Bill Tapella,Why I Hunt

Bill Tapella & Floyd Brosam after a hunt.

Article by Bill Tapella, who lives and hunts in Coles County, Illinois with his wife, Lela, two children, Mia and Will, and three dogs, Max, Artie and Sadie.

I have many friends who have never hunted. Some are intrigued and others horrified by my passion for bird hunting. The understanding types view my pursuits with a “to each his own” attitude. Those with less than an open mind take a different view. In my efforts to explain, I have offered the nonbelievers a number of points from the joy of watching dogs work to the camaraderie of fellow hunters. I have never attempted to put into words those large and small things that combine to make each hunt a great

joy and treasured memory.

Bird hunting starts early; yet I always manage to shut off the alarm before it rings. I love the early mornings, the feel of cold jeans and warm wool socks, skipping the shave and capping rather than combing bed head. The dogs know what the day holds the minute I slap that faded “Illinois,” blaze orange hat on my head. Their excitement turns disruptive to Lela’s slumber the minute I unlock the gun case and quickly hustle them out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, I love the smell of coffee brewing as I gather gear to load the truck. That first sip that burns the tongue always taste best. Boots over wool socks and my wool sweater ward of the cold of the garage. As I load equipment, I torment the dogs who sit patiently at the back door waiting for their turn to bound into the back of the vehicle. Once released, the dogs take care of business, while I conduct a last minute check of equipment and load their kennels.

I love the drive to Triggers, the usual gathering spot for my hunting buddies. The dark morning sheds no light on the possibility of missed shots or sore feet. In the glow of headlights, only promise and bag limits appear in the day ahead. The dogs sense the same optimism and always moan and whine anxiously for the festivities to begin.

I love the morning gathering around the wood stove, on bad chairs, eating day old donuts with Floyd and Trigger. I love Floyd’s stories about friends, dogs and hunts of years past. Amidst the stories and laughter, it is never to early to start lying about one’s hunting exploits. No one spares an insult about another’s shooting ability at a time when they have yet to miss a shot. While individual dogs are off limits, dog

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I love standing at the edge of a large expanse of prairie covered with a light skiff of snow, my dogs at the heel and the sun just peeking over the eastern horizon. For those minutes before the sunrise, there is a Zen-like calm. The plan for the hunt made, no one need speak. Each hunter has checked their gun safety and snugged the hat down low to warm a cold face. We look at the field judging where we think the first point will come and the first pheasant rise.

I love the easy walking through fields of thigh high grasses, the trudge through muck and thick cattails and the prick of briars in fencerows and tree lines.

More than anything, I love watching dogs move through the field. The dogs work to appease a hundred years of bred instinct and to please their owner. Ahunting dog coursing back and forth through snow covered grasses, nose aloft in an effort to catch scent, is as pleasurable a sight as I can imagine. Agroup of two or three dogs working together only adds to that pleasure. When those dogs transform from constant motion to statuary in an instant, pleasure turns to giddiness and hushed shouts of “I’ve got a point” carry across the field.

I love the careful double time towards a dog on point. While nervous excitement consumes the calm, I make executive decisions on how to approach the point, zone of fire, locate the other hunters and all other dogs. With those decisions made and the dog still frozen, the entire play nears its climax, as one of us calls “kick it up.”

I love the expected surprise of a pheasant. I know that the bird is there. Max, my shorthair, tells me that the bird is there and I know Max never lies. Beyond the rigid dog, with his slow, controlled, nasal breathing, I step into the pointed area in slow half steps with each foot carefully placed for balance. I peer into the grass for a quick glimpse of feather or the flash of an eye and expectantly kick at tufts of grass. Rarely, I catch the glimpse or flash just before the bird explodes into the air. More often, however, there is no notice or warning past the dogs nose; just an explosion of red followed by brown, blues and gold. The bird catapults out of the grasses and into the air flapping away from dog and hunter. The smart ones make their jump away from any reasonable effort to bring it down. Dinner jumps close, right up the vest and jerks out in front offering that easy shot moving away.

I love the razzing I take when I miss and the pride I feel when my shot hits its’mark. I love the way a dogs flies after a retrieve in a low sprint and then prances back full of pride in his effort and my success. I love the slight strain on the shoulders applied by a full game bag and the look of tail feather gaudily extruding from that bag.

I love sitting on the tailgate with steaming coffee warming my face reliving every point and back, every flush and every shot taken. I love hearing Floyd tease Trigger about the one that got away and Trigger giving as good as he got. I puff up with pride at every compliment for my dog’s work. I admire Floyd’s resolve. With two bad knees and weeks not months from his surgery, he’ll walk until my legs are tired, without a visible or audible sign of his obvious pain.

I love the return to the hot stove to clean the game and swap more lies, claiming more birds than I shot and denying the fine shots made by my companions. Again, any problem with a dog remains off limits. Only those verbal salvos that deal with an individuals looks, shooting abilities or judgments regarding dog breeds are allowed.

I love the birds, the gorgeous plumage covering a powerful build. I hold each one. Before dressing it, a small toss in my hand measures the bird’s heft in a respectful last rite. I love the tail feather and the proud display Lela has arranged on my fireplace mantle. I love the pheasants’breast, lightly browned and sautÈed in Lela’s special red sauce. I love that manly pride I feel in knowing that tonight’s dinner is there through my effort and by my hand, without the aide of cellophane and meat lockers.

I love the hot shower and a hot bowl of soup waiting at home, after the hunt. I love an afternoon of quite content, fond memories, tired dogs and a nap, when work and Lela let me.

For someone that’s never been there on the edge of that field, none of these things may seem significant. For those that have, none of this needed to be said. For once you’ve been there and felt that calm, you realize that these weak efforts to put the experience into words can never do justice to those special moments.

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