“In the middle 1930s, I wrote an article on sheep hunting for Esquire. In it, I said, the only people who could afford to hunt sheep were the rich and the poor – the rich because money didn’t mean much to them; the poor because they had a lot of time that was worth little or nothing. I started out as a poor sheep hunter in Sonora. I was my own outfitter, guide, and cook. There were others like me. Later, I made more money, and a rich magazine was willing to finance my hunts so I could pound out stories.”
-Jack O’Connor, The Best of Jack O’Connor
Thursday, November 2, 2006
We all meet at Raimey’s house and load our stuff. Somehow everybody’s gear fits into Kirk’s toolbox, in the truck bed, and on the receiver mounted rack. It’s 9:15 P.M., and we are headed for Kansas. The late departure should put us there just in time to check into the hotel. We drive through the night in 4 hour shifts. At first, everyone is jacked up with the excitement of finally getting away from work and home, and no one can sleep. This makes the small hours before daylight a brutal slog, because that initial surge of energy wears off for each man at about the same time. We use the buddy system to keep an eye on each other, and we stop whenever necessary to take on fuel, exercise the dogs, or make a restroom pit stop. At one point during the night, I am certain that I am inches from taking out a deer leaping into the road. Fortunately, it’s only a tumbleweed.
Friday, November 3, 2006
We arrive in Concordia, Kansas, at 11:30 A.M., road weary and saddle sore. There is a Pizza Hut directly across the street from our hotel, and we descend on the lunch buffet like a plague of locusts. Locusts that drink beer. There is a surprise in store when we check into our hotel; the only room they have for us is a Jacuzzi suite. A couple of the guys are grumbling about the amount of floor space taken by the tub and the extra cost, but I could kiss the girl behind the counter. I know from last year how sore I’ll be tomorrow evening and how good that hot water will feel. I make no attempt to hide my enthusiasm for all things wet and bubbly, and the guys snort derisively. What can we do, I shrug unconvincingly, it’s all they have. Darn the luck, I’ll just have to soak in that pesky tub after all. If we’re stuck paying for it, somebody should use it. I’ll take one for the team.
We unload the truck, and each man does a gear check. We all install slings on our shotguns, and some of the guys add magazine extensions and longer springs. This will later be the subject of some controversy, but we’ve hunted this country before, and we know how long you can push the birds without seeing a rooster. Then, after miles of rough walking, the birds you’ve been chasing all day get up in tremendous numbers. We have seen groups of 50 or more in a pheasant “covey rise.” If you only get to do this once a year, and you’ve driven 15 hours to do it, “3 and out” is not the way to go. The long recoil design of the A-5 limits me to an unplugged 5 rounds, but you can bet your sweet bippy that plug will stay in the hotel room. Pheasants are not migratory birds, so all the extra rounds are legal.
Kirk is missing his sling, so he borrows one from R.J.’s backup gun. We swap money around to cover the cost of groceries, licenses, and shells, and we stage all of our clothing for in the morning. Dinner finds us at the El Puerto Mexican restaurant, and we stop off at a wonderful store called Liquor Outlet on the way back to the hotel. They have a banner that says “Welcome Hunters,” so we make ourselves right at home. Raimey always makes our morning coffee, and he buys some Amaretto Di Saronno to “wake up the flavor.” Somebody gets some Bailey’s Irish Cream as well, and R.J. and I purchase Bud Light and Bud Heavy respectively.
Back at the hotel, I do an hour of reading for work. I hope my supervising attorney reads this and rewards my extreme dedication to duty. Having managed to get through the day without a nap, we’re asleep at 8:30 P.M.
“The same way with a dog that chases rabbits. If he’s a hound, let him go chase rabbits. But a setter dog or a pointer dog hasn’t got any right to indulge himself in chasing rabbits. It is what the people in Washington call a nonessential luxury. A dog or a man has got to do what he has got to do to earn his keep, and he has got to do it right.”
-Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy
