These boots

I'm retiring my boots. Hardly seems a thing worthy enough to waste ink or cyberspace on, but these boots and I have a history. I bought them 1997 or 1998, not sure which. They are a pair of Zamberlan all-leather hiking boots, hand-crafted in Italy. I got them for a song as they were clearing out the current year's models at the time. Frankly, all-leather hiking boots don't change all that much year to year. Since that time, they have hiked on trails in Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan. They have been on day hikes with my kids and extended backpacking trips in two different states. They have carried me up 14,000 foot peaks in Colorado and scrambled over the scree of foothills in Idaho. They have braved slippery rocks caving in Kentucky.

They have been fastened to snowshoes, gaiters and crampons. With a little care, they remained quite water resistant for more than 10 years (waterproof most that time). Once I started to get seriously into upland hunting, they endured even more mileage and worse terrain. Cattail swamps, a variety of bogs, gnarly, clothes-ripping cover, creek crossings, lake retrieving, nothing seemed to be too much for these boots. I replaced them last fall. They are still comfortable and still have held up well, but have lost all pretense of being the least bit waterproof.

Actually, they won't retire entirely. They will still do service in the summer and dry days in the fall. I don't tend to get very sentimental about my possesions anymore, excpet those that are finely crafted or have served me particularly well. I guess that is why I am writing a post about boots.

My buddy JC

My buddy JC shares the affliction of birds, dogs and guns. We met went he was doing his residency in orthopedic surgery at my former hospital. We got to talking about birddogs and hit it off immediately. While JC we was still in residency, we hunted together as much as our schedules would allow. We also spent a lot of summer evenings "running the dogs", which is basically where we walk along and talk and the dogs run, mostly just burning off their crazed energy, but hopefully once in a while pointing something interesting.

There are some notable differences between JC and I. As I've mentioned, I like old guns. I don't much care to shoot a gun that doesn't appeal to the eye. For a while there, I was buying and selling guns like a used car dealer, but without the profits. JC shot one gun for as long as we hunted together. It is an old pump gun that is as ugly as sin on Sunday. It has one of the those composite stocks, rather than wood, so the whole thing is a faded black color. It has all the grace of a farm implement. It weighs in about two pounds heavier than the guns I shoot. To top it off, it is fitted with a sling and one of those sleeves on the stock that holds a few extra shells. I mean, it is just plain unsigthly. But man, can he shoot that thing. It probably helps that he grew up in rural Canada and then moved to South Dakota. Shooting is a birth right in that neck of the woods. He's one of those guys that makes shots you can't believe, and he can't begin to tell you how he did it. It's enough to make a guy feel inadequate.

His dog is another story. He runs a German shorthair pointer named Maya. That dog loves to hunt. I'm not sure if she even likes JC, but man, does she hunt for him. JC bought her from a guy that is basically a back-yard breeder. She has had no formal training other than running with JC's father's more experienced birddogs. She has a drive that would make an honors student blush. She has a remarkable nose and bird sense to spare. About the only place my dog betters her is in retrieving, which I think is by choice. Maya can retrieve just fine, she'd just rather move on and find the next bird. My dog, on the other hand, retrieves like she is possessed. She'll bring back a wing-tipped cripple that ran off into the next county. And Maya will let her.

So, shooting with JC can get interesting. His dog has a slight edge in bird finding over mine. He's also a better shot than I am. Factor in that my dog would just assume retrieve his birds rather go find me one, and you could see how things could get a little one sided. Yet, they never do. JC and I enjoy an easy company that is hard to come by. Besides, the sight of one of our dogs pointing a bird and the other honoring the point makes you forget about the little things.

JC was exiled to New Jersey last year to complete his specialty training. I just found he's returning to Wisconsin this summer to begin practice. We spoke today, and after not talking for about a year, we picked up where we left off. I look forward to a reunion in the fields of fall.

Hearts and heads

We make decisions in life with both our hearts and our heads. Sometimes we use our hearts when we should have used our heads. The opposite is also true. When we use the right apparatus to make to these decisions, I've noticed things have a tendency to work out well. There is a rightness to these decisions that is hard to explain.

An example: Marrying my wife was certainly one of the best decisions I ever made. It was definitely a heart decision. I had been more or less infatuated with her since we first rode the bus together in eighth grade. We started dating our freshman year in college. I fell hard and fast. I knew on our first date that she was the woman I wanted to marry. We got engaged at the end of our junior year in college. During our senior year , she broke off the relationship. I was devastated. It took a long time and a lot of soul searching to recover. Four and half years later, our paths crossed again. She wanted to give things another try. There was small voice in my head that said "you are just setting yourself to have your heart broken again, and possibly even worse". Overwhelmingly, my heart said "yes!". We were engaged within a couple months, and married six months after that. We've now been married nearly ten years. To borrow a phrase, I didn't marry the woman I could live with, I married the woman I couldn't live without.

As my devotion to upland hunting grows and matures, I have had to make several heart and head decisions. Seems odd to talk about hunting in this manner, but when birds, dogs and guns get into your blood, this kind of thinking comes naturally.

Gear: I admit I like the look of some of the classic gear: waxed cotton jackets, canvas briar pants, funny hats. I sheepishly admit I even like the tweeds worn by English sportsmen. But here, heads prevail. Modern fabrics keep me warm and dry, even in the most adverse hunting conditions. I can cherish the hunt more when I am not constantly thinking about how wet or cold I am, or how good it would feel to get inside. Head wins.

Guns: The "head choice" would be a modern autoloader or over/under, without a doubt. Modern guns can shoot about any kind of ammunition, and do so without fail, for many years. But in this category, the heart wins. My 80+ year-old side by side speaks to me in a way a modern, machine-made gun just can't. Lovingly hand-crafted, it is a joy to carry, even if I don't shoot it. Sure, I have to order shells by case from a special maker, because you can't feed these things your off-the-shelf modern ammunition, but that seems a small price to pay for the delight of hunting with a piece of history.

Rigs: I really want an old Land Rover, preferably green with a white top, or perhaps the entire thing could be desert khaki. Sixties-era would be nice. Manual transmission, manual locking differential, jump seats in the back. I can see it now, trundling down a two-track, with a brace of steaming birddogs in the back, panting after a hard hunt. The heater probably wouldn't work all that well, but I hunt prepared for the elements. I could live without a radio or power windows. But let's be realistic. Even though most of my hunting takes place within an hour drive of my home, modern vehicles cannot be beat for reliability and safety. Your hunting rig tends lose some if it's romance when it is broken down by the side of the road. And if I'm going to get plowed into by a drunk driver, him on his way home from a bender, me out early to greet the sunrise, I'd rather be in an airbag festooned, crumple zone enriched contemporary ride than a fine vintage vehicle. Head wins here. But, if I am ever so fortunate to acquire some acreage of my own that I can groom for hunting, you can be sure there will be a tattered lorry parked in the barn.

Dogs: My Weimaraner, Whit is 7. I won't say she is past her hunting prime (she is not), but her the twilight of her career could be coming. She is still athletic in a way that belies her age. She continues to refine her bird handling with each passing season. Sooner or later, though, I'll need to start grooming an a new recruit. My head tells me a I should get another versatile dog, like a German Shorthair Pointer. In my opinion, they are most naturally talented of the pointing breeds. If you want an out-of-the box, forget the instruction manual type of birddog, buy a GSP. They are also well suited to the type of hunting I do: pheasants, woodcock and grouse in a variety of different types of covers. Some GSPs even make passable duck dogs, which would be nice as I do like to chase ducks once or twice a season. But my heart says otherwise. I want an old style English setter, blue or orange belton coat, blocky head, soulful eyes and calm temperament. I don't have much interest in the spritely, small field trial-type setters. They are fine birddogs, indeed, but not my cup of tea. Give me a dog that looks just as much at home in sprawled out in front of a hearth as it does in the coverts of fall, or in a turn-of-the-last century painting. These dogs come with character and charm in spades. Much of hunting for me has become about aesthetics: the beauty of the season the crafted by the hand of God, the lovely lines of an old gun, and the gracefulness of the dog covering ground in front of me. These are the things that stir my heart, etch themselves in my soul. These are the memories I hope to page through like worn, well-loved book when my body is too aged for the woods. Here, heart wins again.

I like old guns

I like old guns. There’s just something about them. They’re charming. They have character. There’s just something about knowing they were made by hand, with the utmost care, by men that are likely long dead. Their longevity is a testament to their workmanship and the skill of the craftsmen.

Presently, I have two vintage guns and another one on the way. One is a an 80+ year old English boxlock made by Westley Richards. It has lovely engraving that you won’t find on modern guns unless your gun fund looks like other people’s car funds. The beauty of the wood still gives me pause. It handles wonderfully and shoots where it is pointed. After 80-some years of hard use, the ejectors still work perfectly, launching spent shells in a parallel arc, always landing next to each other. It has been my go-to gun for the last two seasons, and will be for the foreseeable future.

The second is a one hundred plus year-old English hammergun. It is so old, it basically choked "no" and "YES!". It is not a particularly fancy gun, but it is lovely to hold and behold. I have handled few guns as graceful, regardless of price point.

The funny thing is that many hunters have no appreciation for these old treasures. I have shown some hard-core hunters pictures of my guns, and often get bewildered looks. Sometimes they are not sure what they are looking at. They are often surprised that I actually shoot something so old. Many hunters believe these old guns cannot be shot safely. I beg to differ.

Contemporary hunters may not understand why guys like me like to hunt with these old guns so much. Modern semi-automatic guns are very reliable, relatively light weight and offer the option of a third (or fourth) shot. I look at this way: I hunt for the experience. For pleasure. Sure, the end results taste good, but I won't starve without them. So, if I were going to buy a car to drive to and from work every day, I'd buy a Honda Accord. It is incredibly reliable, comfortable and efficeint. But what if I wanted to buy a car to drive with my wife, on summer weekends, through the rolling hills of Western Wisconsin? It wouldn't be a Honda Accord, as good of car as it is. It would be a Jaguar E-type, or Ferrari 330 GTS (not that I could afford either one). Something with class and grace. Something that puts a big smile on your face when you drive it, or even when you just look at it. Where the car-gun comparison falls short is in practicality. There are some sacrifices you make when you shoot and older gun, but they are far from impractical.

I have also found an unanticipated consequence of shooting older guns: approval from non-hunters. Right or wrong, there is a perception among non-hunters that we pursuers of game do so with high-tech, high-powered weaponry. Non-hunters have told me that is admirable that I hunt with these old classics. It may be small, but our sport can use all the good press it can get.

the stuff of dreams

Had a dream last night that I shot a woodcock. With a hammergun. In front of the White House. I have no idea what that means.

fair chase

Whit and I set out to find some new hunting grounds two days ago. I had covered part of this patch of public hunting land during pheasant season. It looked promising: grain fields bordered by thick grassy cover and willows. There was a small patch of woods and a good sized marsh making up the other borders.

During the season, we had hunted the grassy cover on three separate occasions. We never found a single bird. On this day, we were going to scout the marshy area. There was still quite a bit of snow on the ground, despite temps in the mid 30's. Most of the marsh would still be frozen. With the ground frozen and the cover thinned by months of winter, the cover would be more passable than it was in the fall.

We walked through a good part of the marsh with no signs of wildlife, other than a deer carcass. I was proud that Whit left it alone Just as I was about to turn us around, Whit got birdy. I headed in her direction. Sure enough, rooster tracks! Whit and I gave chase. The bird weaved through the cover. We followed, Whit by scent, and me, further behind, by track.

After a couple hundred yards, the bird turned out of the cover and sprinted in the open. There, its tracks were joined by what appeared to be another rooster and a hen. A some point, a turkey crossed their tracks. Eventually, they turned back into the cover, where we lost their track.

We never saw a single bird. They never flew. They just ran. They doubled back on us twice. These birds are survivors. Their home will likely be impassable for most of the hunting season. I'm looking forward to the rematch.