By Capt. David Bitters
It’s nice to be detached from the world now and then, and I think that’s what a whole lot of hunting and fishing is all about. It’s a chance to jump off the highway of life and take the country way home.
Country ways can lead to a lot of magical places. Sometimes it’s just breathing fresh air and lying on the bank watching a trout rise. Other times, it’s the last seconds of silence in a duck blind, as the black ducks cup their wings and turn into the blocks… Or maybe it’s the rush of seeing the ghost buck appear and disappear in the mist, or nearly jumping out of your skin as a grouse thunders out of the thicket you just walked past…
When the world seems to be flying by, falling down or building up all around you, its time to jump off the highway of life and take the back roads for a while. Take a good look at where all the other people are rushing off to. You may wonder that where they are going is not going to bring them the happiness they think they will find. Money, power, and fame, those great robbers of joy in this life, have a way of taking away the simple pleasures from a man.
I have a wall framed with some of my pictures of my hunting and fishing trips. Eiders on the bay, grouse and woodcock in Maine, deer in Vermont, turkey in the Berkshires, pheasants, largemouth, stripers, snowshoe… but one photo stands out from them all. It’s a photo of me and dad, a beat up old 12 gauge, and a pheasant-beagle dog. We are standing on the front lawn of our house, overgrown with weeds, and all five years of me is holding a big cock pheasant. Dad and I are both grinning.
This was my first hunt with Dad and I remember it well. We left the house and drove down Temple Street in Duxbury to the cranberry bogs. I’m sure Dad knew there were pheasants there. I remember walking through a field with him and stopping to watch a red fox saunter past right in front of us, by a big cedar tree. The image of the fox’s thick fur, fluffy tail, dark paws and eyes, as it trotted past without a care in the world, is still with me forty years later…Suddenly, three cock pheasants burst into the air and Dad’s gun spoke like thunder, as I ducked and covered my ears.
Sadly, that field and meadow by the bogs on Temple Street is covered with houses today. I still drive by and sometimes stop and stare for a moment. The cedar tree is still there, and if I look and then close my eyes, I can see a little boy, five years old, holding his Dad’s hand. They are walking through the field, Dad is carrying his 12 gauge and the little boy is carrying a big, stunning ring-necked pheasant. There is great wonder and excitement in the little boy’s eyes, and a peaceful contentment in the man’s…
Dad turns ninety-two this year and he is the last one left from his graduating class. He always liked to take the country way home. And on that day of my very first hunt, he showed me some of the wonder of it all and pointed the way.
This story originally appeared in Shotgun Life, the first online magazine dedicated to the best in wing and clays shooting. Capt. Bitters has a column called Your Monthly Dash of Bitters, which you can read at www.shotgunlife.com.
