Covey Rise - Issue Preview

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CONCENTRATION AND ANTICIPATION PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOHN HAFNER

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DOUBLE TIME

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RINGNECK DELIVERY

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F EAT UR ES 24 Saddles and Side-By-Sides In search of wild birds and the Western frontier at Oregon’s Ruggs Ranch

34 Hunting Up Tom Brokaw During a pheasant hunt in South Dakota, the author finds Tom Brokaw in his native land and natural element.

46 Puppy Primer Introductory training methods for bird-dog owners in a puppy’s formative months.

52 London Best The making of a bespoke shotgun-an introduction.

60 Rendering Feathers Chris Maynard makes art from feathers.

66 Walking with Art

74 At Home with the Wild Chef Try these natural approaches to wild-game cooking as prepared and shared by New England’s Chef Denny Corriveau.

84 Kick ‘Em Up An Alaskan hunting adventure clarifies the soul of the sport.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY LAUREN TILL

Purdey’s traditional British walking sticks are made with artistic flair.

UK IMPORTED ENGLISH COCKER SPANIELS RYGLENGUNDOGS.COM

D EPA RT M EN TS 12 Publisher’s Note

98 One Cigar at a Time

Welcome to Covey Rise

Cultivating Tobacco

17 On Point

100 Rocky Mountain Memories

Gift Guide

Private Time

94 Perfectly Frank A proper introduction

102 Conservation Why We Burn

96 Toasting the Hunt Single Barrel Bourbons

112 The Last Hunt

PHOTOGRAPH BY CHIP LAUGHTON

Big’un

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When I was a young boy, my grandfather taught me many things, from driving a truck, to operating a tractor, to cleaning and frying fish. Hunting and fishing is simply part of my DNA— from the early years of sneaking up on robins with a BB gun to jump-shooting wood ducks out of the creek. He also taught me the fundamentals of conservation and what it means to be a conservationist and a sportsman. I grew up hunting for just about everything on his farm, and that’s where my interest in publishing began. In the 1950’s, Granddaddy was featured in a Sports Afield article. Every now and then I’ll re-read the issue, and the content is as relevant today. To me, that is the power of print.

The things my granddaddy taught me then still resonate now and are enveloped within every detail of Covey Rise. This magazine is, in many ways, a testament to Grandaddy. From cover to cover, you will find everything that makes the upland sport and the lifestyle he loved so appealing. Covey Rise covers all facets of the upland experience, both on and off the hunt – what our readers do before and after the hunt, what they enjoy, and what they are passionate about.

Covey Rise is designed to be like an upland excursion. We begin with full spreads of images and scenes from the hunting landscapes, followed by our product and gear section. Then we take them on a journey from one end of the earth to the other: from visiting quail lodges in the Southeast, to open prairies in South Dakota, to rugged mountain terrain in Oregon, to the private estates on the moors of England. Then there are the dogs—the glue that holds us all together. We discuss the breeds, the dog training, and the trainers.

In our Handmade section, we take you into the studios of the best sporting artists and into the shops and factories of craftsmen who produce the best the market has to offer—from bespoke shotguns to tailored tweeds.

We talk about the personalities of today and yesterday, who share our passion for time in the field chasing upland birds.

As we wind out the back of the book, we entice you to grab a cigar, hear the latest on bourbon, and read the current issues in conservation—the backbone of our sport. Then, we close out the upland experience with a great hunting tale that never fails to make you laugh.

With each issue we revel in the notion that the upland spirit is more than just flush and bang. It’s about time spent afield with happy dogs in joyful pursuit. It’s about memories made and curated among friends old and new, walking in conversation or seated around tables filled with a day’s harvest of fresh perspective.

That’s the way Grandaddy defined the upland lifestyle and JO HN T HA ME S that’s the way Covey Rise does too. It is our mission is to deliver PUBLISHER/EDITOR-IN-CHIEF you into the heart of that experience with each and every issue.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY CHIP LAUGHTON

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

DISCOVER THE NEW AUTUMN WINTER COLLECTION

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A COMPILATION OF STORIES PUBLISHED IN VOLUMES 1-5 PUBLISHER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF John Thames EDITORIAL CREATIVE DIRECTOR Mary Katherine Sharman LEAD DESIGNER Virginia England EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Addy McDaniel PHOTO EDITOR Terry Allen COPY EDITORS Bowers Editorial

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Nancy Anisfield, Dr. John C. Blythe, Chris Batha, Reid Bryant, Patti Carter, Miles DeMott, Joe Healy, Chuck Holland, Fred Minnick, Tyler Sharp, Ben O. Williams CONTRIBUTING ARTISTS & PHOTOGRAPHERS Nancy Anisfield, Terry Allen, Brian Grossenbacher, Elmore DeMott, John Denney, Travis Gillet, Lee Kjos, Chip Laughton, Tyler Sharp, Lauren Till

VP BRAND COMMUNICATIONS Gil Morgan MARKETING BRAND DEVELOPMENT Sean Greenberg CREATIVE SERVICES Michael Eman PRODUCTION MANAGER Renée Beauchamp PUBLISHING CONSULTANT Samir A. Husni, Ph.D. FINANCE DIRECTOR Margie Thames CONSUMER RELATIONS | OFFICE MANAGER Danielle Dye

Covey Rise (ISSN 2325-0194) is published six times a year by Covey Rise LLC, 6400 Hwy 63 S Alexander City, AL 35010. Subscriptions are $59.99 US for one year, $99.99 US for two years. Canada one-year subscriptions are $79.99 US and International one-year subscriptions are $99.99 US. Periodical Postage paid at Alexander City, AL and at additional mailing offices.

POSTMASTER: Send address changes to PO Box 7500, Big Sandy, TX 75755-7500 SUBSCRIPTIONS and CORRESPONDENCE To subscribe to Covey Rise, e-mail CustomerService@CoveyRiseMag.com; call (866) 905-1235; or mail to Covey Rise, PO Box 7500, Big Sandy, TX 757557500. To contact Covey Rise, visit www.coveyrisemagazine.com; call (866) 311-3792; or mail to Covey Rise, 6400 Hwy 63 S, Alexander City, AL 35010.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES To offer stories and/or photographs to be considered for publication in Covey Rise, email them to submissions@coveyrisemagazine.com. Submit materials via email only. See guidelines at www.coveyrisemagazine.com.

Covey Rise may not be reproduced or photocopied without the written permission of the publisher, Covey Rise LLC. ©Covey Rise LLC 2017

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PHOTOGRAPH BY CHIP LAUGHTON

Cover Photograph by John Hafner

The Gilchrist Club.

Private Membership. Unrivaled Adventure.

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ou are the master of your game. You desire private membership with unrivaled adventure. The Gilchrist Club is your destination. Quail hunting better than it was in the good old days. Our hard-running pointers are backed by savvy retrievers. Our expert guides know Gilchrist’s 27,000 acres of pristine habitat and white pines like the back of their hands. Oh, and the quail. Fast, hard-flying birds to challenge the best gunners.

Hunt elusive whitetails in the fall, gators in-season, and wild hogs year round. Sharpen your shooting eye on our 14-stand sporting clays course, or simply take in the beauty of this incredible retreat on a hike.

When it is time to unwind, return to one of our opulent lodges, then join us for a tantalizing meal cooked by our executive chef. It’s all part of the Gilchrist experience where your membership has its unique privileges, and where you are the master of your game.

gilchristclub.com 888-535-HUNT (4868)

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POINT

PHOTOGRAPH BY TERRY ALLEN

The Ultimate Prep Guide to the Hunt

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ON POINT Holiday Wish List BE L L A N D OA K C AME R A ST R A P Made of 9/10 ounce English bridle leather with a strap width of 1/2 inch, the strap adjustments go from 46 inches to 52 inches (ring to ring). The shoulder strap is 1.5 inches x 11 inches, with stainless-steel hardware.

Edges are dyed and burnished by hand. The strap attaches to almost all cameras. Available in black, rich brown, and Texas Tan. $85

B ALL AN D BUCK X RANDO LPH E NGINEER ING T H E H U NT E R'S S UNGLASSES Designed in the style of 1950s shooting glasses by Randolph Engineering, these frames have an antique brass finish, honey acetate wrapped brow bar, and matching bayonet temples. HD polycarbonate lenses $218; tan or grey HD polarized lenses $268

F I L SO N SO F T- S I DE D CO O L E R On the outside, this cooler looks like a rugged Filson duffle bag. However, the inside has a heavy-duty insulated lining to keep items cold and to hold in meltwater.

The cooler is made of twill and has rustproof brass hardware and a shoulder strap. $275

A EV F I L SO N WR A N GL E R J E E P ( P R E VIO U S PAG E ) The Filson Wrangler has a Dualsport SC suspension, a winch, off-road lights, and comes in two-door or four-door models. An optional 5.7L or 6.4L HEMI V8 engine makes this Wrangler a powerful means of getting anywhere. The Filson package includes a medium duffle bag, original briefcase, and snap-closure seat back pockets. Starting list price is $70,400, more with options. Call 1-866-860-8906.

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Available at bellandoak.com | ballandbuck.com | filson.com

B IRD DOG W HISKEY It's easy to say "That dog will hunt" about Kentucky bourbon when it's offered in a variety of flavors such as Peach, Hot Cinnamon, Maple, Apple, Chocolate, and the original Blackberry.

Bird Dog Bourbon has a medley of corn, malted barley, and rye that the company says formulates into a distinctive gentle bourbon.

PHOTOGRAPH BY TERRY ALLEN

Around $21.99 per bottle

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BALL AND BUCK WALL TENT To commune with nature, you have to be in nature— but you don't have to be uncomfortable sleeping there. A Wall Tent will put you where the gamebirds are, with room for your gear and even the dogs (kenneled in a crate, of course). You'll have room for two to four people, and each tent is made in the U.S. from Marine Boatshrunk Canvas with double-stitched seams and is reinforced at the stress points. A Stove Jack for a heating unit is included. $2,198

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ON POINT

COVEY RISE UPLAND BOOT The Covey Rise Upland Boot by Russell Moccasin has waterproof tan and red-brown leather tuff, green suede leather, a lightweight Vibram Gumlight Asten sole, antique brass eyelids and studs, and triple vamp construction—and the comfort, positive ground feel, and arch-support advantages of the Munson Army Last. Because each Russell Moccasin boot is handmade, delivery takes about four to six weeks. $520 coveyrisemagazine.com

BOKER KNIFE This pocketknife from Boker is a bird hunter’s trusted companion, made to last—and be passed— across generations. A 3¼ inch stainless-steel blade complements an elongated gut hook for versatile use in the field. Rosewood handles and nickel-silver bolsters ensure long and faithful use. Closed length is 4 inches, and a lanyard loop enhances both functionality and security. An essential connection to the upland sporting lifestyle, this simple knife will serve as a daily reminder of glorious days afield: past, present, and future. $82.95 coveyrisemagazine.com

MISSION MERCANTILE GUN SCABBARD By definition, a scabbard is a sheath for a gun. This updated version has a simple, adjustable strap closure that snuggly holds and protects your shotgun. Further, the shearling lining protects against abrasion and potential damaging dings. The fullgrain vegetable-tanned leather makes the scabbard as handsome as it is functional. The maker, Mission Merchantile, tells us it also satisfies the front-seat carry laws for vehicles (though always check your local laws). The scabbard length is 41½ inches and the height tapers from 6½ to 4 inches. $450 missionmercantile.com

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ON POINT Holiday Wish List

WI L LIAMS K NIFE CO. MAY S K INNE R The all-purpose hunting knife pictured here has an overall length of 6.25 inches. This version of the Williams Knife May Skinner has a Damascus blade and a Dall sheep horn handle, made specially for Covey Rise. Williams Knife makes all their products by hand.

Inquire about this limited edition knife, or one like it, at info@williamsknife.com. $500

WE ST LE Y RICH ARDS LYE LL BAG Made of organic, veg tanned leather hides from the Tarnsjo tannery in Sweden, the exclusive leather gains patina quickly and is durable enough to last generations, particularly when used as a travel bag.

The same as all Westley Richards luxury goods, the Lyell has style and function. $600 U.S. (ÂŁ385)

DU B A R RY CO R K B O OT The Cork is a classic Chelsea boot for women with the added benefit of Dubarry’s celebrated design and craftsmanship. Waterproof yet breathable thanks to its GORE-TEX lining, the Cork is available in suede and smooth leather. Cork is easy to put on with its heel finger pulls and elastic gussets, which also make it so comfortable to wear. The hand-built stacked leather heel and sole unit provide a subtly elegant, luxurious lift. $379

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Available at williamsknife.com | westleyrichards.com | dubarry.com

SADDLES AND SIDE-BY-SIDES In search of wild birds and the Western frontier at Oregon’s Ruggs Ranch STORY AND PHOTOGRAPHY

BY TYLER SHARP

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he famed Western frontier has all but faded and lands that were once untamed are now thoroughly known.

Rarer and rarer are the sporting opportunities where you can experience some hard but enjoyable miles on horseback, passing through seemingly endless backcountry, with a chance at quilled quarry as our forefathers knew and set down in legend. There is hardship, danger, and no sure chance of success. However, what is guaranteed is a grand adventure, and an experience as close as it gets to capturing the spirit of the Western frontier.

One of these places is Ruggs Ranch in Heppner, Oregon.

Bastioned within the Blue Mountains in the north-central part of the state, the property sprawls an impressive 84,000 acres, with nearly 10,000 acres of dedicated shooting preserves. Honestly, it’s more country than you could possibly hunt on a handful of visits, with terrain that in many cases is traversable only by horse. But faint hearts never won wild birds, nor faltered in the face of sporting hardship, so on an excursion to Ruggs, we endeavored to put ourselves to the test of finding that frontier.

It was late fall when we headed west to Oregon, just in time to see the last of the foliage perform a fiery dance of defiance against the onset of winter. The air was crisp, a damp mist shrouded the ground, and the clouds hung heavy with what we hoped was only the threat of rain. High above, the summits of the surrounding Blue Mountains looked impossibly distant.

Perched on a hillock in the foothills, Ruggs Ranch’s main lodge

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overlooks far-reaching prairies teeming with gamebirds, with Rhea Creek meandering through the middle.

Arriving at the lodge, we were welcomed by the warmth of a fire in the hearth. The interior was tastefully decorated with custom Old Hickory furnishings, classic Western movie posters, and bespoke Pendleton Woolens bedding and curtains in every room.

Being so close to the famous Pendleton Round-up and Woolen Mill in Oregon, it was fitting to see the local history incorporated into the character of the Ruggs Ranch decor.

After a brief introduction to the Ruggs team, we gathered to enjoy the comforts of a first-class meal before leaving the rustic luxury of the lodge and heading into the mountains to hunt.

Chef John Kulon, affectionately known as Cookie, served us chicken-fried quail and mashed potatoes covered in jalapeño cream gravy, appropriate fare for the posse of Southern boys on the excursion. We traded empty plates for glasses of bourbon, and the dining area quickly became a strategy room as we began to discuss the conditions, gamebirds, and terrain. The verdict, in short—it was going to be very tough hunting.

Of the two tented camps that Ruggs Ranch offers guests, we were to stay in the Elk Camp, which doubles as a base for elk hunting later in the season. Set amid the high timber and ever-

LO NG -DISTANCE VIE WS Covering acreage to locate birds is a key to success at Ruggs.

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greens, the camp had multiple canvas tents for guests, guides, dining, and cooking, all set around a large fire pit. An adjacent corral for the horses allows hunters to ride in and out of camp as they search for game. Arriving after dinner, we claimed cots, unrolled sleeping bags, and loaded the wood-burning heaters with plenty of fuel to combat the high-country cold. On a starless, cloudy night, we fell asleep to the sounds of the wind whipping the canvas walls, as the occasional bugles of elk lingered on the edges of our dreams.

Morning came early, and after a quick breakfast of bacon, eggs, and campfire coffee, it was time to begin the hunt. Horses were saddled, guns were readied, and the team of dogs was assembled, but not before our riding abilities were appraised with doubt by the wranglers. Growing up in Texas, I learned early on from my grandfather what it meant to be a cowboy.

Not to say that I am, because I’m not, but I have a keen understanding of the subtleties—or lack thereof—of the cowboy way.

In most cases, a cowboy is a cowboy, whether from Texas, Australia, Montana, or Oregon. They all share in the general suspicion and skepticism for those who, in their estimation, “ain’t cowboys.” You have to prove yourself, and earn their respect before you can enjoy the unrivaled honesty and loyalty of the cowboy credo. Fortunately, our group had all spent ample hours in the saddle, so the doubts were quieted quickly, if only temporarily. As the old cattle drivers used to say, “head ’em up, and move ’em out.”

Beyond the three of us hunters, the team included several guides and three or four cowboys, all under the direction of Gene Barnhart, the head of wingshooting at Ruggs Ranch. Apart from managing the outfit, Gene has more than 40 years of dogtraining experience, with hundreds of finished canines under his belt, and a long list of field trial and national circuit successes.

Of the 40 or so dogs run at Ruggs Ranch, 18 of them are Gene’s own. On this particular hunt, there were several English pointers chosen for their ability to cover lots of ground in the backcountry, and they led the way for our mounted group to follow. Starting our ascent up a steep, shale-covered hillside, Gene continued to manage our expectations: “These horseback hunts can go either way, and the conditions are going to be really unpredictable. There are plenty of chukar, and some blue grouse as well, but sometimes they’re impossible to get to, so don’t go chasing them down steep faces. Lots of wild birds are out here, and we’re going to do our best to find them.”

With Gene riding point 30 or so yards ahead of the group, the rest of us fanned out, plodding along the steep terrain in anticipation of a dog locked on point. For an inexperienced rider, the obstacles could be daunting, with narrow paths along canyon walls, dramatic slopes toward cliffs, and unstable rock shambles in most areas we rode through.

H O RS E B ACK RE CO NNAISSANCE The hunters at Ruggs followed trails through rugged country.

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Apart from the horseback chukar hunts, Ruggs Ranch also offers on-foot hunting in the plentiful fields surrounding the main lodge, with chances at dove, pheasant, several species of quail, and chukar.

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“Some flatlanders can’t handle it,” Gene said with a chuckle.

“I’ve seen guys go white and start trembling during some of the steeper descents.” The landscape was breathtaking, maybe more so because of its potential lethality.

Not long into the scenic ride, the dogs caught bird scent, their points frozen in stillness against a mountainside of waving, yellowed grass, reminding us that we were not on a backcountry horseback trip but on a hunt. Excitedly, we would trot up to Gene, handing our reigns to the cowboys as we dismounted.

Guns were loaded, and the approach was set. It didn’t take long for the action to get started, with wild chukar bursting out of cover, their hard flights boosted by the forceful winds, which closed the window of shooting opportunity nearly shut. In many cases, the chukar rode the violent winds over cliffs with steep drops into ravines and rocky canyons, far from the reach of man or beast. It didn’t take long for my hunting partners to find their stride, and though not in great numbers, the chukar began to fall.

Gene pushed harder, rode farther, down another canyon, up another draw, across another face, in a display of what separates the best guides from good ones. As Gene himself put it, “When things get slow, the only thing you can do is hunt harder.” And for two straight days, we hunted hard. I mean

G AINING G RO U ND Dogs on point mean it’s time to dismount and walk up birds.

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like saddle sore, sunburned, wind-beaten hard, easily clocking 20 miles a day by horseback. And though we didn’t hit any limits, the chances were there, and success came with bagging any wild bird at all, let alone multiples. But we weren’t there to tally numbers, or hit limits—we were there to ride out into a wild place for a chance at frontier adventure. And that, despite the conditions, was guaranteed.

In the evening, we’d return to camp tired and hungry, and after unsaddling the horses, would find a spot around the campfire to imbibe a bourbon, beer, or glass of local wine. As the sun sank, dinner would come soon after, a meal put together by Chef Cookie’s practiced hands. Horses corralled, birds mustered, many miles traveled in the saddle, and the cowboys’ doubts about the clients finally put to rest, we toasted a successful hunt, and the shared enjoyment of a sporting experience as it was meant to be—wild and uncertain.

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ut it wasn’t over yet. Apart from the horseback chukar hunts, Ruggs Ranch also offers on-foot hunting in the plentiful fields surrounding the main lodge, with chances at dove, pheasant, several species of quail, and chukar. At other times of the year, they offer elk and turkey hunts.

On our last morning, we walked out from the lodge for a half day of wingshooting in the nearby valley, seeing a diverse mix of species, both wild and preserve birds. I was even able to put the camera down for a few minutes and take aim at some quail.

Unfortunately, my trigger finger is not as practiced on a side-by-

side as it is on a camera, so my efforts were little more than noise pollution. There is always next time (with hope).

Returning to the main lodge, we met up with the owner, John Flynn, who gave us a brief tour of the pro shop, guest locker rooms, sporting clays course, and five-stand facilities. After intently listening to our account of the hunt, John elaborated on his plans for the future and where he hopes Ruggs Ranch is headed: “Our ultimate goal is just to keep improving the quality of our operation, and habitat surrounding the lodge. There have been three or four coveys of quail that moved up here in the last two years, and we’d love to see that continue. That, and of course I’d love to see the lodge full all the time, so we can share what we have here.”

What they have at Ruggs Ranch is truly unique. You’d be hard pressed to find another operation offering this much shooting potential, and chances at wild birds, anywhere in the West.

Combine the rugged backcountry with the on-foot wingshooting based out of the lodge, sporting clays, and rich local heritage, and you’ve got a seamless blend of sporting opportunities. And although the Western frontier may not be as wild as it once was, places like Ruggs Ranch keep that spirit alive and strengthen the diverse tapestry of our American hunting heritage.

O N-FO OT O PT IO NS The valleys surrounding Ruggs Ranch are inviting locations in which to set out on walk-up hunts, corralling the horses.

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HUNTING UP TOM BROKAW During a pheasant hunt in South Dakota, the author finds Tom Brokaw in his native land and natural element.

STORY BY MILES DEMOTT PHOTOGRAPHY BY LEE THOMAS KJOS AND TRAVIS GILLETT

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T

om Brokaw has been the face—indeed, the voice—of journalism for more than two generations, breaking news from the Civil Rights Era through the crumbling of the Berlin Wall to his prophetic analysis on 9/11, “We’re at war.” He’s had a gift for being in the right place at the right time, and technology advanced in step with his ascent at NBC so that he could take viewers to the scene, to show the story, not just to tell it.

Along the way, it seems, Brokaw met and befriended almost everyone who entered the public consciousness, from presidents to entrepreneurs, writers to mountaineers, and so many in between. His narrative style and use of language to marry words with pictures, skills he picked up from David Brinkley and other journalists early in his career, made him a trusted friend in the pre-cable world of journalism—a time when viewers heard what they needed to hear, not just what they wanted to hear.

His was a lucky life, indeed, until multiple myeloma, a bone marrow cancer, interrupted Tom’s story in 2013. Early detection and lots of friends and family support saw him through several therapy regimens to a place where the cancer can be treated but never fully cured. And the treatments have evolved more rapidly than with many other cancers, so Tom’s lucky streak has continued. Today, he maintains an active schedule of speaking and book events and he remains relevant and engaged in a national and global conversation. The 72 hours preceding our time together in South Dakota found Tom in Washington for the National Book Festival, in New York for a couple of speaking gigs, and back to D.C. for a discussion on NBC’s Meet the Press.

Nice work if you can get it. And Tom gets a lot of it. Maybe even too much. But that’s the ubiquitous Tom Brokaw, the face and the voice that emerges effortlessly from a crowd to the forefront of our awareness. He’s not hard to find, but this is not the Tom Brokaw I was hunting for.

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rriving in Gettysburg, in central South Dakota about 25 miles from the Missouri River and at the tail end of his whirlwind tour of the East Coast, Tom Brokaw seemed battleworn from the travel, the chemo, and the back surgery; but the rarefied air of South Dakota (his home state) and the distant cluck of a rooster pheasant quickly put a lift in his step—a lift that elevated into a spring when he was reunited with his 10-year-old Lab and hunting companion, Red. It was good to be back, he seemed to say, back to a place that brightened his eyes and planted his toes, a place that lifts the Sisyphean boulder of global news from his shoulders and offers only the pleasant rolling hills of wheat and corn that gave rise to a different Tom Brokaw some 75 years ago. That was a man molded by simple beginnings and high expectations, the

H O ME FIE LD ADVANTAG E Tom Brokaw grew up in South Dakota and returns to the Mount Rushmore State each year during pheasant season.

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beneficiary of a 19th-Century lifestyle in a mid-20th-Century world, a man with his finger on the pulse of a nation, whose own heartbeat is synchronized to the chuckle and wingbeat of a rising pheasant. That is the Tom Brokaw I was hunting for.

Brokaw’s roots run deep in the prairie mud of South Dakota.

His grandparents followed the railroad from the Finger Lakes region of western New York, and his parents weathered the Great Depression on the prairie, sometimes eating pheasant sandwiches out of season to get by. Born in Webster, South Dakota, Tom spent most of his childhood in Pickstown, a place he compares to the setting of The Truman Show because it was created out of thin air in the late 1940s to accommodate the families of the men building a dam across the Missouri River at Fort Randall. Brokaw’s father, Red, was one of those men, adept at managing heavy equipment and other men with alacrity. Once the dam was built, the workers packed up their newly minted middle-class lives and sought work elsewhere.

The Brokaws settled in Yankton, where Red continued to work with machines and Tom’s mother, Jean, worked as a post-office clerk in Pickstown, often bringing the compelling stories of the town home to Tom, whose interest in journalism began to take shape as early as the seventh grade and was fueled by the allure of Yankton’s radio station and high-school newspaper.

Brokaw’s high-school days were spent alongside the other boys, shotguns and fishing rods in hand, combing the South

Dakota plains and puddles for fish and fowl. Friday nights spent as backup quarterback tumbled into basketball championship games, with some losses harder to escape than others, even 60 years later. And then there were the misspent hours at the pool hall, though the self-described snooker snob’s future as a hustler never quite got off the ground. All the while, Tom was the curious kid, the one who ran with the older crowd and had a way with words, the one who charmed the doctor’s daughter and changed the course of his own history. He graduated from the University of South Dakota and landed broadcasting jobs first in Omaha, and then Atlanta, Los Angeles, and New York, greeting viewers from dawn to dusk over the course of a career that has shown little sign of fatigue after half a century. He traveled the world a thousand times over to report the news as and where it was breaking. He rapidly became a fixture within the East Coast media establishment, planting roots in New York City and raising a family there, but the South Dakota prairie mud is tough to shake—from your boots and from your psyche.

As the saying goes, you can take the boy out of South

CANINE S AND CO NVE RSAT IO N The extraordinary experience of hunting at South Dakota’s Paul Nelson Farm provided the perfect opportunity for fun, fellowship, and pheasant.

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L E A D A N D WE WI L L F O L LOW A journalist for more than 50 years, Tom Brokaw continues to forge ahead into the thick of things in search of stories and pheasant. His faithful hunting companion for more than a decade, Red, remains ever optimistic.

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Like riding a bike, Tom quickly dusted off the shooting prowess he’d developed along the dusty roads of South Dakota flushing pheasant from agricultural ditches and fencelines.

Dakota . . . and life did just that. For a number of years, work and family literally took the gun right out of his hand and even out of his house. While living and covering rampant crime in Los Angeles in the early 1970s, Tom became uneasy about having guns in the house with his wife and daughters, confused about what sort of signal it sent to the kids and how to reconcile his history with guns afield and the daily barrage of gun violence. So he stopped shooting and gave away the shotguns of his youth.

As the saying continues, though, you can’t take the South Dakota out of the boy. When Tom washed up on the shores of Manhattan in the late 1970s, the lure of shooting sports had hooked the hedge funders and Wall Street types, bringing a renewed cachet to shouldering a double gun with skill and panache. Like riding a bike, Tom quickly dusted off the shooting prowess he’d developed along the dusty roads of South Dakota flushing pheasant from agricultural ditches and fencelines. Only now he was shooting skeet and trap, and, having put away the childish guns of his youth, found himself with means enough to shoulder a new Beretta shotgun. This was a new day.

FISTS FU LL O F PH E ASANT The only thing better than a successful bird hunt is the endless flow of stories that follow.

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As Tom was taking up arms once again, pheasant hunting was enjoying a renaissance in his home state, ushering in a new popularity among upland hunters that would evolve into what is today a $200 million industry in South Dakota alone. Old friends began to woo Tom with tales of bigger hunts, better guns, and bird dogs. The siren song did not go unheard, but there were wars to cover and revolutions to report. His life was enveloped in the bright lights and big city that had been his youthful quest. Ironically, the forces that pulled him away from South Dakota delivered him back once again.

Covering the buildup to the 1988 presidential election, Tom found himself passing through Iowa and Nebraska, very close to his old hunting grounds. Traveling with him was the first of his bird dogs, Sage, as he enjoyed some downtime at an old friend’s farm in South Dakota. The weather was crisp and the skies were blue when he rose early to walk the roads and fields, gun in hand and dog leading the way. Along with the birds and the breeze that morning came a brush with nostalgia so intense that he called his wife, Meredith, and said, “This is who I am.

This is where we come from.”

The revelation set in motion what has become a pilgrimage of sorts. Beginning with Opening Day festivities in and around Mitchell, Brokaw has returned to South Dakota to hunt pheas-

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ant for more than 25 years, often to great fanfare, sometimes on the quiet farms of childhood friends and family. Pheasant hunting is one of the ties that bind him to a place, centers him in a life that has, at times, sent him to many points on the compass.

A sense of place, for Brokaw, is also an important legacy for his family, a legacy that includes a ranch in Montana and a small plot of land an hour north of Manhattan. The primary draw of these places is continuity, a way for The Hooligans, as he lovingly calls his New York grandkids, to interact with nature and see an America that extends well beyond the Hudson River. And a way for his West Coast grandkids to experience the humanizing influence of what he describes as a classless society, where people are measured by their contribution, not their place of origin. It allows them, also, to contextualize their ancestors, and what they did, where they lived, the physical places that nurtured and molded them, just as trips back to South Dakota have helped them understand their grandparents, Tom and Meredith Brokaw.

FARM FIE LDS O F DRE AMS (ABOVE:) Pheasant hunting is one of the ties that bind a hunter to a place. Each year for more than 25 years for Tom Brokaw, that’s been with friends in the farmland of South Dakota.

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RET RAC I N G H I S ST E P S More than just a walk through the cornfields and prairie mud, Tom Brokaw returns to South Dakota each year to hunt for new friends, new stories, and new connections to his own history.

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n many ways, it’s like the water tower in Yankton. Returning with his kids and grandkids several years ago, he used that landmark, clearly visible at the center of town from every angle and distance, to assure his grandkids that they could wander freely, just as he’d done two generations before. As long as they could see the water tower, they couldn’t get lost.

That water tower still anchors the global Tom Brokaw today, so that he never loses sight of his humble beginnings and Main Street roots. “It would be impossible,” he says, “to come back to this place and put on any New York airs. These folks will set you straight right away. A guy has to be comfortable with who he is.”

In this regard, Brokaw is a man of two rivers. The Hudson in the East defines the island that has offered the opportunities and treasures of the larger world, but there’s a wild stretch of the Missouri in South Dakota, between Fort Randall and Yankton, that brought him into the world, that moves him every time he’s there, and that, ultimately, will beckon him home.

The comfort of home has become particularly palpable as he wages battles with cancer and time, trying, as he says, to reduce his appetite and “pursue more low-key time” with friends and family.

What he seems unlikely to reduce is his appetite for walking a field of corn or milo, 20-gauge slung across his shoulder, watching and listening for that familiar rise and cackle. He finished strong, going five for five on the closing fields over our weekend hunt, relishing the return of his feel once again after more than two years on the bench with chemotherapy and back surgery.

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t his side is Red, his trusted Lab and confidant, who shares his love of time afield, even when that field runs through Central Park. Red is the third of his family’s three Labs and, as Tom puts it, “The Brokaws have become the people they used to make fun of for being so attached to their dog.”

Theirs is an organic bond, and neither would hunt without the other, Red combing the rows for pheasant but never letting Tom out of his sight. He’s older and he doesn’t get as much work as he used to, but he’s pretty good for an old dog from the Upper East Side. And he would say the same about Tom. I spent a weekend hunting for Tom Brokaw, the curious boy who rose from the South Dakota prairie to achieve great things, know interesting people, and bring big ideas and important moments into American conversation and consciousness. For that he was awarded our almost undivided attention and our nation’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. I found him walking the fields of South Dakota with Red, commanding the table at storytelling time with tales of hunting and global adventure, and sitting quietly before an enormous television while the news washed over him. I found a man comfortable with who he is.

A TALE O F T WO B RO KAWS (ABOVE:) Red and Tom climb aboard Nicholas Air, leaving the Missouri River for the Hudson, the same journey Tom made a lifetime ago.

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PUPPY PRIMER

Introductory training methods for bird-dog owners in a puppy’s formative months.

STORY BY PATTI CARTER AND NANCY ANISFIELD

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when they learn—from their dam, littermates, and the people with whom they bond—all social amenities and signals.

“Everything after that is practice, honing the social skills of a well-based pup, all set to take on training,” Bailey says. Confidence in themselves, confidence in their owners, and the ability to understand people’s and dogs’ body language will help them respond to the challenges of gun-dog training.

Research has shown that, as with children, young dogs’ brains develop their synaptic connections in response to external stimuli. Simply put, more experience and input leads to more developed neural pathways in the brain. Vary the environment, vary the games, vary the sights and sounds at an early age, and a dog will be, if not actually “smarter,” better able to handle new information—complex tasks and situations—later on.

As far as preparing the foundation for hunting, pro trainer Tom Dokken says, “Remember that every time you are with your puppy, you are training.” One example Dokken gives is taking something from a puppy’s mouth, which sends the message that we don’t want them to have things in their mouths.

“This is the exact opposite of what you will want later on,” he explains. “So think hard about how you approach the puppy when he’s got something and you need to get it away from him.

Perhaps when you take a shoe away, replace it with a nylon bone or toy, something you intend for him to chew on.”

Confidence in themselves, confidence in their owners, and the ability to understand people’s and dogs’ body language will help them respond to the challenges of gun-dog training.

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OPENING SPREAD AND THIS SPREAD: PHOTOGRAPHY BY LAUREN TILL

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nly 9 weeks old, Gauge had feet three times larger than his nose and ears that flapped wildly, taking on a life of their own. His owner sat on Gauge’s dog bed, next to a basket of Beanie Babies. She tossed a Beanie, which rattled as it hit the floor. Gauge lunged and pounced on it like the planet’s most dedicated varmint hunter. The problem was, he hadn’t yet developed the coordination needed to handle the smooth floor tiles, so Gauge’s attack usually ended in a pile of discombobulated puppy sliding into a kitchen cabinet with the toy lodged under his belly.

He flipped the limp toy in the air. He carried a lumpy ducky halfway back to his owner. He dove on a fuzzy pink crab and then ran into his owner’s lap with a toy alligator. The warm dog bed was where he liked to be. There he’d be rewarded either with a treat or another toy toss. Gauge obviously enjoyed the game. . . and had no idea that he had started retriever training.

Technically, “training” isn’t the correct word to use here.

“Pretraining” is more accurate. From the moment we bring home our bird dogs, everything we do with those puppies teaches them something that in some way will impact their subsequent training. In this, three components are at work simultaneously: socialization, neural development, and an introduction to hunting-related tasks. Animal behaviorist Ed Bailey says that from the time puppies become mobile to the 12-week mark is

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THIS PAGE: PHOTOGRAPH BY NANCY ANISFIELD

Puppies are amazing. In the first 4 to 6 months, they learn remarkably fast. Food and warmth are their motivators, which we can use to our advantage by being the providers of both.

Jet’s leash training is a perfect example of the warmth motivator, in this case home being the source of warmth and security.

An 8-week-old black Lab, she trundled around with confidence. When the lead was attached for the first time, however, she balked. Walking away from the house, she wailed sounds more painful to hear than an amp screeching guitar feedback.

Jet scrunched up her face, leaned back, and dug her toenails into the gravel driveway.

As soon as her owner turned around, however, Jet pranced with him like a show-ring veteran—heading back toward the zone of warmth did the trick. On their second attempt, she fought less. On the third walk, Jet’s understanding that she’d be returning home (as opposed to being abandoned in the scary, wild unknown) helped her accept the leash.

Pro trainer Blaine Carter points out that even basic play with your pup is a learning experience. “Young dogs need to learn ‘bite inhibition.’ This happens while you play with puppies. If they get too rough with their mouths, you speak with a negative voice, saying ‘bad’ or cry ‘ouch.’ The pup will learn to play with less bite pressure. It’s interesting to watch this behavior in the whelping box with mom or siblings. Also, it teaches the young dogs that there are limits to the levels of play. Remember, this is not an obedience skill but a learned behavior.”

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How does that lesson pay off later? Many of us use corrections like the rear “armpit” flick in heeling or steadiness training.

The dog might jump around in surprise and snap the air, but will have no thought of actually biting. Furthermore, when we head into the grouse woods or quail fields, chances are we’ll be with other hunters and their dogs, or at least will be likely to encounter others. No one wants a dog fight by the truck or near the game bag. Since dogs relate to their world a great deal through their mouths, learning to control their bite is critical.

Pretraining comes in all forms of games and interactions.

Pausing by the top or bottom of a staircase is a perfect time to say “whoa.” We don’t have to physically restrain the puppy; but the pup, paused at a natural, visible threshold, will look to us for the signal to go. Say the word and then climb or descend.

Similarly, it’s easy to say “whoa” or “stay” and then wait for the puppy to be still before putting down a food bowl.

Using place boards is another easy pretraining method that can lead to a game. If we drop a few treats or a handful of puppy food on a board, our puppy will naturally run to it. Then we run to the next place board and do the same. The puppy will follow. And then on to the next board. Soon he or she is convinced that the place board is a great place to go, and will wait there for the treats. Thus the stage is set to start using the “stay” command. Sometimes the reward can be happy praise or a favorite scratch behind the ear—rewards can vary. Place-board work builds the foundation for sit and stay, recalls, and eye con-

THIS PAGE: PHOTOGRAPH BY CHIP LAUGHTON

tact as our puppies look to us for the signals that will produce the rewards.

But what if the pup doesn’t do what we’re expecting or looking for? It’s best to just ignore the behavior we want nipped in the bud. Spending time on correcting a puppy takes away from the pup learning, particularly because many of us don’t have good timing—the ability to make the right correction in time for it to have an effect. A trainer we know once said, “The time it takes to drop your car keys to the floor is the amount of time it takes to ‘tag’ the behavior you want.” That is quick.

Another great example of how pretraining can lead to quicker success down the road is in starting the “hold” at a very early age. Since German shorthair Tiza was expected to retrieve both on land and in the water, part of her schooling included a “trained retrieve,” in which through some type of pressure she would learn to pick up, carry, and deliver an object whenever asked to do so. The trained retrieve can be a struggle; many dogs resist having something put in their mouths. To avoid that, when Tiza was small, her owner handled her mouth frequently, getting her adjusted to the contact.

Once Tiza’s adult canine teeth came in, her owner began placing her gloved hand, palm up, inside Tiza’s mouth, resting it lightly behind the canines, rewarding her acceptance with treats or praise. If she resisted, she could easily be held with a firm hand around her chest or through her collar. After a few sessions, the gloved hand was replaced by a bumper. When the

drill moved to the training table, Tiza was eager to pick up the bumper or bird, and the final steps of the trained retrieve went smoothly. . . all before she was 6 months old. Had Tiza’s owner waited until she was fully grown to start this retrieving program, some big-time wrestling might have resulted.

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rom the 7th or 8th week, the next two months are when our puppies should be exposed to just about everything they will encounter for the rest of their lives—cars, children, gunshots, live birds, dead birds, and the like.

Taking them into the wild is essential. In open fields or dense cover, having them explore their future world is a win-win-win scenario for the socialization, brain development, and hunting task triad. The socialization factor comes in the puppy’s relationship to you. As he ranges confidently farther out, he naturally checks back and is reassured that you are there, thus building cooperation as a team. Smells, sights, sounds, and textures offer tremendous sensory input. And this introduction to the terrain in which we’ll be hunting provides the groundwork—pun intended—for the future search for game.

Puppies need to see, touch, hear, and smell everything, with their safety paramount, of course. Indoor games become outdoor games. Beanie Babies lead to bumpers and eventually birds. As our puppies mature, they’ll show us what they’re ready for as we give them the best possible start toward becoming our most treasured hunting partners.

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LONDON BEST The making of a bespoke shotgun—an introduction.

STORY BY CHRIS BATHA PHOTOGRAPHY BY TERRY ALLEN

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any discerning sportsmen regard the “best London shotgun” to be the pinnacle of the art of shotgun manufacture; these sporting guns have become synonymous with beauty, quality, and tradition for more than 150 years.

Those privileged enough to order and own a best London shotgun have not only a custom gun—a gun built to their specifications and dimensions, a gun that will allow them to shoot their best—they also have an investment that will last through generations. Such a shotgun represents a piece of history, and an appreciation of the gun’s history is one of the reasons so many aspire to own a bespoke best London shotgun.

Bespoke is a very British word used for a variety of products that are made to measure; traditionally it is applied to custom-tailored clothing. In the same manner, a bespoke best London shotgun is truly unique, handmade to the individual’s specifications and handcrafted to fit perfectly.

The customers are totally involved in this process from inception. First, they choose the action—over-and-under or side-by-side. Then they select the gauge and barrel length, followed by their choice of engraving: traditional rose and scroll or deep relief with game scenes, perhaps with a vignette featuring a favorite dog. Then they decide on

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Bespoke is a very British word used for a variety of products that are made to measure.

In the same manner, a bespoke best London shotgun is truly unique, handmade to the individual’s specs.

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the finish—either the traditional color-case-hardened deep blue, or the coin-finished and polished-silver look. Next comes one of the most difficult choices: the selection of the stock blank from the many pieces of well-figured Circassian walnut available from Turkey. The custom dimensions are determined through a gun fitting, with the owner using a “try gun” and shooting the pattern plate to ensure that the coming bespoke shotgun fits like a glove and shoots where the customer looks.

Once all these decisions are made, the shotgun will be handmade by time-tested craftsmen and women. Each person touching the gun will have spent five years as an apprentice, and then another five years working under the supervision of a “gaffer” before being allowed to work on a customer’s gun.

More than 1,200 man hours are spent on the action alone.

With more than 90 moving parts in a shotgun, the gun’s action is comparable to the intricacies of a handmade Swiss watch. In the shaping, polishing, and assembly of the timeless masterpiece that is the best London shotgun, it’s no wonder an appreciative audience and a discerning clientele continue to order these guns today. With every stroke of the file, every coat of oil, the craftsmen add a little bit of their soul into every shotgun they make. In their hands, the balance, handling, and “life” of the gun are created. No modern, mass-produced shotgun will ever have the intrinsic handing and feel—the life, the soul—of a bespoke shotgun.

Let’s back up and take a look at the history of how these shotguns came to be.

T he Victorian Era began in 1837 and ended with Queen Victoria’s death in 1901, but many consider its span running from the Napoleonic Wars until the outbreak of World War I in 1914. While there were industries gearing up and using mass production during this time, a strong demand remained for bespoke items made by time-tested craftsmen. These companies did not manufacture their goods in the vague hope of selling them at some time in the future—their clothing, furnishings, cabinetry, and many other personal items were bespoke, made to order per a client’s instructions. These included sporting shotguns.

Royalty and landed gentry have hunted throughout history, but in the 1820s shooting birds on the wing for sport gained great popularity in Europe. The new wave of hunters adopted the French battue (meaning to beat) method of shooting. Instead of walking up birds, the guns (shooters) stood in a line while beaters worked though the coppices and woods to drive the birds to the waiting guns.

It was discovered that if the line of guns was placed in a low valley and the birds were driven from high cover, they presented more challenging shooting. Soon the country estates were being shaped and replanted to maximize the number and heights of the driven pheasant and partridge drives. But the most prized jewel of all shooting—then

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as now—was the heather-hugging flight of the fast and furious red grouse. There was great pride and rivalry over which estate would shoot the largest bag in a day, and the bag-count record grew annually. Through the husbandry of the birds and the management of these estates, guns were offered the most challenging shooting and the bags increased from hundreds to thousands of birds per day. The guns needed increased firepower to achieve these bags, as well as the wealth to purchase the appropriate shotguns.

The demand for better guns, fueled by incredible affluence, created a period of great vision, sublime skill, and subsequent prosperity for the gunmakers. The shotgun was reinvented time and again with many innovative ideas. The guns were tried and tested, rebuilt with new patents and designs, each time improving performance and efficiency, and refining beautiful lines. The side-by-side shotgun as we know it today evolved in the late 1800s, and the over-andunder was introduced in 1909. Such was the quality of these guns that now, more than a hundred years later, a large number are still being shot.

After World War II, however, the London gun trade suffered badly and the Spanish and Italian gunmakers started to make less expensive, quality shotguns. This Continental competition began the demise of the Birmingham gun trade; by the late 1970s, many of the famous London gunmakers were closing their doors.

In the same decade, the surviving London gunmakers began

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to see a renaissance in the interest of serious gun collectors who appreciated the craftsmanship, the intricacies of the mechanisms, the patents, and the history of their shotguns.

These collectors began ordering guns built to the highest quality. The exquisite engraving on the guns elevated them to the status of metal “canvases” with exhibition-grade walnut stocks to frame them. The collectors’ passion and appreciation for best guns reignited the world’s interest in gunmaking and resulted in the reemergence of many London and provincial gunmaker names, as well as other gunmakers breathing new life into the best-gun trade.

When asked to explain the difference between a handmade and a machine-made shotgun, I always attempt to explain it by the balance: A handmade shotgun has a balance created by the perfect distribution of weight throughout its length, which results in handling that makes the shotgun feel almost alive between your hands. These shotguns are functional works of art—one of a kind, steeped in tradition and history.

Whoever owns one of these shotguns has the pleasure of shooting a gun that only a handful of individuals and companies can produce today. This is why so many shooting aficionados appreciate and desire a bespoke best London shotgun. It is made-to-measure in a timehonored manner, which results in the form and function that enhance one’s shooting. Such a gun is also a sound investment in an heirloom.

THE MISSION: With this introductory feature, Covey Rise embarks on a series of features exploring the unique and remarkable world of bespoke shotguns, extraordinary works of functional art made to order by talented hands in small workshops in and around London. Along the way, we’ll celebrate the craftsmen who produce these exceptional guns and the skill, experience, and knowledge they have acquired over a lifetime. The processes, tools, techniques, and quirks of making such a small number of guns are the antithesis of modern manufacturing, and almost defy contemporary culture and modern imagination.

These guns are the crux of upland hunting. They reached technical perfection more than a hundred years ago, and they remain relevant and largely unchanged across centuries of industrialization and innovation. Join us on this journey across oceans and issues as we revisit history and rediscover the tradesmen and traditions that keep this working art at the center of the sporting lifestyle.

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RENDERING FEATHERS In pursuit of beauty in nature, consider the work of an artist drawn to a fundamental characteristic of birds— their bright, beautiful plumage—as a vehicle of expression. Chris Maynard explains more fully, in his own words, his attraction to feathers and the mechanics behind this delicately durable and exquisite art form.

COMMENTARY AND ART BY CHRIS MAYNARD

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G RO USE L I N E U P “Most game birds are not colorful or showy. Instead, they display remarkable feather patterns.”

T URK E Y DR E AME R “I like the intimacy of hand carving each piece with a small surgical scalpel, changing the blades often. But the shapes and complex structures of the feathers are what makes them unique in the animal world.”

WOO D CO C K DANC E “Choosing feathers as my sole medium of artistic expression was easy. Any artist tries to capture an essence of life. Since I depict birds, it makes sense to use feathers because they hint at flight and beauty.”

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P HEAT HE R S “The shapes of feathers drive my art. To honor feathers and the birds they come from, I don’t flatten them but keep their gentle curves by setting them apart from their background. Each flight feather naturally curves a bit to form an airfoil. Each body feather curves front to back and a bit from side to side to fit the bird’s body, like shingles covering a house’s roof. The body feathers’ curved shapes also lets birds more fully expand or contract their feathers to provide less or more warmth. They fit together perfectly, overlapping to let both air and water slide smoothly along.

Though you cannot tell by looking at my art, I back feathers using pressure, glues, and papers, which stabilizes and strengthens them for cutting. But the flat part of each feather on the bird—the vane—is naturally stabilized, staying together remarkably well.”

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HA RK EN “It is a common misperception that lightness equals delicacy. They are light enough for a bird to fly at freeway speeds and are a marvel of structural engineering.”

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T E N N E SSE E T U R K E YS “My inspiration comes from a variety of sources. Sometimes, I will contemplate a feather for half an hour, admiring its shape, letting it flutter to the ground, picking it up, and letting the feather inspire me. I like the creative process best when a shed feather inspires me to make a piece portraying the bird that shed it.�

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B LACK B IRDS DAB B LE R'S V IEW “When I hunted September grouse on the mountain ridges and valleys of Eastern Washington, I often brought back one ruffed grouse, one blue grouse, and one spruce grouse. It might have been a point of pride to harvest all three for dinner, but there always seemed to be an element of fascination with the feathers of each of these species, even though the larger and meatier blues were usually more abundant. I prefer to use naturally shed feathers, as gifts from the birds. Many are from the 55 species of pheasants and the many parrots that live in zoos.�

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WALKING WITH ART Purdey’s traditional British walking sticks are made with artistic flair.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY TERRY ALLEN

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t first glance, you might simply see limbs or branches, but the harvested wood shown at right and the shoots seen above—natural British hardwoods such as blackthorn, hazel, and ash—will be the raw materials fashioned into beautiful canes or walking sticks, straightened by steam and finished in the British tradition, after aging for about a year. A mere stick is quite different from a finished Purdey walking stick. Dating back to our hunter-gatherer ancestors, sticks or staves were used for protection and support. Images of a shepherd with his crook date back to Biblical renderings. Nowadays, an elegant walking stick or cane is an emblem of country life in the United Kingdom. It’s a statement of authenticity and originality, as no two handcrafted walking sticks are alike. The wooden sticks grow as shoots off the trunk of a tree and are cut when they reach the appropriate length (about four feet) and width for a walking stick. This practice

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is called coppicing and ensures that the proper materials for future walking sticks will be available. It’s a process of renewal.

Coppicing is also beneficial to local fauna in the UK countryside where the sticks are grown, as the groves provide desirable habitat for birds, insects, and butterflies and facilitate growth of wildflowers such as orchids. In the UK, people equipped with walking sticks are often called “ambulists” as their sticks announce their intention to ambulate or amble in the countryside—often with shotgun and bird dogs, accompanied by beaters and picker uppers.

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n the UK grouse moors, a walking stick is required equipment, a necessary accessory for the hunt, the same as a cartridge bag is. Amid the heather, concealed in the spongy ground, are small creeks that run narrow and deep; a misstep into one can cause injury. But with a stick to probe ahead, a hunter or game

RAW M AT E R I A L S Purdey strives to create products, whether firearms or fieldware or accessories, of artisanal value that showcase excellence and quality.

The company says: “The design and functionality of each product is considered to certify authority within the field, whilst preserving the tradition and legacy of the brand.� Traditional walking sticks are no exception.

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beater knows where to step to keep safe footing. You can do without a walking stick, of course, but you’ll fare better (and be safer) with one in your hand.

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nd how do these sticks become transformed into walking sticks by Purdey? Each receives the attention of a craftsman, who hand-finishes the stick in his own design or to the personal preference of the ambulist. Throughout history, walking sticks have received quite ornate designs—even dazzling, jewel-encrusted versions or those concealing weapons or, in a softer touch, women’s makeup or perfumes.

In the 17th and 18th Centuries, Louis XIV of France, known as Louis the Great or the Sun King, decreed that only the aristocracy could use walking sticks, as they were a symbol of power. Many portraits of the Sun King show him wielding a walking stick while he strikes the look of the divine monarch be believed he was.

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ou might want an antler top or a carved image or totem that serves as a grip. Courtly gentlemen may ask for a top made of silver. A natural vee in the top of the stick, produced during coppicing, can serve as a thumb or hand rest. The expression of personal style still is an important consideration for ambulists—or even the casual walker who wants a little help and security while strolling a country road or intently stalking a heather-covered moor. Like the choice of a shotgun, a walking stick can say much about the individual who holds it. As an accessory, the stick can be matched to outfits—or to a favorite sporting gun. This historic art of making walking sticks remains alive today, and companies such as Purdey deliver quality craftsmanship. As U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt said, attributing the phrase to a West African proverb, “Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.” And you will go with style, too, carrying one of these bespoke British walking sticks.

BOL D ACCE N TS Wood knots can be a natural top to a walking stick, or a stick might be finished with a more ornamental design such as a wood carving or an antler section.

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F I N I SHI N G TO U C H E S The stick is straightened with steam and force, and then the top is sanded and finished. A natural fork or vee will provide a handhold or thumb rest on this stick. The wood is then protected with a lacquer or other sealant.

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AT HOME WITH THE WILD CHEFF Try these natural approaches to wild-game cooking as prepared and shared by New England’s Chef Denny Corriveau.

STORY BY JOE HEALY PHOTOGRAPHY BY CARL TREMBLAY AND COURTESY OF CHEF DENNY CORRIVEAU FOOD STYLING BY CATRINE KELTY

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GRILLED QUAIL SALAD FIND THE RECIPE AT COVEYRISEMAGAZINE.COM COVEY RISE 75

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ooking and eating wild game should be a gratifying and memorable experience. Wild-game meat, when handled and prepared properly, is more flavorful than store-bought meat, it’s generally healthier than farm-raised meat, and the preparation of it should be a testament to the respect hunters have for the animals they take.

The current culinary vanguard is field-to-table cooking, using the freshest ingredients—including wild game. Chef Denny Corriveau has been teaching this method of cooking for nearly 30 years, specifically as part of the curriculum for his Free Range Culinary Institute. He jokes that his career has been like the song by Barbara Mandrell about being country before country music was cool—he was teaching sustainable cooking using wild game long before it began to take center stage on the Food Network. He’s been called a “wild game ambassador” and “wild game evangelist” and his career goal is to help people enjoy cooking wild game—and to better understand how to do it well. To accomplish this, he developed a methodology and best practices for game cooking that he calls the Wild Cheff Concept.

Chef Corriveau grew up in New Hampshire and was introduced to hunting by his stepfather, who was from the state’s rural White Mountains region. When a family friend had an abundance of game meat after shooting a moose and couldn’t eat the deer meat already in the freezer, he offered Corriveau some venison. This began his experimentation with cooking game meat.

“Back then, everyone was in the same situation, you harvested something and then you figured out what to do with it.

For most people, the go-to was Italian dressing or cream-ofmushroom soup. Just drown it in that, and cook it up at will.

So I thought, ‘Oh, boy, now I get to do something really cool with venison.’ I had heard you could throw butter in a pan, add salt and pepper to the meat, and the world would be good. No one had ever given me the knowledge of deboning the venison and taking off the fat. That was a lesson learned, as I ended up throwing away what I cooked. Then I tried removing the fat and the bone. It was like night and day. It carries over to the whole methodology I developed for wild-game cooking. What can I do with the meat, where are the boundaries? How do you trap in the flavor while cooking? You want to heighten or accent the flavor of the game, and also address moisture issues,” the chef says.

His Wild Cheff Concept is intended to capture and enhance flavor. “Gamebird breasts can be prepared by gently pounding them with a meat mallet to make cutlets. With a cutlet, you make an even piece of meat. Anytime you cook a gamebird, think about the shape of what you’re cooking. You want to create a uniform piece so it all cooks the same. You might even use a technique such as a braciole, pounding out the meat, rolling it with sauce or spices, and cooking it in the oven, or you can sauté or grill it.”

The chef also recommends picking a theme for your wild-

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FIE LD-TO -TAB LE FARE (ABOVE:) Chef Denny Corriveau offers cooking instruction on keeping wild-game preparations preservative-free and natural.

game dishes. “What I mean is, it could be a cultural theme like Italian or Tuscan, it could be German or French, or it could be barbecue or Southwestern. Follow suit with matching the flavors to that theme. And if you want to bring moisture into it, coat the cutlet with flavored olive oil and that will add flavor to accent your game.”

Each recipe here has a theme. For example, Chef Corriveau says, “For the Southwestern-style pheasant, we season it and then dredge it in blue corn flour. By putting the breast in flavored olive oil, and marrying that with spices that complement that flavor, you accent the meat and take it in the direction of the Southwestern theme. You hold in the moisture with the blue corn flour, so the flavor is trapped and as the meat is heated, the aromatic gets released into the meat for a flavor burst. A tremendous flavor sensation hits your palate when you take a bite.”

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BACON-WRAPPED MAPLE QUAIL WITH CORN SUCCOTASH Serves 6 INGREDIENTS 12 quail breast halves 6 slices of applewood-smoked bacon, sliced into halves 2 ounces goat cheese Wild Cheff Cinnamon Chile Blend 2 tablespoons pure maple syrup ½ teaspoon Wild Cheff (WC) Jalapeño Flakes ½ poblano pepper, seeded and veined, then thinly sliced FOR THE SUCCOTASH 3 ears of sweet corn, sliced off the cob 1 small zucchini, small cubed 1 small red bell pepper, diced 1 poblano pepper, diced 2 tablespoons butter 1 tablespoon olive oil ½ tablespoon WC Lemon Lover’s Blend 1 teaspoon WC Cajun Blend 1 teaspoon WC Herb Lover’s Blend Sea salt to taste DIRECTIONS 1. To prepare the succotash, heat a skillet over medium high heat and add the olive oil and butter. Add veggies to the pan and begin to sauté. Season the veggies with the Wild Cheff spices and

herbs and add your desired amount of sea salt to taste.

2. Stir veggies while cooking until they are al dente. You want them beyond the raw stage, but remaining with a slight crisp edge to them. Put aside.

6. In a preheated cast iron pan, add the bacon-wrapped breasts and cook, while turning, until the bacon is cooked and browned. Serve the stuffed quail on a platter over the corn succotash.

3. The first step for the quail is to place the breasts individually, one at a time, into a Ziploc bag. Using a meat mallet, gently tap the breasts to increase the size of them. Once they have been pounded into mini cutlets, place them into a medium-size mixing bowl. Pour WC Blood Orange Olive Oil to coat the breasts, and season them with the WC Cinnamon Chile Blend.

4. Place the goat cheese into a mixing bowl with the maple syrup and the WC Jalapeño Flakes and use a spatula to stir up the cheese into a mixture.

5. Take the 12 bacon slices and lay them across a cutting board. Place the seasoned quail breasts, one per piece of bacon, on the bacon. With a mini spoon, place a dollop of the goat cheese mixture on each center of quail breast. Fold the quail to make a stuffed breast, so the bacon acts as a wrap around each piece.

Pin the bacon with toothpicks.

According to Chef Corriveau, his line of Wild Cheff products—largely spices, oils, and vinegars— started as teaching tools for cooking students, fueling or “feeding” the Wild Cheff Concept. “Wild Cheff products are more flavorful than others on the market.” What started as a handful of products has grown to more than 100. You’ll find them at wildcheff.com.

“When you’re fortunate enough to harvest game, it’s something special, and you have to treat it special. Why would you throw preservative-filled anything on that? That would null and void the whole fact that you’re eating something natural. In unison with that, wild game responds really well to preservative-free seasonings.”—Joe Healy COVEY RISE 79

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SOUTHWESTERN BLUE CORN PHEASANT WITH FRUIT SALSA

Serves 6 Note: With the flavor profile of a TexMex seasoned chicken-fried steak and the accent of blue corn, you’ll enjoy the delicious Wild Cheff signature taste coupled with refreshing fruit salsa.

INGREDIENTS 6 to 8 boneless pheasant halves WildCheff (WC) Lime Olive Oil WC Tex Mex Blend WC Smoky Paprika Chile Blend Ground cumin Blue corn flour (can be ordered through wildcheff.com) FOR THE FRUIT SALSA ½ cup papaya, diced 1 mango, diced ½ cup blueberries 4 ounces strawberries, diced 4 ounces blackberries

1 tablespoon WC Lime Olive Oil Juice of ½ lime 1 teaspoon WC Jalapeno Flakes Fresh cilantro, chopped DIRECTIONS 1. Place the pheasant breasts, one at a time, into a 1-gallon Ziploc freezer bag. Using a meat mallet, gently pound them into cutlets. Remove from the bag and place onto a large dish.

2. Once all the breasts are pounded into cutlets, coat the pheasant with some of the WC Lime Olive Oil, and season on both sides with the desired amount of WC Tex Mex Blend, WC Smoky Paprika Chile Blend, and ground cumin.

3. Place some blue corn flour in a wide bowl or into a 1-gallon Ziploc

bag and dredge the breasts in the flour. Heat up a large cast iron skillet over medium high heat, and add 2 to 3 tablespoons of olive oil and a tablespoon of butter to the pan.

Once the butter melts and the pan is heated, add the breasts to the pan and cook until both sides have a crust created by the blue corn flour.

Do not overcook the pheasant or it will become dry. It should only take approximately 5 to 6 minutes (average) total cooking time to cook the breasts. The breasts are cooked when they firm up in the pan.

4. Plate the cooked breasts with some fruit salsa; let the breasts rest for a couple of minutes to maintain even moisture throughout the meat before slicing into them.

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PHEASANT APPLEJACK Serves 4 to 6 INGREDIENTS 6 boneless pheasant breast halves Organic all-purpose flour Wild Cheff (WC) Tuscan Blend WC Lemon Olive Oil 1 apple, peeled, cored, and diced small ½ teaspoon of WC Pie Spice Blend ¾ cup of apple brandy (brandy and not schnapps) ½ cup of apple cider 2 to 3 tablespoons of butter ½ tablespoon WC Air-Dried Shallots DIRECTIONS 1. Place the pheasant breast halves, one at a time, into a 1-quart Ziploc bag. Very gently pound the breasts with a meat mallet so they are thin, like a cutlet. As you finish them, remove from bag and place on a large plate. When all the breasts are finished and prepared, drizzle WC Lemon Olive Oil over them so they are fully coated. Season them with desired amount of WC Tuscan Blend.

2. Dredge the breasts in the flour and shake off the excess. Place them onto a new clean plate to prep them for cooking. Preheat a

large cast-iron or stainless sauté pan with olive oil and 1 tablespoon butter over the stovetop on medium heat. Sauté the pheasant breasts in the oil on each side until almost cooked full (we will finish cooking in Step 6, below).

Transfer the cooked pheasant to a plate and loosely cover with aluminum foil.

3. Add a tablespoon of butter to the pan and once it melts add the diced apples and WC Air-Dried Shallots, followed by the WC Pie Spice Blend.

Stir to incorporate the flavors.

4 When the apples appear to have softened, add the apple brandy to the pan. Be careful not to expose the brandy to open flame, as it will ignite the brandy and flame up.

5. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes and then add the apple cider to the pan. Continue to sauté, and add another tablespoon of butter to the pan if needed and you will see the sauce start to thicken up.

6. Add the pheasant cutlets back to the pan and coat them in the sauce, then serve. Suggested side dishes include a fall squash and wild rice or your favorite potatoes.

Chef Corriveau says: “I’m trying to arm people with knowledge. I’ve spent 25 to 30 years perfecting what is now a starting point for some people. It’s a passion for me to share this knowledge about wild game. I want people to grow it and take it to another level. It’s the Wild Cheff methodology and best practices—if you cook this way, you’ll have the best wild game you’ve ever tasted.

I want to work with audiences outside of hunting so I can give them positive experiences about hunters and hunting.”

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KICK ’EM UP An Alaskan hunting adventure clarifies the soul of the sport STORY BY REID BRYANT PHOTOGRAPHS BY BRIAN GROSSENBACHER

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A

fellow down the street from here has a ringneck decal on the rear window of his truck, and another that spells out, in those aggressive die-cut letters, “Kick ’em up, knock ’em down.” Call me crazy, but I’ve pegged this guy as a pheasant hunter. Now I don’t know him at all, though around here bird hunters make up a small fraternity, and we tend to haunt the same pockets and hedgerows.

But despite our remote kinship, I always have a laugh at this poor bastard’s expense. After all, around our Massachusetts home, the only pheasants he hunts are the grain-fed travesties that the state buys like chickens and salts out through the hayfields in the October twilight.

It pains me to shoot pen-raised birds but at times it’s the only game in town. Hunting on a shoestring budget, around a “work-wife-daughter” schedule that grows more intricate each year, I lean on the mockery of my local bird hunting like my alcoholic grandmother leans on the bottle of cooking sherry.

That’s not to say we don’t have wild birds in these woodlands once tramped by the likes of William H. Foster, Tap Tapply and Burt Spiller. But the progress of man has all but confined the partridge to slips of bittersweet tucked behind “Posted” signs, and the woodcock that my bell-wearing Brittany pins to the alder bottoms are all but too fleeting to shoot. So I “kick ’em

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up, knock ’em down” and fill my January oven with what my daughters tend to think of as “chew-it-soft chicken,” what for the smattering of No. 6 shot. I’m not proud. I’m just freakishly bent toward full disclosure.

But I suppose the evolution of any wayward bird hunter contains a moment of absolution, a realization of the soul of this thing we call sport. And when that cathartic moment comes, it isn’t grain-fed, or pen-raised, or planted in the brush by a sleepyeyed state employee. It’s cut from the wind and the sky and the pure driven joy of a bird framed against brush awash in sunlight. Or that’s how it hit me, anyway. And it hit me hard in the shoulder, with the recoil of a box of 3-inch 20-gauge shells, and a game bag heavy enough to give me pause.

It was willow ptarmigan that did it.

I won’t go into the how and why, but in my experience, the plausibility of a wingshooting venture to the Alaskan tundra flutters somewhere in the ether alongside the tooth fairy, the Sasquatch and the reality of liquor before beer keeping a fellow in DIRECT ROUTE The author and Josh ‘Spud’ Fitz find that the easiest way around an Alaskan water hazard is often right through it.

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the clear. But at times, magic manifests in the most gracious of places. So when a renowned artist friend offered a week’s worth of hunting, well, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So it transpired that I found myself at Crystal Creek Lodge in King Salmon, Alaska, loading a quivering wirehair into a float plane and hoping that my long-held fear of flying wasn’t any too apparent. The guns were packed, alongside the shells, the lunch and the bear spray. Also nestled in was an excitement real enough to make my hands shake.

We lifted off the Naknek River into a gunmetal sky, and if surreal weren’t enough the word for it, a hint of a rainbow showed in the east. Brian Grossenbacher, my artist buddy, was in the seat ahead of me, alongside Josh Fitz, aka Spud, aka one of Alaska’s finest bird hunting guides. Maggie the wirehair sat beside him. Alex Oberholtzer was at the controls of the de Havilland Beaver, his prizefighter frame crammed impossibly behind the console. I was in back with the gear, and that was OK with me – the guys in front couldn’t see me shaking, either with fear (I’m a loser) or with excitement (I’m still a loser).

As we rose, the landscape took shape, and it became a patchwork quilt of spruce forest, tundra and riverine streaks of silver.

It was vast, too big for me to make sense of it and surely too big

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to exact a likely piece of cover out of it. But Alex, at the helm, seemed sure enough of his course, and no one else was asking questions, so I pressed my nose to the window and soaked it all in. Maggie, sensing the welling inside me, brought it all back into focus with a sloppy-wet kiss on the cheek. A thousand feet up was all the same to her, and we were going hunting, over pointing dogs, for the wildest of wild birds. Maggie smiled and slopped up my cheek again. I smiled, too, and gave myself over to the great unknown.

The plane spit us out on the edge of Heart Lake, so named on our first approach because – well, hell – it was shaped like a heart.

We anchored the plane and schlepped guns and gear and dogs to the gravelly margins, and assembled ourselves as best we could.

Maggie took a quick tour of the neighborhood. Brian was loaded with a camera in each hand, and Spud and I were loaded with more lethal stuff. Alex was armed with a dog whistle.

We crested the rise, up out of the wet stuff, and there spreading out was the biggest piece of sky I’d ever seen. It was big in the way that the ocean is big, or the aurora borealis on a 3-degree night, or that fluttering place your heart goes in the presence of a new love. It spread out in front of us like spilled maple syrup, and you could hear right away it was full of birds.

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Somewhere out ahead, clucking and shuffling, were more wild birds than I’d seen in a lifetime, birds that had never before seen men, pointing dogs or asphalt gravel.

A clucking wave of them was moving like an apparition over the rise a hundred yards out. They sure as hell weren’t waiting around for the likes of us, so we snicked the guns closed and Alex released Maggie. The birds sifted fast into the willows.

I like to think of a dog on point as a moment suspended in time. In part it’s the stark departure of all of that motion, a coil spring ball of wide-eyed, wirehaired, slobber-stained muscle slamming to a standstill in an instant. If you are one of those “forest for the trees” types, you wait for a second behind a pointing dog and consider the spectacle.

The dog is held on the cusp of something wonderful through

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centuries of line-bred restraint. A bird hunter is held in the same sort of reverie, but for different reasons. In my case, when Maggie locked up and dropped her chest to the ground, it was a resounding realization of good fortune that stopped me: Somewhere out ahead, clucking and shuffling, were more wild birds than I’d seen in a lifetime, birds that had never before seen men, pointing dogs or asphalt gravel.

I knew all at once that my first step into that covey would slice to the heart of bird hunting at its cleanest and its best. It was all just ahead, and I realized it fully – and joyfully. I was thinking these things when Spud thumped me on the back

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and smiled, wondering whether I was hoping for these birds to dematerialize. So I hustled past Maggie, stutter-stepped over the hummocks and kicked into flight a few dozen small fragments of the landscape. They locked and banked and I locked and swung, the “pop-pop” of the shots getting swallowed by the wind off Bristol Bay. Maggie reignited, brushed past my leg and ran out to pick up my first willow ptarmigan.

I went on to fill a big bag with birds that day, not a limit but more than enough. By the end of the day, my legs were like jelly and the vest pinched my shoulders. I was done in. But it was that first bird, that first dusky bird, that held my heart, and holds it still when I think back on Alaska. After Maggie spit the bird into Alex’s hand, he tossed it to me and I smelled its back like I do.

In among the feathers was the earthy smell of blood and the dusty sweet feather smell, and something else I couldn’t quite identify. As I was loading birds and dogs and double guns back into the Beaver, it came to me, with wonderful clarity. It was the absence of grain smell, the mechanical and all trace of people. It was a wonderful thing to find missing, and I was glad that I saw it and smelled it – or, I should say – the lack of it.

In the weeks after my return from Alaska, I hunted pheasants near my Massachusetts home. I kicked a few up and knocked

a few down. I did it because that’s what I have. Plus, the dog needed work and chicken is expensive but shot shells are cheap.

But my view of the grape-tangled corners and cutover corn was wider somehow, and it encompassed more. Holding a big, grainplump rooster in the demise of an October afternoon, I bent and smelled his neck.

It didn’t smell like willow ptarmigan. It smelled like chicken.

But it was a bird and I’d shot it, and I learned on the Alaskan tundra that I’m a bird hunter, clear to the soul. I’ll hunt what I have with a full heart, knowing that something fine and clean and true hangs on out there, clucking through the willow breaks and going white in the coming of winter.

SATISFACTION Facing page: To hold a little piece of earth and sky for a moment in your hands — that is why the upland gunner travels to Alaska.

Below: With not another soul this side of the horizon, guides Alex Oberholtzer and Josh ‘Spud’ Fitz return to the Beaver for the daily commute home.

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Let Me Be

Perfectly Frank From the creative but largely misunderstood mind of Frank A PROPER INTRODUCTION

H

ere’s the thing. You only know half the story. Actually, given the limited capacity of most of the hunters I come across, you probably don’t even know half. But that’s okay in your mind.

After all, you drive the truck, carry the gun, and shoot the birds. I can’t do any of that because I don’t have opposable thumbs. All you see is that happy grin, excited pace, and boundless energy quartering close and pointing sharp. But there’s more

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to it. You and I both know that.

You’ve looked into my eyes and seen the heart of a lion, right before you take the bird out of my mouth.

You’ve seen me riding with my head out of the truck window, a breeze blowing through my hair and jaws that gives me that swept, exotic look, like Aristotle Onassis. What you don’t know is that I’m processing more scents through one nostril than you’ll ever smell with that funny-looking nose you got. And that

Twinkie you shoved under the seat last season so your buddies wouldn’t eat it? I bet you forgot about that, didn’t you? Well, I can smell that, too. I’m not judging you, but that’s just nasty.

Wait a minute. You still haven’t figured this out, have you? Two paragraphs in and you’re still wondering why that little voice in your head—the one that reads aloud as your finger follows the words on the page—seems to have a keen

sense of language paired with floppy ears and a tendency to pause at fire hydrants. When you get it figured out, you’ll be even more perplexed by the subsequent quandary: is that voice a dog in my head or is this simply the beginning of the end? I know—right?

Well, don’t you worry your pretty little human head over the details at this point. You have nothing to fear.

Except, maybe, global terrorism, political dysfunction, and rattlesnakes. You should probably have a healthy fear of those things. And that guy behind the desk at the DMV. I don’t trust him for some reason, so

to appreciate those times when the door hardware keeps me out when I should be in or, more problematically, in when I should be out. Or the times when I find the stainless steel of the food bowl unyielding, with no kibbles or bits in a three-block radius. What’s not unconditional about that love? I’ve even heard Tony Robbins on the television suggest I view the hard times as character building. Of course I heard that from the back patio through the sliding glass doors as the rain fell sideways and the den recliner struggled mightily against your snoring. I got your character, all right.

The dog (that’s me) is going to wax philosophically for an issue or two, musing about the wonder of days afield, the glory of a well-executed point and flush, and maybe even the precision of the shooting. Here’s the rub, though. The dog (again, that’s me, for those of you just tuning in) is going to write about these things from my unique perspective. I’m going to be brutally honest, though I’m easily persuaded by bones, treats, and empty promises of world peace.

So that’s the plan. We’ll see what happens. If you don’t like the work, send a letter to the Publisher. That’s

ILLUSTRATION BY KATHERINE GOBEL

So here’s how this plays out. The dog (that’s me) is going to wax philosophically for an issue or two, musing about the wonder of days afield, the glory of a well-executed point and flush, and maybe even the precision of the shooting. Here’s the rub, though. The dog (again, that’s me, for those of you just tuning in) is going to write about these things from my unique perspective. I’m going to be brutally honest, though I’m easily persuaded by bones, treats, and empty promises of world peace. maybe a little fear of him. But other than that, you should be good to go.

You certainly have nothing to fear in me. I’m the very picture of unconditional love, as far as you know. I sleep in the laundry room if I’m lucky, kennel up when you say to, hunt close or face the wrath of some electronic beast around my neck, hunt dead even more rarely for reasons I don’t control, and then kennel up again for the drive home. I depend on you for food and shelter, and though an upgrade of both might be in order, I’ve grown

So this is where the paws hit the pine straw, so to speak, where the rest of the story will be told Paul Harvey style, like sand through the hourglass, speaking truth to power till the cows come home. Which I hope never happens because—if we’re being honest here and I think we are—the bovine intellect is somewhere south of invigorating and I’ve got all the work I can do whipping the humans into shape. And by shape I don’t mean round, which seems to be your favorite. Just saying.

So here’s how this plays out.

what I did and look where it got me.

If you like the work and want to see more, write your name and address on a $20 bill and send it along to the Managing Editor. He’ll be in touch.

To lavish me with the praise I’m due, email frank@coveyrisemagazine.com.

And then sit at heel and wait for my next command. What? Too soon?

Well, I’ve got just enough time for a nap before dinner, so I’ll bid you adieu. Hug your dogs and feed them well. Sometimes we watch you while you sleep. You should probably fear that as well.

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TOAST I N G T H E H U N T

Single Barrel Bourbons These special bourbons are all the rage. Find out why.

BY FRED MINNICK

O

PHOTOGRAPH BY ELMORE DEMOTT

ne of the more mysterious and fascinating aspects of bourbon is two barrels filled with the same exact recipe on the same day can age side-by-side in the same warehouse and yet will taste different—not only different, but drastically different. Maybe the airflow to the barrel accounts for the difference, or perhaps one barrel’s oak is more porous than the other? But there is a definitive difference.

That’s why the single-barrel concept was not a commercial endeavor until the 1980s. Prior to the great George T. Stagg Distillery’s master distiller Elmer T. Lee implementing the Blanton’s Single Barrel in 1984, distillers merely dumped barrels in the batch tank. Depending on the taste mark for the brand, the good barrels were mixed with the bad ones. The executives would select special barrels for their friends and families, and they often privately bottled single barrels for important consumers. But until the George T. Stagg Distillery (now Buffalo Trace) launched the Blanton’s brand, the everyday consumer could not purchase a single-barrel product. Now, they’re everywhere.

Single-barrel bourbons have become so prevalent there are essentially three categories of single barrels: private selections (meaning a liquor store, individual, or bar purchased the barrel and had it privately barreled); limited edition, which is hard to find because there’s so little of it; and the everyday single barrels, a style that is slightly more consistent than it used to be. › LIMITED EDITION Two of my favorite recent limited editions are Michter’s 10 year old and Elijah Craig 18 year old.

Mitcher’s 10 year (94.4 Proof, Barrel No. 15J829, MSRP $120) has the deepest amber color of a 10 year old you’ll ever see. As for aroma, there’s a back and forth of spice and floral with hints of a macaroons and caramel. The gorgeous taste profile offers a lot right off the bat, with notes of spice, toffee, praline, caramel, and a resounding citrus that ranges. The finish is long with caramel.

The Elijah Craig 18 year (no barrel identifier, 90 Proof, MSRP $199) is a tawny rose color. It offers a vibrant aroma of rose petals, roasted nuts, caramel, and vanilla. This has a surprisingly fruity taste with notes of pecan pie, caramel chew, vanilla, and a hint of chocolate. The spicy finish is long and wonderful. › PRIVATE SELECTION Anybody can purchase their own

barrel of bourbon. Just ask your retailer to set up a tasting for you with the major brands that do this. These are two of my favorites right now.

Old Scout Jawbreaker is 11 years old and 122 proof. It is a private selection for a group of individuals. You cannot find this bourbon on its own legally. With a medium brown color, it has wonderful smoked corn notes with caramel, vanilla, spice, and apple pie. This is drastically more smooth than you’d expect for a 122-proof product. The palate offers similar notes to the nose with resounding cornbread and caramel notes leading the charge.

The medium finish gives off a vanilla note.

Knob Creek Big Red Liquors (120 Proof, 10 years old, $40) no longer exists in my home. I consumed every drop, so these notes are from memory, and I’m told bottles still exist if you’re in Indianapolis. The color is amber; the aroma is smoky, caramel, vanilla, spicy, and fresh-baked cornbread; and the palate is candied corn, caramel, vanilla, cinnamon, and watermelon juicy fruit.

It has a long candy-corn finish. › EVERYDAY SINGLE BARRELS This used to be a burgeoning category, but supply became so constrained that there are really only two single barrels you can consistently find on the market and that’s Four Roses and Blanton’s. These are my two favorite recent picks. Four Roses Single Barrel (100 Proof, Warehouse AN, Barrel No. 43-6V) is a dark caramel and has an aroma of toasted marshmallow, campfire smoke, canned pear, dried apricot, and cinnamon. You’ll note caramel and vanilla, followed by heavy spices and fruits. The long finish rewards you with cinnamon, caramel, and vanilla.

Blanton’s (93 Proof, Barrel No. 599 bottled May 21, 2014) is deep amber with caramels, vanillas, spices, dried apricot, cherryflavored pipe tobacco, cigar box, saddle leather, and oak. As for palate—it’s a beautiful, fruit-forward palate with the essence of everything found in the bouquet. The creamy, almost like dripping butter, mouthfeel coats the tongue with notes of cinnamon, crème brûlée, pumpkin pie, and delicious mashed yams with brown sugar and butter. Finish is long, spicy, and delightful.

Fred Minnick is the author of Bourbon Curious: A Simple Tasting Guide for the Savvy Drinker.

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O N E C I G A R AT A T I M E

Cultivating Tobacco It’s labor-intensive agricultural work—but, oh, the pleasurable rewards!

BY CHUCK HOLLAND

PHOTOGRAPH BY OKSANA STRU

M

uch like the barley, corn, and grapes that make up our favorite beverages, tobacco leaves in the cigars we love to smoke require a great deal of handling before they become part of a cigar. The growing process follows centuries-old traditions that dictate everything from a leaf’s strength and its flavor and appearance, to the role it will play in a hand-rolled cigar. The bottom line is—great cigars must start with great tobacco.

Like most plants, tobacco begins as a seed, but a tobacco seed is exceedingly tiny, smaller even than a grain of salt. They’re so small that one ounce will contain approximately 250,000 to 350,000 seeds. Those seeds are germinated in a greenhouse and carefully monitored until they are about 6 inches tall, at which point they are transplanted to the tobacco fields. Now, the seedling will continue as either a shade-grown or a sun-grown tobacco plant.

As the name implies, sun-grown tobacco has full exposure to direct sunlight, resulting in darker, thicker, stronger-flavored leaves. Shade-grown tobacco is raised in fields covered by muslin material that cuts the sunlight by about 30 percent. Those leaves are paler, thinner, and milder tasting than the sun-grown varieties.

Shade-grown tobacco generally also has fewer blemishes than sun-grown, making it ideal for use as the outer wrapper leaf.

After about a month and a half in the field, each tobacco plant is topped by hand to remove the flower bud before it begins to bloom. If left alone, a tobacco plant will divert most of its growing energy away from its leaves toward creating a cluster of beautiful pink and white flowers, each with a seed pod containing around 2,000 seeds. Topping the plant yields thicker and more substantial leaves full of oils and essential nutrients. Around the same time, excess leaves or suckers are removed to further assist the plant’s development of its primary leaves.

Whether sun- or shade-grown, by the time a tobacco plant is several months old, it has grown into a single, 6- to 10-foot stalk covered in large, bright green, mature leaves. Those leaves are harvested by hand two at a time in weekly stages called primings.

Harvesting begins at the bottom of the plant and follows to the top for the five to eight primings that a tobacco plant typically yields. The first primings come from the section of the tobacco plant known as volado. Because the volado leaves are at the bot-

tom of the plant and have been shaded and more sheltered from the elements, they tend to be thin and light in flavor and strength.

They also burn easily and smoothly and are most often used as the cigar’s binder, where its position around the filler tobacco helps produce an even-burning cigar.

The middle part of the tobacco plant is the seco section, containing the finest-quality leaves. Because these leaves remain on the stalk for several weeks longer than the volado leaves, they receive more nutrients and sunshine. In turn, that creates a richer flavor and darker color than the leaves from the first primings.

Seco leaves contribute aroma and flavor to the cigar and are often used as filler and wrappers.

The final section of leaves is found at the top of the tobacco plant and is known as ligero (pronounced lee-hair-o). These are the last leaves harvested. They have remained on the stalk the longest, soaking up direct sunlight, and drawing energy and nourishment from the plant. The result is a thick, oily leaf that is a powerhouse of flavor and strength. Ligero leaves do not burn easily and are difficult to keep lit. That’s why they are often found in the center of the filler tobacco in the heart of the cigar, surrounded by volado and seco leaves, whose combustion characteristics keep the ligero burning.

The proper tobacco-leaf cultivation and harvesting methods are important elements to creating a delicious cigar—but it should be noted that there are several factors affecting tobacco properties that the tobacco grower cannot control. Identical tobacco varieties will develop different characteristics from one area to the next and from year to year, depending on soil and climate conditions.

Thus planting the same seeds in the different countries, or different regions in the same country, will often yield different taste results. Likewise, planting the same seeds in an identical location year after year could produce tobacco with interesting differences.

If the tobacco grower and his field hands have done their jobs properly, and Mother Nature has cooperated, the first steps of what is ultimately the long, complex process of creating cigars will be underway.

Next time, we’ll look at what happens to the green tobacco leaves after they are picked and delivered to the curing barns— thereby beginning the next step in the transformation from raw tobacco to cigar.

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R O C KY M O U NTAIN M E M O RIES

Private Time At certain intervals, some recreational activities are best done alone.

BY BEN O. WILLIAMS

E

ach new year, my outdoor activities are really new beginnings more than extensions of where I left off the year before. I’m never quite sure if many of my finite learned skills have deserted me between the seasons, so I’m inclined to think certain activities are best done alone. The opening of fishing small streams is one such activity, even though Montana’s big rivers are never closed so I know not all of my angling skills are in remission. However, a small stream takes on a completely different tone than a big river and naturally requires more precise techniques. Tying a 5X tippet to an existing leader and threading it though the eye of a size 16 hook takes different memory and finger dexterity than the big-river setup of an 0X leader tied to a size 2 streamer. Further, when standing in a shrub-lined small trout stream, a high backcast is required, which makes for another complex skill that I’m never quite sure my body has completely retained from one season to the next. So striving to get all of these achievements accomplished, over rising trout, is best done without any onlookers, I feel.

he opening day of hunting season has similarities. I certainly will not be at my best when shooting for the first time in a season, nor will my canine companions be at the top of their games. And because of my antiquity, each year the hills appear steeper, the birds seem to fly faster, and my shooting becomes a little more erratic. So total solitude softens my innate anxieties—I don’t want an audience.

Then there is the interval between the hunting and fishing seasons when the fly rods are still and the guns are silent—what I call Gear Time. During this period, being alone is a great pleasure and extends the full year’s enjoyment. This is the time during which I sort out every piece of equipment by category, fondle it, admire it, tell stories out loud with physical reenactments of the event described, and test equipment for strength and accuracy— and for the joy of cleaning it.

I do admit to having accumulated an array of fly rods, reels of many sizes, flies tied for world-class streams, shotguns I’ve kept for nostalgic reasons, shotguns in different gauges for various gamebirds, plus all the other equipment required for pursuing both highly sophisticated sports—fly fishing and wingshooting.

First out from its aluminum case and silk sleeve is my Medal-

PHOTOGRAPH BY TERRY ALLEN

T

lion Sila-flex Golden, 7½-foot, five-piece fly rod, purchased in 1961. While I’m assembling the rod and attaching the Hardy lightweight fly reel, a high-mountain lake comes into view in my mind’s eye. The first cast is next to a large logjam. Slowly I twitch the size 12 grasshopper imitation and out of the depths a large shadow emerges that slowly inhales the fly. The fight is on and after some time, a fat 16-inch westslope cutthroat trout is released back into the crystal blue water. Next out are a couple of old, classy 8- and 10-weight Fenwick rods along with several Pflueger Medalist reels I used when fishing the Florida Keys for tarpon, snook, and bonefish. The Sage and Winston fly rods are uncased and steelhead, Atlantic salmon, sea-run brown trout, and big Alaska rainbows swim though my memory.

Gear Time means taking out my old Lefever 20-gauge shotgun, admiring its age, visualizing a young boy with his dog, and remembering all the ring-necked pheasant missed before one was killed as it flew across the railroad tracks with Mike, my springer spaniel, in hot pursuit. The mental picture changes to a boy and his dog sitting on abandoned railroad tracks admiring the rooster’s long, colorful tail. Next, the vintage British doublebarreled shotguns are handled with admiration and occasionally shot offseason at clay targets. After cleaning, waxing the highly figured gunstocks, and admiring the fine engraving, each one is put away with loving care.

A few dogs from the kennel also sense when it’s Gear Time.

Swinging a shotgun pretending to follow a partridge covey has little effect on the dogs’ behavior. However, clearing out the hunting vests is quite a different story, for the smell of bird scent and a few old feathers gets their attention. But the highpoint for getting the dogs excited, with their woofs and cries, is when I drag out my hunting boots from the closet for cleaning and waterproofing. For the dogs, this is a hopeful sign that I may put on a pair, load them up in the hunting rig, and take them for a run.

Gear Time not only takes place indoors, but also in the field.

For me, Gear Time outdoors is a private time for training pups and started dogs, or to try out a different shotgun, a new fly rod, or other gear that needs to be worked with and handled. It’s a time to wonder about reading a trout stream, to study the flora and fauna, or just to sit on the tailgate of the prairie wagon after a hard day running the dogs and watch the sunset . . . alone.

COVEY RISE 101

WHY WE BURN The art and the science behind the intentions of prescribed burning.

STORY BY MILES DEMOTT PHOTOGRAPHY BY ELMORE DEMOTT

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W

alking a freshly turned firebreak, I was dripping a diesel-and-gasoline cocktail along the edge of planted pines when an Eastern hognose snake bumped the tip of my torch with an inquisitive glance, its body extending from the brush like a gleaming staff of carbon fiber. Snake is not a second language for me, but he seemed to be asking why I was setting fire to his woods on such a crisp winter’s day and would I mind moving along so that he could scare up a little lunch. Happy to oblige, I cast my fire to the end of the lane, set down my torch and, in a strange, existential twist, considered these questions: Why do we set the woods on fire and why does it ignite in us a fascination as primitive as the snake itself?

Simply put, prescribed burning replicates one of nature’s most essential grooming tools, spreading fire across a forest floor, eliminating the competition for target species, and renewing soil with essential nutrients to encourage native growth.

Humans have replaced nature’s random lightning strike with the more predictable drip torch, but the awe and ferocity of fire is the same. We manage the enterprise as best we can, cutting in firebreaks and choosing days or nights when the wind, relative humidity, and dispersion indexes are most favorable. We burn in rotations that allow fuel to reach a combustible but manageable level, sufficient to knock back the undergrowth without dam-

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aging the desired trees such as pines, which have evolved with thick, protective bark and thrive in fiery conditions.

Trees, however, aren’t the only beneficiaries. Scratchers like quail and wild turkeys will often begin the quest for bugs even before the smoke clears, while predatory hawks and coyotes quickly follow a fire to enjoy a brief window of better hunting as the food chain resets and balances. Within days, new native growth emerges, resulting in fresh greenery for the deer and other grazers. Also bouncing back quickly are the hedgerows and broom straw that shelter quail and other species as the forest floor shifts from the grays and blacks of smoke and ash to the brilliant greens and golds that draw us afield with dogs and friends and stories new and old.

T

he stories of prescribed burning, though, have not always fallen on friendly ears, often discounting the fact that humans tend to profit the most from controlled management of forest resources. In the media, Santa Ana is well known for the winds that whip through the canyons of Southern California looking to convert the slightest spark into the next conflagration. Residential development has encroached into many wild spaces and, for many years, prescribed burning has been out of vogue, leaving ground fuel and substory growth unchecked— and catastrophe waiting in the wings. Given mounting insur-

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ance losses on the economic side and research findings from groups such as Tall Timbers Research Station on the scientific side, many areas are now returning to controlled burns as a cost-effective and proactive management tool.

Across the piney woods of the rural South, prescribed burning remains at least as fashionable as seersucker suits and white bucks because it adds discernible value to forest stakeholders. A managed stand of trees offers an unrivaled aesthetic beauty, particularly to the folks active in forest cultivation, from planting to harvesting to promoting natural regeneration. And burning is an important part of the science of that endeavor, a vital step in the natural life cycle of the forest.

But the science is only part of the story—the part that tries to answer the question first posed by the hognose snake.

The second question, perhaps inferred by the snake, is the better question—it lights the clearer path to man’s connection with nature. Just as we might ask how it is that we find ourselves chest deep in ice water surrounded by wet dogs and the perfect decoy spread, or following the nose and tail of a bird dog through briers and broom straw to witness the wonder of a point and flush, we need also to ask how we came to walk through freshly turned dirt carrying what is essentially a bomb with a plumbing loop, leaving a trail of accelerant-laden fuel that grows immediately beyond our control to include the

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sound and the fury of nature’s best and worst self. I suggest it is the art, not the science, that takes us there.

Like the rake lines in the sand of a Zen garden, a firebreak is a palpable reminder of the razor-thin line between peace and chaos. We climb on the tractor and pull the disc harrow along established breaks, digging deep to turn wet dirt, in search of some mastery over nature, straight lines encircling dotted rows.

Fresh earth mingles with the pungent smell of fuel, a blend of diesel and gasoline, to intoxicate the spirit and fortify the resolve. Soon there will be fire. The oily traces rinse the soot and residue of past burns from the bright red tanks of the torches.

The wind gauge swings from a nearby branch, as a light breeze whispers through the pine needles and across the raised hairs on the backs of our necks. And we haven’t even lit a match.

Our fascination with open flame is primeval. Among the many explanations is the ancient Greek assertion that Prometheus stole fire from Zeus for the benefit and progress of humanity. Prometheus was punished summarily, as one might expect, but humankind did, in fact, move forward with the new technology. For all that forward motion, though, consider the epic draw of a campfire or a glowing hearth after a great hunt.

These are the proving grounds of the myths and legends we create afield—day after day, season after season. We are grateful for the fire, the fellowship, and probably the Scotch.

N

ow take the torch from the hand of Prometheus and set the woods on fire, and you’re talking about a very different slice of watermelon. From the first drip of the torch there are wonders to behold and demons to wrestle. Our relationship with fire is unpredictable, often tempestuous, and sometimes even deadly, which leads me to a story.

The wind was good, a burning wind you might say, blowing steadily out of the west, and we needed the headwind to make the most of moderate fuel, mostly duff. The objective was to light the western edge of the stand of trees and then strip every third row, or lay a line of fire between every third row of trees to let the fire feed on itself to generate more heat. All went according to plan . . . until it didn’t.

I was about halfway down the break, a line of fire to my right and a barbed wire fence to my left, when I felt a shift in the wind and heard the little voice in my head let out a string of expletives. More than a shift, the wind completely reversed course and instead of working for me it was now trying to ruin my whole day. With the wind came the heat, with the heat the fire, and next thing I knew I was belly-up to the barbed wire fence—uncharacteristically solid as my fencing goes—with flames licking the back of my jacket and singeing the raised hairs on the back of my neck. I can’t be sure, but I think the hognose snake was grinning at the irony.

Like the rake lines in the sand of a Zen garden, a firebreak is a palpable reminder of the razor-thin line between peace and chaos. We climb on the tractor and pull the disc harrow along established breaks . . .

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The trial by fire, though, reminded me of the small part we play in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps that’s what makes fire so fascinating to us.

I considered the scenarios, trying to determine the best direction to navigate the barbed wire, up or down, while the flames reiterated that either path was going to be fraught with, well, barbs. Then, as luck would have it, the smoke began to settle in. The good news is that the smoke made the direction choice for me. The bad news is that bellying up to barbed wire is a lot like wearing a Velcro suit, except that it tends to draw blood when you try to slide down it. My sympathy for the hides of cattle was palpable.

In addition to the visual wonder of fire, there is a distinct sound, a siren song that lures a man to come hither. And just as the fire was whispering sweet nothings in my soon-to-be crispy ears, the smoke receded, the flames sucked back into the trees, and the breeze brushed the heat from my furrowed brow and

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smoking collar. As barbed wire fencing goes, this was a catchand-release success story.

The trial by fire, though, reminded me of the small part we play in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps that’s what makes fire so fascinating to us. We can cut firebreaks, use physics to keep a drip torch from exploding in our hands, and even stand back and wonder at the wall of fire we’ve wrought—but we can’t control it completely. Life makes us the same deal, offering unlimited possibilities punctuated by ecstasy and tragedy, death and renewal. And just as the green shoots emerge from the ashen floor almost immediately after a burn, I stepped back from the fence a charred man—I mean a changed man.

As stewards of both the natural and built worlds, we should develop best practices from science and experience. Both show

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that prescribed burning is a management tool that simultaneously promotes healthy ecosystems and reduces the risk of wildfires. Native Americans used controlled burns to open up dense forests for grazing and agriculture, and the wildlife they hunted prospered as well. The clearing of underbrush and midstory hardwood saplings has, more recently, enabled foresters to manage timber resources for maximum return and unmatched aesthetic beauty, all while enhancing habitat for wildlife and promoting responsible sportsmanship.

The experience of landowners has also been positive, as evidenced by the increased use of prescribed burning. Not only is fire effective; fire is also efficient. A single drip from the torch is a gift to nature that keeps on giving. Areas thought to be unreachable by dozer or rotary cutter are opened to sunlight and new ideas, and native plants and wildlife stretch their legs and flourish. I walk the break ahead of the burn, navigating fresh dirt below, while watching treetops above for any hint of breeze. To my left, a barbed wire fence bids me keep my distance. To my right, the darkened trunks of longleaf pines attest to our commitment to prescribed burning.

As humans in pursuit of more fulfilling connections to each other and the environment, we might emulate the heat and passion of fire in our daily lives and rise from the ashes, living every moment renewed and purposeful, to grow another day.

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THE LAST HUNT

Big’un I

t may have been a local phenomenon during the first two decades of the last century. Not having researched it, I’m not sure. It seems more of the men who came to maturity during those days were given nicknames that stuck with them. A lot of those people I knew only by their handles, not realizing they had real, given names. There was Country Duncan, obviously given that moniker because his initials were R.F.D., and there were Stool Alford, Burr Head Chappell, Pea Vine Thomas, Shine Kelley, and Sunshine Nivens. There were Po Boy Ray and Po Back Bailey (Po as in Poor), Sparkey Farmer (from Spark Plug, Barney Google’s horse in the Snuffy Smith comics), Satan Thornton, Deacon Graves, Smokey Johnson, Tea Cap Ray, Booney Mann, Sleepy Robinson, and all kinds of Bubbas and Juniors and Shorties.

There was also Big’un (Big One) McClellan. When I dared speculate on the etiology of his sobriquet, his daughter, who was a classmate of mine said, “No! He got it because he is a big man.”

When he became a patient of mine, he measured 6 feet, 2 inches and 230 pounds. He was referred to me because of a heart condition, but the thing he complained of most was arthritis, which interfered with his hunting.

He was nearly deaf as a rock, had a gravelly voice, and stammered slightly as if having to strain to get the words out. He was a gentle sort and reminded me of Br’er Bear in Song of the South, as in The Tales of Uncle Remus.

It so happened that he and Booger Adams leased some hunting land from Edgar Kirkland down at Fort Davis, Alabama, a little crossroads and train crossing near Union Springs. Kirkland ran a little store, which also served as the post office. The area had plenty of birds, Big’un said, but the problem was that many times when they got to Fort Davis, Booger would stay and “talk” with Kirkland, and Big’un would have to hunt alone. Big’un’s wife did not want him hunting alone because of his heart problem.

When he told me that, I immediately volunteered to go with them and be available in case Booger was not in the mood

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to hunt. Big’un was delighted, as was Booger, who seemed more inclined to talk bird hunting than to hunt. I always suspected that Mr. Kirkland sold more than postage stamps and cheese in his little store.

One Saturday, Big’un and I left Booger with Kirkland and went to hunt on the land Kirkland leased them. It was our first time hunting together and my first exposure to his lanky liver-and-white pointer, who, strangely, seemed nameless.

It was my first time hunting with a patient—much less one with arthritis, severe hearing loss, and a bad heart. I could not get my mind off the enormity of the problem should he have some sort of spell. We were way off in the boonies on horseback, and that was back before cell phones. As we rode along, I pictured us coming back with him lying across the saddle like a shot outlaw in a John Wayne movie, but then realized that he was too big for me to manage that.

I was uneasy.

His pointer and my dog, Millie, pointed at an old hedgerow, and we got a nice covey rise. I downed a bird in the middle of a thicket to our right and Big’un killed one going left, a good 60 feet from mine. Each of us went to help our dogs fetch the birds.

About the time I was in the middle of the thicket, and had taken the bird from Millie, Big’un began yelling and blowing his whistle. Then I heard him call in his raspy voice, “John! John! Come here to me right now! John!” He sounded frantic. I tore through the brush, ignoring the briers and tangles, expecting the worst. When I came upon him holding onto the saddle horn and leaning against his horse, his face was red, and he was breathless. On catching his breath he said, “Doc, that John dog ate my darn bird and took off after the singles!”

“Your dog’s name is ‘John?’ I thought you were calling me!” Big’un turned to me with a sort of blank look and said, “I always call you Doc.” Dr. John C. “Doc” Blythe is a retired oncologist, avid conservationist, and author of The Last Hunt in Early County.

ILLUSTRATION BY JOHN DENNEY

It is always a good idea to know the name of your companion’s dog.

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