It hangs on the wall in my study, framed and matted, and like all photographs, freezing one fleeting moment in time. I call it One Old Double in a Field of Autos, but actually, the title isn’t totally accurate.
The “field” really consists of four autoloaders and four pump guns. It also could easily be titled One Old Sixteen Gauge in a Field of Twelves, but that wouldn’t be quite true either; one of those pumps is a 20. The list reads like a who’s who of American shotgun manufacturers: Four Brownings and two Remingtons. One Stevens. A Winchester. Oh, and the one Old Double? It’s an Ansley A. Fox A Grade in 16 gauge c. 1923, 28-inch barrels, 6 pounds 4 ounces. With an ounce of 6s in its improved cylinder-choked barrel and one of 5s in the modified left, it’s a pheasant-killing machine when the operator does his part. And as you’ve probably surmised, that operator is me.
The choices of guns and such among those in the picture have been an ongoing source of puzzlement, amusement and even incredulity and have, over the years, produced their share of chiding, joking and even good-natured ridicule. I have referred to the other folks in the photo – fondly, and a little tongue-in-cheek – as The-12-Gauge-Autoloader-With-the-Plug-Out-Crowd. I do not know if they have a name for me, but if they do it might be something like The-Odd-Guy-With-Those-Funny-Old-Shotguns, my penchant for 16- and 20-gauge guns running contrary to theirs for 12s, and furthered by their amazement that someone would carry a shotgun with only two shots, when you could have four or five.
The reasons for me are many: Game in the bag has often been of secondary importance to me, and what keeps me going, here in my third quarter-century, is the doing – the being out there. I like to bag a bird as much as the next guy, but I’ll wager that in some of my favorite memories, I came home empty-handed or nearly so. To that end, I feel that any bird I can’t bag with two shots deserves to fly on. For another thing (and I’ll admit it), it’s the romance. I identify with American sportsmen of, say, the 1920’s through 1950s. To me, those were the golden years of American outdoor sports. I love the guns, I love the gear, and I love the philosophy, and I like feeling that I’m carrying on something. Call me nostalgic or think I’m some sort of throwback? I’m OK with it.
You’ll note that all the folks in the photo are younger than I – some a little, some a lot. Some are still caught up in that higher/faster/farther thing: more game in the bag means a better time. I get it; I’m just not in that place, and never was. And to them, a modern gun is a better and more efficient tool to achieve an end, and a 12 gauge gives them a better chance of achieving that end than my 16s and 2’s. I get that too, and they may be right. But part of the experience for me is having a nice old double in the crook of my arm, and I know from experience that if I do my part, those gauges will do theirs. It’s how I like to do it, and if I can’t do it that way, well, I’ll just stay home.
The photo is dated November, 2012. It’s an impromptu setting somewhere on the western Kansas prairie; a delayed timer shot from somebody’s pocket camera set on a pickup hood. It’s a family photo – me, three brothers-in-law, four nephews and a great niece. You might notice the absence of the obligatory lineup of downed game. Not that there wasn’t any, although to tell the truth, I really don’t remember. My guess is that plenty of wild prairie roosters and maybe even a few quail lay in the pickup beds. It might be that there wasn’t time, or that no one thought of it, or maybe it’s because it wasn’t yet the end of the day and there would be more birds taken before the end of shooting light. But I like to think it’s because that really wasn’t the point. I also don’t remember whose idea it was to stop and take a picture, or why, or anything about the actual event. I just know I’m glad it happened – much gladder today than I was then.
The day was just one of many that various combinations of us have spent together on those prairies, walking the miles, stumbling over the corn stubble, thrashing our way through the tangles of tallgrass and sunflower stalks and Russian thistles, sometimes on days so warm that a t-shirt is too much, some when the wind is so cold that you feel you’ll never be warm again, all on the trail of a three-pound bird, even though you can buy a chicken cleaned, cut up and ready for the pot all day long for less than the price of a box of shells. But if you’re reading this you probably already understand why, and if you don’t . . . well, I doubt any amount of explaining will help.
I look at the photo often; it’s a reminder to me of the totality of it: All the days afield, all the great shots and all the frustrating misses, the laughter and the cussing, the rattle of a handful of shells in a vest pocket and the weight of a pair of birds in the bag on the long walk back to the truck.
It’s been years now since the photo was taken, and I have to admit, not all the memories are good. Today, they’re particularly bittersweet, remembering two brothers-in-law and a nephew who were taken from us far too soon. A brother-in-law and his son who no longer come to hunt. One nephew who has moved away and only comes back occasionally; a great niece who no longer hunts at all. The times this photo recalls won’t be repeated, and that makes me sadder than you can imagine. But I do have my memories. And I have this photograph.