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My father should have been a writer for an outdoor magazine because of the great storyteller he was.
From as far back as I can remember, my father told me of his hunting and fishing adventures, most of which had a touch of comedy and a dash of heroism to keep us kids on the edge of our seats. We would pester him to tell us one more story until mom would rescue him and send us all out to play.
A Loyal Companion: Lucky the English Setter
When Dad was younger, he had an English setter named Lucky. He bought the dog from a woman who had rescued him from a hunting kennel on a quail plantation in the South. She saw the trainer beating Lucky for not backing properly (pointing behind another dog on point) while visiting a friend. She brought Lucky back to western New York, and my dad heard from a friend that she was looking to sell him. He countered to her house fast enough. This was the best pointing dog he’d ever hunted over. Lucky was methodical about working a field, never ranged too far, and retrieved everything.
The Perfect Hunt
One day, at the end of a long season of bird hunting, my dad had seventy-eight woodcock without a miss. He was hunting with his good buddies Buck, Whitey, and Floyd. They were following Lucky into a thorn apple thicket when the dog went on point. “Get ready, he’s got one pinned down,” Dad said. As the boys moved forward, out shot a woodcock. As the bird tried to dive behind the nearest cover, the report of Dad's twenty gauge filled the air. “Did you get him?” someone yelled. “I think so,” Dad replied. Buck came over right away and helped search, but they couldn’t find it. “Looks like your streak has ended,” Buck smiled wide. Dad said, “Oh well, it had to happen sooner or later.” So, on they hunted, happy with the dog making a nice point.
Not too far down the ridge, Lucky locked up again in a thick mess of grape vines that grew wild along the hills. Most of the cover was thorn apple sumacs and patches of maple and oak hardwoods. Dad and Whitey tried pushing through the tangled mess when a grouse thundered from the cover. When Dad tried to raise his gun, it was held down by grape vines. Quickly, he pointed in the direction of the fleeing bird and fired from the hip. The grouse tumbled out of the air in an explosion of feathers. Buck hollered from up above, “Did ya get him?” which was the standard question after a shot was fired. Whitey yelled back, “This son of a gun is shooting them from the hip!” It was the kind of shot that made him a legend among his peers. Well, the hunt ended after a few more points and some boot leather was worn off. Back at the car, Buck pulled a dead woodcock out of his vest and tossed it to Dad. Buck said, “Here’s your darn woodcock.” He had seen it fall at the shot and hurried over to pick it up while pretending to help look for it. They all had a good laugh and congratulated Dad on a season without a miss on the elusive woodcock.
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With the right gear and a bit of luck, you might find yourself with stories just as memorable as my father's. Happy hunting!
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