EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

As morning light threatened, we abandoned the house in practiced silence, save for a shrill whistle and the rhythmic clinking of a field collar. Its owner, Tucker, a sprightly, peppery English setter, rode the truck’s back bench-seat well. Curled in a ball of muscular fur and tradition, his position was suggestive of the grit that often characterizes upland hunting and its participants. I diverted my gaze.

    The winter sun was veiled by clouds and fog, presenting the day in a melancholy haze. A half-hour drive landed us on the brushy banks of the James River, at a boat landing in the Hardware River Wildlife Management Area. The lot was empty, and with reason. Migratory woodcock had long since abandoned the tangled successional growth of the riverbottom for the swampy groves of the Old South, squirrel and deer season had withered, and February’s biting personality had fishermen frightened from the banks of the meandering river. For the season, the secrets of the almighty James seemed secure under a thick haze.

An early bird hunt.

    Tucker glided out of the back door tenderly. Dad corralled him to adjust his collar and behold his soft, wispy ears. Few words were uttered before the morning commenced with a locating beep from Tucker’s collar and our shotgun-toting footsteps crunching upon frost-bitten cut corn.

    The weather on such days is enough to draw my thoughts inward and leaden my tongue in meditation, but there was something more spiritual at play in the bottomland. We followed our four-legged guide closely, observing him peruse cover, rather than observing the cover he perused. A cottontail dashed from cover. Tucker ignored it from good training. We took little note, our reflexes jaded by thought.

    The communal element to bird hunting was as clouded as the sun, as Dad looked forward to Tucker for conversation. I understood. More than a decade’s share of memories tied the companions. From cool Minnesotan nights, to fast-paced grouse shooting in the snow-blanketed forests of the upper-Midwest and Virginia highlands, their relationship was one of mutual dependency. Second only to a common love for grouse and woodcock, Tuck’s affinity for crisp northern nights and his habit of filching laps of scotch from his Master’s unattended glass mortared a friendship only strengthened over years working for each other.

Training time, with a harnesses bobwhite quail.

    Of course, the memories I perceived pouring from my father’s pensive eyes were imparted to me only as nostalgia. My relationship with Tucker was different. He was introduced to our household just months before I. It was he who provided much of my transportation in my pre-walking years, dragging me about the wood floors of our Fluvanna County home by the stocking feet of my pajamas, and hauling my saucer-sled over fresh powder by a leash fashioned as a harness. I hunted over him—rather, pointed over him, with my training cap shotgun—as a young boy. Still, most memorable was his good-natured spirit that established him as a childhood friend and shot-gunning companion.

    We entered the fourth in a chain of linked, riparian corn fields when we made the decision to turn back. Our halt lit the flame under the hooves of a 12-point buck bedded on the field’s edge. The morning’s first audible words were spit in reflexive excitement.

    The shadow that loomed over us soon returned, our hunt half over.

    Tucker’s senses roped him from the intricacies of the field to the cover of the tangled riverbank, where, after nosing methodically, he uncovered the magnificently large shell of a river cooter. I dusted it off and found it a place in my pack.

    It was New Year’s Day the last time Tucker yielded me a prize of his own industry—a chukar taken on the wing from a game preserve in Southside Virginia. That was a different hunt—one lively and filled with comradery. He zig-zagged cover unrestrained, ears bouncing loosely in the frosted sun, feet treading deftly, on track to a bedded bird. At dusk, we collected our party and turned back. 

    Tucker plodded exhaustedly in the lead, but caught our immediate attention when he froze mid-step, convulsing briefly.

    As we approached the truck, the oppressive haze seemed to lift. Conversation emerged and colored our unloading and packing as a statement of burdensome acceptance. With the fading light in the riverbottom, yet another Virginia grouse season would be retired to the pages of sporting memories in the mountains—but we were not hunting for grouse. There is no grouse season this far east. We were hunting for a memory. All three hunters recognized that the brain tumor that was steadily revealing itself in our beloved setter with every soulful step would make this season a concluding one, and this hunt, a final chapter—an epilogue worth writing and cherishing, forever.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

PHOTO UPDATE: SAINT MARY'S AND PRIESTVIEW

The past two months have featured plenty of work and play, not complete without a collection of images illustrating the wonderful memories we've made afield.

    Included in this photo update are more photos from the Saint Mary's River photoshoot for Eastern Fly Fishing and a handful of images from the recent article and hunt with PriestView Hunting Preserve.

    Check them out, and enjoy!□

Created with flickr slideshow.

A BIRD HUNT IN THE SHADOW OF THE PRIEST

We turned right off Route 56 to bounce and splash down a pitted gravel road that dead-ended at a gravel lot and a small shed anchored on the periphery of a large, brushy field, dominated by the august vista of The Priest—the highest peak of the Religious Range, spanning Nelson and Amherst Counties.  A party of six men donning blaze orange field vests, carrying shotguns and the glow of pre-hunt enthusiasm, piled into a pair of Ford pickups and bounced along the field edge to a distant arena.

The Priest view.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    “You must be Matt,” a voice questioned as the background audio returned to the scene and the rumbling of vehicles faded.  My dad, along for the ride, slid out of the driver’s side of the Suburban behind me.

    “You must be Tim!” I returned, extending a hand to Tim Castillo, owner, operator, and guide at PriestView Hunting Preserve.

Tim Castillo with a wing-shot chukar.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Since 1994, PriestView has been offering guided and unguided upland hunts for pheasant, quail, and chukar in the Blue Ridge Mountains during the Virginia preserve season, which runs from Labor Day through the end of April.  A guide staff of five and four fields totaling 460 acres allows the property and staff to safely accommodate up to four parties of hunters at a time.

    PriestView books hunts Friday through Sunday only, but Castillo, an area manager for Aqua Virginia, isn’t looking to make a living from the operation.  “PriestView is my hobby,” he said.  “We raise dogs, and we used to raise birds.  We don’t need a huge lodge to work out of.  That helps us keep our costs down, and we cover our costs with our pricing.”  This business model allows the PriestView family to offer modest rates, which in no way reflects the quality of the experience.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    After getting to know one another, I took up position in a shooting cage overlooking the front field as Tim pumped juice into the automatic skeet trap via jumper cables linked to an old FARM USE truck.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    “Pull!”

Dad warming up.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Having not pulled the trigger on a moving target apart from a gun-inspired squirrel in two years, a warm-up on the clay birds was a welcome refresher, something the Priestview team has incorporated into the hunting package.  I yielded to Da after hitting the last few targets and regaining faith in my swing.  After he had done the same, it was game time.

Ginger, the brittany.  Photo by Matt Reilly

    The frantic huntress that had remained in the background was quite literally reaching the end of her leash, and had, after the first shotgun blast, begun elevating to a state of excitement bordering on a mental condition that only a passionate bird dog can demonstrate correctly.

Ginger, ready to go!  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    With boom sticks and shells in tote, we followed Castillo’s sprightly 11-year-old Brittany, Ginger, and the zipping microfiber check cord that trailed her, into the shadow of The Priest.  The landscape was rolling, stippled by large dirt mounts left from clear cutting the fields we hunted.

Working cover.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    PriestView leases the fields from the local Silver Creek Orchard.  Full-time operations might find this arrangement a hindrance to habitat management, but the deal works out perfectly for Castillo and the crew.  Silver Creek bush hogs the fields in halves on alternating years, allowing a portion of the property to offer two years of successional field growth for bird habitat every year.

Ginger on point.  Photo by Matt Reilly

    After just moments of watching Ginger and her ears bounce across the landscape, intermittently pressing her nose against the ground in search of a bird, she locked up on point—motionless.  Da took his turn first, and moved in, flushing a blue-gray blur of chukar into the air.

Wingshooting.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Seven more birds, including two quail, lit and faced the firing squad, with the help of Ginger and her adept nose.      

Photo by Matt Reilly

Man and dog.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

A batch of wing-shot chukar and quail.  Photo by Matt Reilly

    With all the birds we could find bagged and ready for dressing, we began the stroll back across the field to operation headquarters with The Priest at our backs, covered in shadows by the setting sun.

See the full batch of photos from this adventure on the Adventures Afield Photography page.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian□ 

AN AFTERNOON HUNT AT PRIESTVIEW HUNTING PRESERVE

The morning arrived with strong winds--a deal-breaker for a poorly-trained bird dog, a mere complication for a proficient one.

    With Maggie, our three-year-old Irish Setter, suggesting an oncoming seizure (a recurrent symptom of epilepsy, common in the red setters), our hunt planned for the afternoon at Nelson County's PriestView Hunting Preserve would be accompanied by owner/operator Tim Castillo and his sprightly 11-year-old Brittany, Ginger.  Ginger didn't disappoint.

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

    All in all, the afternoon was a mighty enjoyable time spent with a new friend and highly talented bird dog--always a pleasure to observe.  Look for the upcoming article on this upland operation in another installment of Adventures Afield in The Rural Virginian, or, as always, on this page once it is published!□

EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

        As the sun threatened to deliver morning, we abandoned the house in silence, save for a shrill whistle and the rhythmic clinking of a field collar.  

Its owner, Tucker, a sprightly, peppery English setter, rode the truck’s back bench-seat well.  Curled in a ball of muscular fur and tradition, his position was suggestive of the hardiness and sophistication that often characterize upland hunting and its participants.  I diverted my gaze, trying not to focus on his being more than was necessary.

        The sun was smothered by the clouds and fog, presenting the day in a melancholy haze.  A half-hour drive landed us on the brushy banks of the James River, at a boat landing in the Hardware River Wildlife Management Area.  The parking lot was empty, and with reason.  Woodcock had long since abandoned the tangled successional growth of the riverbottom, squirrel and deer season had withered, and February’s biting personality had fishermen frightened from the banks of the meandering river.  For the season, the secrets of the James seemed secure under a sheet of thick fog.

        Tucker glided out of the back door tenderly; and Dad corralled him to adjust his collar and behold his soft, stringy ears.  Few words were spoken before the morning commenced with a beep from Tucker’s collar and our shotgun-toting footsteps crunching upon cut corn.

        The weather on such days is enough to draw my thoughts inward and leaden my tongue in meditation; but there was something more spiritual at play.  We followed our four-legged guide closely, observing him peruse cover, rather than observing the cover he perused.  A rabbit dashed from cover.  Tucker ignored it from good training.  We took little note, our reflexes jaded by thought.

        The communal element to bird hunting was as clouded as the sun; as Dad looked forward to Tucker for conversation.  I understood.  In past years, the two had enjoyed much together.  From cool Minnesotan nights to fast-paced grouse shooting in the snow-blanketed forests of the upper-Midwest and Virginia highlands, their relationship was one of mutual dependency.  Second only to their common love for grouse and woodcock, Tuck’s affinity for crisp northern nights and his preoccupation with filching laps of scotch from his Master’s unattended glass mortared a friendship only strengthened over years in the field.

        Of course, the memories I perceived pouring from my father’s pensive eyes were imparted to me only as stories.  My relationship with Tucker was different.  He was introduced to our family just months before I; and we shared a common age.  It was he who provided much of my early transportation, dragging me about the wood floors of our Fluvanna home by the stocking feet of my pajamas and hauling my saucer sled over fresh coats of powder by a leash fashioned as a harness.  I hunted over him—rather, pointed over him, with my training cap shotgun—as a young boy; but most memorable was his playful, omnipresent attitude that established him as a childhood friend and lifelong companion.

        We entered the fourth in a chain of linked, riparian corn fields when we made the decision to turn back.  Our halt lit the flame under the hooves of a 12-point buck bedded on the field’s edge.  The first solid words of the morning were uttered in reflexive excitement.

        The shadow that had loomed over us soon returned.  Our hunt was half over.

        Tucker’s attention was diverted to the tangled riverbank, where, after nosing about, he uncovered a magnificently large turtle shell.  I dusted it off and found it a place in my pack.

        It was New Year’s Day the last time Tucker yielded me a prize of his own industry—a chukar taken on the wing from a game preserve in Southside Virginia.  That was a different hunt, one filled with camaraderie and joy.  Tucker zig-zagged cover unrestrained, ears bouncing loosely in the sun, feet treading deftly, on track to a bedded bird.  At dusk, we collected our party and turned back.  Tucker plodded exhaustedly in the lead, but caught our immediate attention when he froze mid-step, convulsing briefly.  His movements that followed were a series of drunken, left-handed arcs.  A nervous silence ensued.

        As we approached the truck by the river, the clouds seemed to lift.  Conversation colored our packing and unloading as a statement of burdensome acceptance.  With the setting of the sun yet another grouse season would expire in the mountains.  But we were not hunting for grouse.  In fact, there is no grouse season this far east.  We were hunting for a memory.  All three in attendance recognized that the brain tumor that was steadily revealing itself in our beloved companion with every soulful step would make this season a concluding one, and this hunt, a last chapter—an epilogue worth writing and cherishing, forever.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

PEOPLE DON'T MAKE GUNS, GUNS MAKE PEOPLE

    As November middles out, outdoor publications greet the impending firearms seasons with reports of the latest and greatest hunting implements, putting forth descriptions spiked with jargon that almost overshadows the reason why we take to the woods carrying these prizes. While hairpin trigger pulls, tight bolt cycles, and krypton gas-charged scopes characterize many hunters’ favorite guns, chances are they learned to hunt and shoot with firearms of a much more modest make. Perched alone in a tripod stand on the Muzzleloader opener, I sat thinking about my first guns, and how they shaped me as a hunter.

    I was fortunate enough to have a father that packed me along with him in the fall woods. Our destination was often a mountainous, hardwood ridge littered with Bushytails, or occasionally a wintry cornfield where our young setter would point out the avian inhabitants with ancestral proficiency. For these pursuits, I was entrusted with a smooth-shooting double barreled shotgun whose caliber I never thought to question. It was a true shotgun in that it had to be handled safely and fired safely, always with the safety sliding back into place following the charge, and it certainly did no injustice to the term “boom-stick.” However, it was lacking in what it propelled. A cap gun of sorts, the birds and squirrels that I did lead—maybe—fell to the administering swing of my father. Regardless, I never once shot a dog or a person, and the rush of the flush wasn't lost on me.

    
    Soon I acquired what Ralphie Parker reverently called “the greatest Christmas gift.” Then, we lived closer to the mountains than we had previously, and I was self-conscious enough to tote my Red Rider BB gun with some newly-granted freedom and explore the mixed-hardwood jungle along the dirt road on which we lived. A short, muddy maintenance road we dubbed the “pump-house road” for the jaded well house that marked the trail’s head was the primary venue for hunting safaris and target shooting. I remember being ordered not to come back without dinner, to which I made the sporting decision that I would take an opossum provided I was eluded by a squirrel—not knowing, of course, of their table-fare. Even so, at most, the BB gun killed a few unfortunate pine bark cells, but never before I had exhausted my efforts until nightfall, and always without endangering anything besides blue jays and gray squirrels.

    We moved again, this time to an undeveloped neighborhood in the Piedmont. It was then that my parents entrusted me with an air rifle. Unlike the Red Rider, my new Crosman was scoped—implying true lethality—and could handle pellets or BBs—an obvious contradiction to Ralphie’s declaration. The pneumatic’s 600 fps could hardly drop a mighty Bushytail. Nonetheless, I was trusted to pursue my hunting endeavors alone, venturing across numerous unclaimed lots, often coming home after dark after losing my silhouetted quarry among the darkening trunks. The Crosman’s chamber was opened by a hard-edged lever, and I can remember a determination, after missing almost a hundred shots, that drove me to rub raw my numb, cracking hands in hopes of finally reaching out to a squirrel scurrying along the branches.

    It wasn't until my tenth year that I was granted an arm of true firepower. The upland preserve season was growing cold and bare in Virginia and my father felt it fitting that I carry my own 20-gauge pump shotgun to shoot over our aging setter. We made two trips to a Southside preserve during that season, on which I harvested my first upland birds, and witnessed again the talent of our now-seasoned four-legged hunting companion. I handled and fired safely my new prize, always instinctively returning the safety to its “safe” position following the charge. It was cold, but, due to conditioning, I never succumbed to the biting metal of the action release against my numb fingers.

    These pensive memories of my early development flow through my mind on the cold muzzleloader opener, triggered by the jaunty squirrels and mockingbirds that slip below my stand unscathed. I sit on the opposite side of an expansive property from my father, with a 12-gauge lying idle on my lap, waiting patiently to check out with a Thanksgiving turkey. The safety is on; the muzzle, pointed to the left. My face is chapped by the November wind; my hands, numb. To think of my own favorite gun, well-balanced muzzleloaders and crystalline optics come to mind, but I find it hard to discount the ones that brought me to where I sit today, both as a hunter and a person.

*First published in The Rural Virginian.