It’s late August, and the nights have been getting noticeably cooler here in the Rocky Mountain foothills. The cold rain that began stitching down this morning has been drumming a steady cadence on the cedar shingles all day long. That’s how summer ends in Montana. One day it’s blistering hot and you’re wading a trout stream in shorts and a T-shirt; the next day dawns cold and rainy, with a fresh- off-a-glacier wind. Tomorrow, wet snow will likely blanket the high country. It’s time to say goodbye to summer and get ready for the opening of upland bird season on September 1.
The dogs, too, sense the change. When I took them for a walk in the rain this morning, Ollie the Brittany, a veteran of nine hunting seasons, bounced around like a six-month-old pup. Bailey, a four- year-old black Lab who loves the snow and cold, twirled in excited circles, free at last of summer’s oppressive heat. Her excitement is premature, of course, because when this storm passes there will be plenty of warm September days, followed by the glorious Indian summer days of October. But this first autumn storm will chase the tourists back to more hospitable climes, muttering, “Winter sure comes early in Montana.”
For the last three decades I’ve opened the bird season somewhere in Montana, always with a Lab or a Brittany, and usually both. Before that, with the exception of a few college years, I spent opening days chasing ruffed grouse and woodcock in Wisconsin, Minnesota, or Upper Michigan. Thanks to a father who introduced me to the Wisconsin grouse woods before I was old enough to carry a gun, I’ve been in love with game birds and shotguns since childhood. My life has been richer for it, if not my pocketbook.
One day not long ago, while I was rattling on about bird hunting to an acquaintance, he said, “You’re really passionate about it, aren’t you?” I hadn’t thought of my favorite pastime that way, but I had to admit he was right. I enjoy a lot of outdoor activities—fishing, hiking, birding, camping, wildlife photography—but wingshooting is in my blood.
What is it about bird hunting that compels us to spend countless hours training dogs and logging hundreds—or even thousands—of miles every fall in search of a perfect hunt? In part, it’s the wildness and beauty of the birds themselves. Upland game birds and waterfowl are noble creatures, the product of healthy habitats in rural landscapes. Whether it’s a long-spurred rooster pheasant in a Montana river bottom or a diminutive Gambel’s quail in Arizona’s Sonoran desert, game birds in flight against an autumn sky are the stuff of hunters’ dreams.
But it’s more than just the birds we seek. It’s the peace and serenity of the places where game birds live. It’s the fragrance of decaying leaves, the sight of hardwoods ablaze with color, the rose-tinged beauty of a prairie sunrise, the tang of autumn in the air. It’s the elegance and athleticism of gun dogs, doing what they’ve been bred and trained to do. It’s the heft of a familiar shotgun, perhaps one handed down from a father or grandfather. It’s the freedom to walk the woods or prairies until your legs ache, and come home happy at the end of the day. It’s the priceless hours spent afield with friends and family. It’s the bird hunter’s road—hunting rigs, leaky tents, campfires, small-town cafes, and mom-and-pop motels where the signs say “Hunters Welcome.”
There are many ways to enjoy bird hunting, but the one I have chosen is simple: no fancy hunting lodges with planted birds, no quail plantations with mule-drawn wagons, no driven birds in England or Scotland, no sizzling dove shoots in South America. I have nothing against these things; they’re fine for hunters with the financial means and the inclination to enjoy them. But for me, it has always been wild birds, a dog I’ve trained from a pup, an old gun that has served me well, and plenty of boot leather. Most of the time, my hunting trips have not yielded a bulging game bag. But they’ve provided me something more valuable: a wealth of experience, a slew of adventures, and a rich storehouse of memories. In the end, it’s not how many birds you shoot that is important; it’s how you take them and how you honor their taking.
Because I respect and admire gun dogs—both the upland breeds and waterfowl retrievers—you’ll read much about them here. For me, following gun dogs has been an irresistible calling, and I’ve been fortunate to roam the fields and marshes with several fine ones. More important, my dogs have shared and enriched my life year-round, and for that I owe them much. I hope you’ll enjoy coming along with us in the pages of this book.