare pleasure to have the opportunity to watch one of God’s creatures at their very best, doing that one thing they were designed specifically to do with near perfection. And that is what I witnessed from Karl that Sunday.
It is a modern convention, I suspect, to introduce things like discipline and handling into the pursuit of wild game. Our progenitors who hundreds of years ago used their canine companions to help send gamebirds to flight were in the fields for an entirely different reason than I. Their very lives depended on the meat they would gather, and there was certainly no concept of sport. Consequently, I have to believe that had some 1700’s bird hunter been in the field with my ‘disobedient’ dogs that day they’d have regaled their family with recollections of the efficiency of the dogs and the passion with which their supper had been presented to the gun.
Karl’s helter-skelter meandering was a lesson in passion. “Live with passion!”, proclaims Tony Robbins, and he gives the techniques that one can apply to develop this powerful tool in their lives. Hogwash! Passion is not intellectual, it is primal. It is the outward and uncompromising expression of that which is basic and unique to our nature, that thing which drives us to a greatness that is our destiny, that thing that most of us will never have the insight or courage to personify in our own lives. It is the power of an unknown and universal force we call ‘God’ flowing directly through us, unrestrained and uninhibited. Passion is a Mozart symphony, a Jordan slam-dunk, Microsoft, Inc., a young Mohammed Ali pummeling an aging Sonny Liston. Passion is not effort so much as it is surrender to the inevitable.
Late in the day Karl walked beside me through the corn stubble, exhausted from his efforts, and looked up at me with his pale green eyes. It was almost apologetic, that look, as if he was trying to make me understand why he behaved the way he did. I set my shotgun on the ground and bent down to hug him. “That’s okay boy, you did great today. You’re a good boy and a great hunter.” I understood and I forgave him. He trotted off to my right where Oscar and Dave were walking the edge of the woods looking for one last shot while I shucked the last of my shells to the ground. It was over for me this day but not for him. “Karl’s locked up, he’s got one!”
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