I don’t remember the date, what boots I wore, or what kind of vest I had. But I remember the flush.
Brady, Texas. Bobwhite quail. A covey, all at once, like they’d been holding their breath and finally let go. I was twelve, carrying a 20-gauge Mossberg pump that was heavier than it needed to be, especially for a kid who didn’t yet know what he was doing. My dad and Uncle Dennis were there. One of them probably said something just before the flush. I didn’t hear it.
I don’t know if I hit a bird. Doesn’t matter now, and it didn’t really matter then. I remember the dust, the smell of mesquite, and the way my dad looked at me after I fired. He didn’t say much. Just nodded, like a man recognizing something that was already decided.
That night we had quail for dinner. Don’t know if any of them were mine. I pretended they were, and nobody corrected me.
I’ve been chasing birds ever since.
Some people chase them through spreadsheets and tag data. I’ve followed them the old way—boot leather, dog work, and the faint optimism that this ridge or that alder run might still hold one more.
You can go a long way like that.
Montana’s good if you like the sky. The Dakotas will humble your shooting. Maine’s where the birds duck between trees as thick as broom handles. California quail don’t play fair, and the woodcock in Louisiana come out of the ground like spirits, never where you looked, always where you stepped.
I don’t go to these places to find birds, exactly. I go because that’s where the birds take me. And because at some point it stops being about the thing you’re looking for and becomes about the looking.
The dogs understand this better than I do.
Blackjack was the first. English Cocker. Black and white. Had a nose like a divining rod and worked the cover like he’d read the blueprint. He didn’t overthink anything. Just trusted his nose and hoped I’d catch up.
He’s been gone a long time now. I still carry him with me, which I know sounds sentimental, but isn’t. It’s just true.
Now I hunt with four of them. Each a different problem with legs.
Oliver is the old one. Ten now. Moves like he’s seen it all and doesn’t need to prove anything. If he slows down, it’s only because he’s figured out that I miss less when I’m not chasing him.
Bull is built like a clenched fist and runs like he’s got a debt to settle. Hard-working, high-strung, occasionally insane.
Remi hunts like it’s a social contract he never fully agreed to. He’ll put up a bird, but only after some internal debate.
Xoco is young. Liver-colored, reckless in the way youth usually is. Fast, wild, convinced every flush is a personal achievement. He looks back at me like Wasn’t that something?, even when I miss, which is often.
They all hunt better than I shoot. But that’s always been the arrangement.
Upland birds aren’t generous creatures. They flush wild, twist through the air, and seem to know the exact size of every shooting lane. Quail hold just long enough to lull you into a bad shot. Grouse leave like bottle rockets. Woodcock don't even bother to fly straight. You learn not to take it personally.
The real work is in the walking. That’s what nobody tells you when you’re getting started. That the miles are the point. Not the birds. Not really.
You walk through frost and fog, through heat, through sleet, through cover that shreds your legs and breaks your spirit. You do it because somewhere out there, one bird might sit just long enough for the dog to pin him, and for you to do everything just right.
And when you don’t, the dog looks back like, Well, we’ll call that practice.
I’ve made friends on these walks, lost a few too. Some drifted, some died. The ones that stayed, we don’t talk much while we hunt. You don’t need to. A nod goes a long way when the bird goes up and no shots follow.
Sometimes I think the birds are just an excuse to be in places where things still make sense. Places where it matters how the wind moves and where the dog last cast and whether the ground’s soft enough to hold scent.
Places where the flush, when it comes, happens fast enough to erase whatever else was in your head.
And when it’s all over, when the boots come off, the dogs curl up in the cab, and your legs ache in a good way, you don’t feel like you won anything. Just that you were allowed to play. Which, when you think about it, is more than fair.
I don’t know how long I’ll keep doing this. My knees might decide before I do. But I know this: somewhere, there’s a bird tucked tight in a thicket I haven’t walked yet, and a dog who hasn’t seen it but will.
And I’ll be there too. Just behind.