Written on a Sunday evening in Charlotte, North Carolina, this letter originally appeared in Sundown Covey (1986). The author dedicated his book to his grandsons “and all who share with us the precept that the hunting and the fishing are more important than the kill and the catch.”
Dear Herb,
Everything I read these days talks about a recession and I got to takin’ a look at my assets to see what kind of a return I was gettin’. Figured I must be doin’ better’n most anybody when I considered everything.
Now just take my investment in bird huntin’. I’ve put in about 50 sessions out of my three score allotted years, and hope I’ve got some more stored away for the future. And it has paid off a sort of cumulative preferred dividend—each year I add to all the others the memories of what we lawyers call the next-preceding-season. If you look at it that way, I’ve got a sizeable hunk of capital and it’s compoundin’ interest like crazy. And the beauty of it is, I don’t ever spend it. Share it, but don’t spend it.
For example, it’s almost opening day and I’m sittin’ here like some miser countin’ his millions, and just reviewin’ last season alone, I feel rich. Or better, take one Saturday, and see what it produced.
Bob White is a gentleman and doesn’t get up early, so it’s eight o’clock on a February morning. The boys and I have picked up the dogs, stopped at the Waxhaw Grill 20 miles down the road for grits and eggs and two cups of coffee. The truck has slid into the ruts of an old loggin’ road , under a cedar and sorta out of sight of the next bird hunter comin’ by. No need to advertise the woods covey halfway between the pickup and the beanfield.
Old Spook and Polly Who? (that’s her registered name) have busted hell-for-leather straight for the bi-color patch, and Pete’s Buck is ranging off to the right. It’s 40 degrees and the hoar-frost is standing in the wagon tracks as stiff and grey as my whiskers. A fox has rousted the woods’ birds, and they’re sure to have flown to the soybeans, and anyway, that’s the breakfast table for at least two other coveys, regularly.
So we come out of the pines and hit a strip of broomstraw and three dogs are marbleized out front. And for the next five minutes you find yourself projected into some slow-motion sequences, like in a picture show. You know the feelin’. Sort of a sense of unreality—as though you’re standin’ off watchin’ yourself go through the ritual. Not déjà vu; it’s happening now. But strangely detached.
You take the center and step up toward the point. On your left, peripheral vision tells you your big old bearded boy (you can’t realize he’s old enough for law school) has swung his 16 pump to ready. Right side, and there’s a six-foot son-in-law you actually like, growling an unmentionable as a random briar branch grabs his ear. Your little 20 gauge comes up so smoothly you are never conscious that you’ve flicked the safety as the first bird flutters. And the old familiar, never-expected, never-forgotten whrrr-r of the covey rise. The boys are blacked out as you follow a straight-away cock-bird, and there’s a soundless explosion of feathers, but you’re too greedy on the double.
Suddenly the scene is frozen for you. The mental camera clicks with Spook mouthin’ his retrieve, and Polly chasin’ a cripple through the blackberry bushes, and Buck tenderly handin’ Pete one of his two kills. And the whole thing is etched on your memory like one of the frames in a slide-projector, full color. Dark green lob-lolly pines, backing golden strawfield, brown blobs of hunters, white setters, sky now dolomite blue, and cottontufts of clouds just touched with slanting sunshine.
The day goes on, and there’s a fullness in it. The warmth of good companions, the steady, not-too-perfect dog work, the high excitement of the search, the pleasant lull between the points.
Past noon and old Spook is tired. He’s had his full, unbelievable, 14 years of single-minded, unblemished dedication. Old dog, old friend. The truck’s awhile away. And when he stops and sags, the Boy hands you his gun and swings the grand old man onto his broad, young shoulders and helps repay the hours when dog broke boy. You’re touched at the mutual affection, and love for them both is a very real thing.
But what a day! Seven, by golly, seven coveys found, pointed, shot over. A respectable number of quail snuggled in each huntin’ vest, and plenty left for seed.
And what a payoff. If you figure 624 available bird huntin’ hours to the season, here on this short Saturday, you’ve only committed six. That means you’ve put in, today, only 1/106th of your investable “capital.” You can turn your memory-money over, like your inventory, at least once a month for the rest of the year, so I conclude that’s a 900 percent profit. Try turning that through your mini-computer. And tell me any stock, Big-board, or Amex that can touch it.
Bird huntin’, boy. What an investment!
Sincerely, Dave
This story is one of 40 featured in The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, now available from Sporting Classics. This fascinating anthology features 40 stories from those halcyon days when sporting gentlemen pursued the noble bobwhite quail with their favorite shotguns and elegant canine companions. Buy Now
