December 17th, 2018
Mrs. William Crawford Grant
102 Gold Street,
Cloud City, Heaven
Dear Grandmother,
I apologize. Yes, I know you said never hunt or fish on Sundays. Yes, ma’am you raised me better than that. But I was thinking that you might make an exception just this one time?
Okay, I admit it. I could not help myself. And for that I am truly sorry. So I ask for both your, and the Almighty’s forgiveness. But could you at least listen to the reasons why I did it?
Exhausted from following the dogs up and down hills all day, through briars and brush, in a brand new pair of boots, I was sound asleep when you woke me at 2:17 last night. So this morning I feel inclined write down my reasons anyway.
It was Mike Gaddis’ fault. Well, for one, he’s absolutely one of the greatest outdoor writers on the planet and a true southern gentleman-hunter. A perfectionist, he’s also every bit as good at training bird dogs as he is at wielding words with a pen. When Mike invites you to come quail hunting, over his dogs, I don’t believe there is a bird hunter worth a load of number eight shot who could force the word “no” past his lips.
In this photo Mike removes Jube from the dog box and puts him on a leash. He tightly guides the setter to a place where Jube can see they’ll be hunting. Mike prepares his dogs for the hunt by forcing them to stand statue still and making them wait. He drops the leash, then repeatedly lifts the dog’s tail and chin, setting and resetting until the animal holds a perfect form. Mike unclips the leash and steps away. For the dog, waiting is a trial by fire. At last, Mike taps the dog’s head, a signal that it’s now okay to launch full speed into the field.
Yet, truth be told, it was Brian Raley’s fault, too. Yes, that Brian Raley, Sporting Classics advertising manager, church deacon, borderline Bible thumper, teaches Sunday School, says a blessing before every meal – even when no one is looking. That one. I mean if Brian says he’s going, I just assumed that it would be okay for me to go too? No, I’m not trying to get Brian in trouble here. Would you please just look at the photo I took of him? Does that look like an evil sinner to you? This is a man having a near-religious experience. We all did. I’ve never seen so many quail.
Which brings me to Bill Webb. This is at least partly Bill’s fault. Why? Because The 1,500-acre Webb Farm has been in his family for generations. He’s the one that told Mike he could use the farm to train his dogs, and for Brian and myself to come along as shooters. While Bill and his wife Debbie are away on vacation, we’d have this piece of quail hunting heaven to ourselves.
No, Grandma, we were definitely NOT poaching! I’ve never done that. Okay, well, there was that one time I got caught bass fishing at Ulmer’s pond, but that was more than 50 years ago!
The Webb Farm has open pine woods, low areas, high areas, ponds, fields, creeks in the hardwood bottoms, briar patches, an old falling-down farmhouse, and a very handsome, well-decorated lodge. That’s the front of the lodge above with its wrap-around porch. Built to resemble a 19th century lodge, it was completed in 2006. Sportsmen, prepare to be jealous. It is exactly the home you want and as comfortable as your favorite chair. Book a trip and see for yourself.
Yes, ma’am, Bill’s a lawyer by trade. But, you’re not going to hold that against him, are you? I mean, he’s a very nice person, I don’t recall him ever defending any axe murderers or anything like that.
We found quail everywhere, but this old farmhouse on the back of the place held the biggest covey that I’ve seen in 58 years of quail hunting. As we approached the ruins, Mike’s other setter pointed, but the birds spooked, flushing early. Way more than a hundred birds flew out of the windows, doors, from under the eaves, from beneath the floor joists, and out from under the tin roof of the old collapsed kitchen. We were so dumbstruck we never even lifted our guns, let alone fired them. We just stood there in slack-jawed awe. Rafe, Mike’s other setter gave Brian and me a disgusted look along with his best dog sneer, then trotted off after the singles, or in this case, normal coveys. We redeemed ourselves a little over the next 20 minutes by shooting more than a dozen. I got a double.
Did I mention that, in addition to all the quail, The Webb Farm has ponds? With bream in them? Your favorite kind of place: almost heaven. If you were still here, I’m sure Bill would let me bring you up to catch a mess.
Yes, of course, on a Saturday.
That brings me to one more reason we hunted Sunday: The dogs. How could you say “no” to dogs like these? Just look at them. We’d spent the morning hunting over Jube and then Rafe. Late Sunday evening, Mike put Rafe in the kennel, then brought out the puppies.
The puppies were Mike’s English cocker flushing dogs, Dani and Becca. In his late 70s, Mike says they’ll be his last gundogs. But I’m not certain. These dogs love hunting more than they love life itself. And Mike loves them just as much. He asked Brian and I to shoot any quail the little dogs accidentally flushed to get them used to the sound of the guns and to better understand what Mike wanted them to do. Training with pointers is still months away, so Mike let the puppies run wild. I watched as they tore into the fields, their noses and ears searching the air, the ground, the brush, learning the scents, the sounds, the tastes of their quarry. Observing the young dogs was a learning experience for me, too. I can see and feel the emotion of it. It is something very special, a culmination of events from far back in time, when we were closer to the earth and our survival was made easier by our symbiosis with this species.
Suddenly, Becca flushed a bob 30 yards out, hard to my left. She watched carefully as the little brown bird climbed strongly to the cool December air. It crossed to my right, between me and the low winter sun. I couldn’t see well because of the glare, but my 20-gauge was up, following the bird’s path. The barrels crossed the blur of the bird, and I squeezed. To my great relief, feathers flew and the bird tumbled to the ground. Becca was on him in a flash, somehow knowing that this is what will give her life meaning. It was my most important shot of the day.
I guess now’s not really the time to ask for a favor, Grandma, but I never quite know when I might hear from you again, so here goes: Would you tell Uncle Crawford that I’m taking good care of the Ithaca Model 37 he left me, and tell dad that he was right and that I should have listened to him about the joy and pride of training dogs. They truly are something special.
Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me.
Your grandson,
Duncan
Duncan’s grandmother, Mrs. William Crawford (Willa) Grant (1887-1989) taught him how to fish when he was three, to swim when he was five, to run a boat and motor when he was six, and how to drive a car when he was seven.
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