The weather showed merely scant signs of promise as we set out on the road Monday morning; floods had ravaged eastern Alabama and Georgia and we listened intently to the reports of such on the truck radio. By the time we turned onto Highway 280 and made our way down to Sylacauga, the weather had cleared and the sun reminded us that it was not yet fall in those parts. We spent the evening having dinner with old friends and went to bed anxiously awaiting what the next day would have in store for us.
'Chopper', as our guide is known, had prepared quite an interesting experience for us we discovered, once we arrived at his house the following afternoon. He went over the rules with us, and then escorted us to our designated stations encircling a dark lake hidden deep within the woods. We took to our posts, loaded our shot guns, and began anticipating what would happen next. We did not have to wait very long.
I’ve neither saw a pheasant nor have I made an attempt to shoot at one; the birds are non-existent in our area of the world. Needless to say, they get airborne in an almost slow motion manner, but once their wings begin working, they are extremely fast. A lot faster than the quail or doves I have grown accustomed to stalking in the past. For the first few minutes of the shoot, the birds were winning and we looked foolish despite our expensive guns and carefully chosen ammunition. Luckily for our egos, a little correction to our technique (and changing to high-brass shells) made quite a difference in the final outcome. My shooting partner and I took down a lot of the birds and quickly began filling our tote-sacks with them.
There is a lot to be said about the sport of hunting or shooting birds, but there is so much more of what I experienced that day than simply bagging a prey. It was the site of the Labrador-retriever patiently swimming after the felled birds in the lake, the crisp hint of fall in the air as the sun flamed its golden hue while settling into the mountains. It was the feel of spent pellets sprinkling around you and on you from wayward shots fired from the other side of the lake, and the laughter of Chopper’s children who had graciously been allowed to take part in the activity. Most of all, it was a group of older men valiantly attempting to stave off mortality for just a few short hours with a reward of feeling young again, even if only momentarily.
My share of the birds currently reside in my freezer, and we are planning on cooking them this weekend. That will be a new experience for me as well; Chopper and the other veterans provided many different clues on how best to prepare them. In the end I know that it will be yet one more gift from the experience, and I find myself looking forward to it.
The process was not easy, looking back on it now that I am home. I have bruises on my shoulder and upper arm from the gun. And climbing over the hills and down the swales to each new post proved to be a most difficult task; especially for someone that is older now and in much-less-better shape than I was only a few years ago. Although it was a lot of fun, I am sore from the exertion tonight. I could conceivably purchase pheasant from a grocery store, maybe not in this area, but in our world of Fed-Ex and the Internet anything has become possible. But what would be the fun in that?
“The slothful man roasteth not that which he took in hunting: but the substance of a diligent man is precious.” Proverbs 12:27
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