Storied is not exclusive to price tag or class. Occasionally the twain rub shoulders and have a bountiful supply of tales to tell, but there are no guarantees. This Purdey, however, had it all. Scratches and dings and rubbed-smooth spots. Cost? Likely something exceeding a new pickup truck. And classy as they get. Lush, impressionistic chords of glee straight from a Claude Debussy composition flitted through my head when I thumbed that side lever. Storied in all possible categories, this shotgun.
On my first New England woodcock hunt years back, a hunt I had dreamed of half my life, Bob Rose extracted the Purdey—a 16-gauge, side-by-side, of course—from a protective case, checked the chambers and handed the gun to me. Three of us, Bryce making stories with his 20-gauge Caesar Guerini, were in the throes of collecting a limit each of woodcock that fine Vermont morning; I was one bird short of a three-bird max. And allow me to add here that those who may consider this fist-sized bird a weak contributor to life stories brimming over with wealth have likely failed to adequately experience the gravitas of a proper covert, companionable companions and educated bird dogs.
I had, to this point in this first hunt, been toting a Citori Model 725 20-gauge and was fully satisfied with its performance; it and I as a couple only a few years into our relationship. But finalizing that pending limit with a gun dating back to the late 1800s, those years no doubt seeing it pass through the hands of a great many shooters, was particularly genteel. I apologized to the Citori.
And then a chittering flush, launching that zig-zag flight pattern powered by what appeared to be too-short wings, these moving in blurred rapidity, propelling the curious little woodcock to parts unknown, in and out of cover and darting in adroit fashion to avoid a charge of No. 8s. Finn, a truly striking canine, standing firm and composed throughout the entire episode.
My first shot, right barrel—directed toward my last bird that was now quickly vanishing into the thickness of a New England tangle—missed. Completely. No question. I froze. Suddenly, an honestly unexpected flicker of self-control coaxed my finger to the rear trigger, coaxed my eye to the bird and coaxed my mind to ignore the shotgun’s bead. Pointing now—not aiming and not expecting a hurried familiarity with this tool to surface in an abyss of the unfamiliar—focus on the bird, follow, lead, shoot. Number three of my limit lay near a hemlock. I thumbed the side lever and heard Debussy’s music again. I pocketed the empties.
Storied is an intriguing concept. The definition of that word is simple enough, but the guidelines giving credence to it are varied and rarely negotiable. Age, use, lineage, ownership, history, celebrity—those, and perhaps more, are up front when accepting an object to justifiably wear that delineation of storied. Age leans toward a given, for without age there has been precious little time to generate stories. But then age in itself is seldom adequate. The item could have been for generations standing in a corner or tucked under a bed or locked in a safe. No use results in anemic stories. Best to have a solid accumulation of those accredited qualifications stacked up and ready. Amply decorated was the Purdey.
But storied doesn’t require such an ethereal piece. Great Granddad’s single barrel. Gramps’ Fox. Dad’s battered Model 870. Even one’s own first, mine a Stevens double-barrel 20-gauge. All such items can be storied, for they, if used as they most certainly were, secret away a plethora of good times. These should never be neglected or forgotten. Even minus monstrous outlays of cash and glorious engraving from some master craftsman, their stories are viable.
Another New England woodcock hunt comes to mind. The Citori again, Bryce’s Guerini again, Bob again. This time he tugged a W. Richards 20 double with nitro proofed Damascus barrels from its case. It wore graceful hammers and what some call a Jones Screw Grip, others a Jones Rotary Under Lever—both designations acceptable and both adornments, the lever and the hammers, most obvious. This one, like that day with the Purdey, would be employed on my last of three birds.
The W. Richards was an agreeable little unit. Light, easy pointing, nostalgic, romantic. And when Finn mimicked a statue and the bird erupted with unquestioned vigor, I missed. By now some readers will conclude that I miss often, and there is legitimacy in such thinking. Occasionally I yank a trigger before the shotgun settles into my shoulder pocket as it should. Oft times I fail to get cheek to stock in proper form. Or I neglect to focus on the bird. The list is long, cajoling one to immediately surmise that I am a dismal shotgunner. Truth in that as well. But not always. I amaze myself from time to time, particularly with the Citori 20 or Beretta 28 or some other tool with which I am intimately familiar. The W. Richards was not on that list.
Finn’s second bird behaved in decent fashion. Straight away. An opening in the clutter. I employed proper mounting of the gun. Followed through. That one tumbled. And like that day with the Purdey, I once again got my third of three, the limit, with a shotgun possessing a generous genealogy of storied.
Rich in memory is the hike from that tangled bottom along a stream as late sun began casting lonesome shadows that afternoon of the W. Richards. A long day trailed us; legs begged relief. Shoulders ached. Consequently, we didn’t talk a great deal. But what talk we did was about the impossible shots we made, not those we missed. Talk of missing can have its benefits if we learn from the discussion and correct error, but too much contemplation on missing, whether with a shotgun or with more significant elements of living, can be troublesome, can perhaps instigate more misses by subliminally suggesting that we can do no better than miss. Revisiting the hits is more efficacious.
Unlike my Vermont-resident comrades, my time in those environs was growing short. An early drive to Albany and a morning flight waited the next day. Back then I had an agreement worked out with the airlines. All parties involved concurred that if I were not there when the flight was scheduled for departure, said flight was to just go on without me. With that assurance, it was good to get back to the domicile and pack. I would leave that following day as a contented hunter.
Though the title of this piece doesn’t indicate such, hunters and dogs can reasonably be added to the storied. These, in presence of distinctive, esteemed shotguns, regardless of their dollar value, form a fraternal bond that seeks to build remembrances, to collect and ultimately pass along stories, whether by the individuals building and collecting or by some other or others who follow and validate those aged tales sure to reach into the future.
I had neither my Citori nor Beretta, both having already cataloged ample years and dings and hits and misses to add validity and furnish fodder for grand recollections to be shared later should anyone care to hear. And those two shotguns will add more if I have anything to say about it. For some indescribable reason generally known well to shotgunners but brazenly bizarre to the uninitiated, I had not long before opted for a new beginning. And some would argue, justifiably, that new beginnings for one my age hold scant promise. Regardless, I settled that unkind potentiality by concluding that I might yet jump-start a beginning that would transfer to a new shotgun and subsequent owners of that unit, even if I were long past this world’s joys and travails.
Preceding this trip, I negotiated and groveled and visited incessantly with gun-shop personnel who displayed a handsome Rizzini 550 BR on the shop’s most prominent rack—28-gauge, naturally. Said haggling eventually failed me. Dejected, I walked away again but immediately turned briskly and wrote the check. To their specifications. I took the little double to Vermont.
Bob fetched me at the airport, 10:00 p.m. arrival. Burlington this time. Bryce would join us on the morrow. As quickly as Bob and I arrived at his house, two dogs greeted—Old Hemlocks, both. Finn, the only dog with which I have extended acquaintance in New England woodcock cover, walked up and greeted me like an old friend. The gentleman he is, Finn was not over jubilant or pretentious. He was simply there, slight tail wag, standing beside me, intelligent eyes greeting and welcoming and exuding affection. I knelt and spoke, stroked his perfectly-proportioned head and talked quietly to him. He reciprocated, even though he had never developed the execution of speech. He didn’t have to. His eyes spoke aplenty. Finn turned 10 a few weeks before that evening of my arrival.
And there was Spur. Marked almost identically to Finn, he was clearly juvenile yet gracious. None of that energetic jumping or other such frivolity but visibly young. Eleven months and already showing great promise. He, even on this our first meeting, welcomed me, though my Southern drawl was likely foreign. Finn, on the other hand, had learned Southern quite well over the years. Tomorrow should be a grand experience.
And overall it was. Bryce arrived in punctual fashion, we threw gear into a single vehicle, Finn and Spur climbed into their respective cubicles and we were off. But, we hit a bump with which I was not familiar, at least not familiar to previous sojourns for woodcock. Every year I had been, birds were numerous. This time, however, we got a slow start. Flight birds from more northern climes were basking in a long summer and had not yet packed their bags. Resident birds were there as usual, but they were a particularly disagreeable lot. Thick foliage, wild flushes—all worked against us. We found birds, but not in prodigious collections. The situation was rife with latitude to prompt some local to call a week or so later and note, “You should be here now.”
Subsequent days were similar, but scarce complaints generated from bird availability. We were woodcock hunting, getting the occasional point, hitting or missing the occasional shot, absorbing always the perfected demeanor and behavior of grand dogs and proper protocol of colleagues. Spur’s fouls, even at his young age, were infinitesimal.
One afternoon within the mix we elected to change tactics. Not just a change in tactics of woodcock hunting but a complete, undisputed change. We would take time out of the scheduled regimen and hunt snowshoe hares. Definitely something new for me, since snow is rare in the South and hares are nonexistent. But that warm weather again. This impeded the arrival of flight birds in the woodcock doings we had been experiencing, and it had precluded snow and likely that color morphing of the hares. Still we went, Cory Curtis with his beagles.
And we used storied shotguns. Three Model 12s, two in 20 gauge, Bryce’s in 12. One of the 20s dating back hard against the very earliest runs Winchester put on the market. All three zephyr smooth and nostalgic and prime examples of what a slide-action should be. More intrigue thrown into this hodgepodge of Vermont and birds and dogs and storied celebration. Beagles whined and squealed. Chopped and sorted scent. Hares hurried about, the too-warm weather allowing heavy vegetation to remain in place. Hunting was less than stellar, but a few Model 12 rumbles spelled a modicum of success.
One specific point during that last and most recent bird hunt comes to mind. It was late morning, and thoughts of heading home the following day had already begun to trickle through a tired body and brain. We were skirting a stream, the tangles encouraging slow progress. That point commanded, turned attention to nothing apart from taking positions and making the shot. Whether it was Spur honoring Finn or Finn honoring Spur was less than certain. Both held a rigid pose the moment we saw them. We closed and the bird was up.
It has already been established that I must take an initial practice shot. As the woodcock rose and maneuvered around a tree, I accomplished that prerequisite. And missed as expected. But presently there before me I saw an opening the size of a soccer ball, a vacating bird its center. The second barrel proved more productive than the first. And now, the story, the first with that new dog and new shotgun incorporated into the elixir of story gathering was off and running. Perhaps too early—or late—to begin dreaming of more stories to come, but I was unable to do otherwise. My companions seemed to share the same sentiments. Wait ’til next year was an unspoken yet concrete contrivance that was felt if not actually heard. More stories to develop and reserved for telling in the future. At least we hoped.
While walking back to the truck, I found myself in contemplation of the past and the future and the dogs and my fellow hunters. Age apparent in four among this assemblage; youth sparkling and urging in one. I wore the crown of years. But all considered, even youth affords no promises other than being young at the moment. Finn walked quietly beside me, he and I apparently sharing the sobriety of aging. Spur had no concept of such.
And I could not avoid a nemesis that kept goading: What stories am I building that will become storied? Certainly there are some, and since there are some, as well as someone following those stories and perhaps will follow in future’s distance the same as I follow distant stories of others and their storied shotguns, do my stories meet the criteria I would choose to follow if I were the one following? For what would I most prefer to be remembered? A tingle of amusement arose inside when considering I would prefer something other than my expertise with the shotgun. That sobriety of aging again. It disrupted my reverie and prompted toward loftier fertility, enhanced creativity and upraised reverence in actions for remaining days.
Then we were there. The truck. Sighs abundant. And we began planning for next year, more building of stories that we hoped would become storied.
This article originally appeared in the 2022 September/October issue of Sporting Classics magazine.