October 1, 2001

Day One

October 1st in years past has always been looked on with much anticipation. All of us knowing in the last three quarters of a decade that October 1st brings many things to the table. First and foremost, the camaraderie  of bringing close friends together in this annual early Fall experience. The dogs, the land, the freedom to do this thing that we all enjoy and love so much. The birds almost are secondary. We have in the past not even seen birds and although it was disappointing, it was not going to affect the way we enjoy each other's company. It has become a ritual. Practiced by hundreds of thousands of men and women and youngsters all over this country. We have all been very fortunate in our lives. I don't believe we take things for granted. I believe we are too smart for that kind of thinking. We take it all in.

The darkness of the predawn, the whining of the dogs, the early morning fog and mist. The first sounds of gunfire crackling through the dead morning air. The whistles, bells, beepers and shouts from other hunters echoing across the fields. The wondering if there's going to be any birds waiting for us. Gentlemen, this is what I mean by all of it. We take it all in. 

Nothing it seems could alter that feeling. Nothing until September 11, 2001.

The events of that day cast a dark gray pall over the nation. We were all affected by it. It was a numbing sobering experience for all of us. Up until that day I was eagerly anticipating the first of October. Max would be turning 10 on September 14 and I was going to give him my 20GA 870 Pump that my dad bought for me when I was 12. It was to be a emotional, but happy occasion. We were all robbed by the events of that day. Still numb form the shock of the attack, I gave Max the gun in the basement. Just he and I. We talked about the significance of the gun and what it meant to me. We tried not to think about what was going on in the world but it was hard. We tried to focus on his birthday, but it was hard. We lost a friend on the first plane out of Boston and Max's Grampy was deep in Pakistan. It was directly affecting us.
But, we got through it. We all did. Then slowly but surely, the whole country got back into the saddle. Our lives were all changed that day. Nothing will ever be the same, but we will as a country and nation survive this. We will, as America always has in the past, defeat evil. We will win this long tedious war. We will live our lives, as our fathers before us, had fought to preserve. We will go on. We will hunt on Opening Day.

0500 the alarm has not gone off yet and I am wide awake. Doing my daily sit-ups I try in vain to finish before the thing goes off and wakes Cory. Too late. "Sorry" I whisper. Exasperated, she gets up to reset it for 6:30AM. "Don't worry, Max will be fine." I tell her as I walk past in my brush busters. "He better be." she answers with eyes closed. Out in the hallway I glance down at Max who's still sleeping. Heading off to the kitchen to start the coffee machine the dogs are jumping out of their skin. How do they know? Is it in bred in them? Is October 1st something dogs talk about among themselves? In either case, it's difficult to control their excitement. After starting the coffee, I gather some gear and load the jeep. The dogs are out in the pen now and it's time to wake the boy. The moment I touched his arm he bolted up with a huge grin on his face. "Max you still want to do this?" I asked. "Yes, Yes dad!" he replied pulling away his blankets and immediately getting into his new brush busters. The boy was jacked. Smiling I led him out into the kitchen for a muffin and a traditional (or soon to be traditional) drinking apple juice from the pheasant glass. "May the spirit of Papa be with you today and everyday. May the spirit of all of those who have passed before us be with us today. All of them, men, women and dogs. Amen."

Just then Cory came out and said "Please let those dogs back in they are whining so loud out back." She then gave us both a kiss and I thought I detected a slight smile from her. You see boys, I was in the proverbial dog house. I was taking Max out of school. I was in deep doo doo. I sheepishly said again, "Don't worry. He'll be fine." And with those words, we waited in the driveway for you guys. First came Rich and then Jeff, after a few quiet happy greetings we were off to Sandersons. Jeff, Max and I in the jeep and Rich in the Mustang.

By the time we got there the lot was pretty full. Maybe 15 cars and twice as many hunters. Maybe a dozen or so dogs of every breed. There they were, walking into the fading darkness like soldiers on patrol. It was only a matter of minutes before the first shot rang out. Frantically trying to get two dogs set-up as well as Max and myself, we were looking like we'd be the last to enter the field.
Trying to absorb all of this for posterity, I inadvertently left key items in the vehicle. Max's sling, and some apples. Could of used both many times.

Heading down onto the runway, we had already decided that we'd be doing the easy hunt this year. But I felt like we were on a conveyor belt and the birds were being taken by the hunters before us. At the last minute we decide to head off directly into the back field. The four of us and the two dogs. On paper we look like a formidable group. In reality, we were like anyone else out there. Or at least at this time of the day. A few shots did ring out here and there but nothing like you'd expect on Opening Day.

Making our way through the dark woods that borders the back field and the stream we avoid having to directly deal with the illegal Posted sign. Once in the field we start our trek. In and around the deep grass and weeds, stumbling over hidden roots and sticks. Beepers coming in and out of earshot, small song birds whizzing by causing each of us to jolt for that one  split second thinking BIRD! But in the very next second the reality of what it is. Stupid shitbird. Clueless, they fly in and out of the war zone. I'm sure many a songbird has tumbled from the sky from an errant shot from those less experienced. Thank God, none of us has ever shot the wrong bird. We're after the Ring Neck Pheasant. And, there's no mistaking them for anything else.

Typically, pheasants will roost in trees at night. They wouldn't normally venture out into the fields until the sun warms things up. But these birds are far from typical. There's no rhyme or reason for their behavior. Which I guess, is another challenging aspect. It's hard to figure out where they are. In years past we've found them in the woods, in trees, in swamps, in cold wet fields. Hell, I've found them hiding right out in the middle of the runway. Like I said, there's no set pattern of where to find them. That happens late in the season when they become survivors, and they acclimate themselves to the surroundings. Right now we're dealing with liberated birds.

Back and forth we trudge. The dogs coming into more dog scent than bird scent. The occasional shot rings out and we all look in the direction of the shot. By 8:00AM we have not fired our guns nor have we seen a bird. Scout has lost his vest in the thorns somewhere and Max is starting to tire. We finally stop for our first break.

Max is very happy to here this day. We have both been anticipating this day for weeks. The last 3 weeks we have practiced every night "snapping in" on the mounted birds in the basement. For the record, the United States Marine Corps has their recruits snap in on targets for just one week before they actually fire their weapons. Max was ready. I was sure of his ability to fire the gun and to handle it with safety in the field. I was however, not sure of how he'd do when a bird flushed in his face. We were all about to find out.

Deciding to re-enter the back field after crossing the stream with one unproductive point from not one but both dogs. And also, the sad discovery of the new golf course raping hundreds of acres of natural forest and wildlife habitat, we needed to get away from all of that and go back to our continuing shrinking world. Back in the backfield we start from the low end and push towards the houses and the adjacent field. Gunny gets very birdy and starts tracking along the edge. Scout soon joins in. This is for real, suddenly all idle chatting stops and we all go into the familiar hunt mode. Max walks up with gun at port arms. Rich yells that Gunny is locked up. Sure enough, the old boy is solid. Facing back at us we position ourselves to where Gunny is pointing. Scout shows up and immediately locks up. Facing the same way. But then he turns himself completely around facing the opposite direction. Gunny remains motionless. This is what Gunny does. He goes on point and he will only adjust if the command is given. Scout on the other hand is short on style but big on finding birds. The set-up is complete. Thanks to the luxury of pointing dogs. This is not something we can do with any other breed. Pointing dogs make things more controlled. The stage is set. Except someone forgot to tell the bird to sit still. By the time I went to flush the bird, I realized that this bird has vacated the area. I released both dogs and the madness commenced. Suddenly, to my right the cackling sound of Rooster with a dog up his butt took to the airways. I shoot twice as does Rich. The bird undaunted, flies off to the far side of the field and lands. "I missed?" I hear Rich say to himself and anyone else within earshot. "I led him perfectly..." After a quick check on everyone's status, we move for a quick relocate. With everyone again in position we get ready to step off and push through the field. I'm convinced the bird is nearby. I see Gunny out of the corner of my eye wheel into a solid point. I call over to Max to get into the new position. As I'm getting Max ready, Scout joins Gunny and he too slams into a solid point. It is a picture perfect scene. The two dogs locked up on a bird, their nostrils full of scent. The bird a quivering mass of nerves and energy counting down the seconds before take-off. Everyone is in position. Rich to the far right. Jeff to the far left. Max is next to Jeff and I'm on the other side of Rich. Last minute instructions to Max and we are good to go. The anticipation is unbelievable. Where will the bird get up?

I step to the left of both dogs and the bird erupts between Max and I. All eyes turn towards Max as he lifts the old Wingmaster Pump and pulls the trigger . The bird takes the shot and falls to the ground dead. "You did it Max!" I yelled. Max looks confused for a split second then raises a clenched fist and yells "YEAAAAAAHHHH!" By the time Jeff and I got to the bird I was making sure that he didn't shoot. Thank God he didn't. There were two shots fired. One from Max and one from me. There are times in your life when events happen that will never leave your memory bank. A grand slam in little league, a touchdown in a big game, etc. etc. etc. This will be one of those times for Max. He will never forget that moment for the rest of his life. Many many years from now when we are too old to hunt, and our kids become parents, hopefully they will be able to share with their own children the joys of what we all witnessed yesterday. Max will tell his child. On October 1, 2001 I shot my first bird at the age of 10 with my first shot. 10/1/01. Look at those numbers. Max shot his first bird with his first shot on 10/1/01 when he was 10.
It wasn't until after when Max confessed to us that he was so nervous prior to that shot. "I was thinking all morning, what if I miss?" Well, that pressure is behind him now. He can miss and not worry about it. He got his first bird. The bird was pointed by his dogs. You could not have scripted a better scene.

Life at that moment was beautiful. We were not thinking about the uncertain world we live in, but rather the simple pleasure and joy of watching a young boy take that first step into our world. Max had arrived. As he later said to me, "Dad I'm a bird hunter!" "Yes you are Max, yes you are." I replied.

Minutes later Rich decides that duty calls so it's off to work for him. Just as he does, the scene almost repeats itself, because in the very same spot Gunny goes on point in the far back field. This time I see the bird. It's a hen. I flush it and realize that she's wing tipped. Thus begins a series of events that leads up to Scout eventually pointing the Houdini of Birds. We give the bird to Rich and say our good byes as we continue to hunt. Max is grinning from ear to ear. The tail feathers sticking out of his pouch as he hunts with Jeff and I.
Two hours later we decide to break for lunch.

At the Jeep we take a well deserved break and Max admires his first bird. Stroking the feathers and holding the bird it is evident that Max is one of us. Clearly you must remember what it was like the first time you shot a game bird. It is an amazing feeling. Max could not be any happier. I'm so very thankful that you guys were there to witness and take part in the whole process. We are greeted by other hunters who offer praise to Max. Finally we decide to get some chow and head off to Dover.

After a drive-thru at McDonalds we pull up at Dover to count 9 cars. Just enough to stay and try our luck, anymore vehicles and we would of left. As we were getting out of the Jeep we hear a rooster flying towards us crowing and cackling to beat the band. Jeff spots it and I tell him to mark the spot he flew to. Just as we get ready to find that bird a hunter runs up to the parking lot with a big English Setter. Obviously in hot pursuit. Oh well.

We rethink our destination and then head off. For the next 2-3hours we walk and trudge our way through tall grass and "HUGE TOILET PAPER ROLLS!"
We find nothing except the growing pain in our legs and backs. Deeper and deeper we go. No bird scent, no birds, no shots. This place is so big...I hope they never sell this off to anyone. We walk and walk. Max falls and falls. The excitement of his first bird has worn off and now the constant walking has taken over. By the end of the day Max has fallen 11 times. Only once or twice with the gun. Mostly on his own. I end up carrying his gun most of the time. The rows of corn give us a view of what Pheasant hunting must of been like in the past in New England. It is beautiful to say the least. We find no birds out back, we find no birds walking up the back trail. The dogs are becoming tired too. The Grouse woods that Jeff and I discovered years ago offer no relief. We are basically trudging along, like foot soldiers after a long hard battle. Max dragging his butt, Jeff and I keeping to ourselves secretly hoping for something to occur. Nothing does. At one point we are at the field where that nice home is on the edge of the field and we are walking through this newly cut path. Realizing that we are here in vain we decide to walk back down. I looked back to see Jeff just standing there. "What's wrong?" I ask.
"I think Gunny's on point." he answers. Sure enough, off in the distance, the constant drone of the beeper could be heard. Sadly by the time we got back to where Gunny was the bird had vacated the area. With several escape routes available it is impossible to determine where the bird was. Scout's whirring tail is indication that yes, there was a bird here...but he's gone now. Sorry Gunny.

So off we go back to the vehicle. If we walked 3 miles at Sandersons then we walked another 3 and possibly more at Dover. Max was clearly dropping out of the hump now. Jeff and I were tired and I could see that Gunny was going to be stiff later. One final rest at the top of the hill with the rows of corn behind us we  sit and talk. When it's time leave I drop two shells into my gun. Max says, "Why are you doing that? We're not going to see any birds." We had not walked 10 paces when one of the dogs in the corn kicked a big cackling Rooster out of his hiding place. Jeff shoots, and I shoot twice. "Did we get him?" I ask. "By the sounds of him still crowing, I'd say no." Jeff answers.
Meanwhile Max is yelling"Give me my gun! Give me my gun!"
We get around the other side of the cornfield and the dogless hunters are already closing in on the bird. A shot or two later and the bird is in their pouch. We try to find another bird along the rows of corn but luck is running out for us, so are our legs. It is becoming difficult to hunt for all of us. Dogs, men and boy. We are beat. Back to the jeep we reflect. Opening day. We got two birds. We saw four. Not bad. But how do you measure the feelings that Max enjoyed? You don't. Like I said before, some memories we have in our lives stay with us forever. This day will be one. Oh, driving off...I heard a bing bang bong. My gun was on the roof of the jeep and fell off onto the dirt road. Could of been worse for sure. Being tired and dealing with all of the elements proved to be too much for my frazzled brain to handle.

By the time we hit 95 Max was fast asleep. I stopped by Sandersons to check it out. Just two vehicles, one was a bow hunter. No takers in the jeep. I don't think the dogs even raised their heads. Oh well, off we go into the journals of another opening day.

Later that night while cleaning the bird with Max, there was only one shot in the upper breast cavity. It was directly from the angle from where Max fired. The other shots were in the head. Did Max hit that bird in the head? I don't know for sure. But some things are better left unsaid. This is Max's memorable day and I'm so glad that you guys were there to witness it all.

Max said to me last night as I tucked him into bed. "Just think dad, in two years Richie can join us and in 7 years Ryan will join us." I smiled and said "Won't that be a special Opening Day". And it will.