Jack’s short legs struggled to climb the blowdown. The weight of his double gun pulled him to the ground. His boots were two sizes too big, but family hand-me-downs were all they could afford back then. With untied laces and a red-plaid hunting coat he borrowed from his father, he appeared disheveled that day in the woods.
He’d seen such coverts from the road, but never had opportunity to enter them. He imagined the grouse woods as a spiritual place from the books he’d read. Despite this, he was unnerved by the forest’s darkness.
This was his first hunt.
It was hard to keep up, but he loyally followed his father the best he could. He tried to stay close as the fast-paced bell meant Briar was on the chase. A sudden silence left the forest mysterious and especially exciting to the new hunter, it being fall and all. His setter was last seen gracefully gliding over a steep ridge to the north with his father close behind. The trail had been long, and he stopped for a brief moment at the bottom to catch his breath. A quick peek up the ridge looked daunting, but he pressed on. His struggle continued upward as he grabbed for small aspen to brace himself with his right hand, his 20 in his left.
With sweat dripping from his brow, he made it to the top. He wiped clear his eyes, and as he peered over, he first saw Briar’s obvious white flag pointing to the clouds and quivering. Her black-ticked coat shimmered in the early-morning sun, and her half-black mask was staring straight ahead focused on the task at hand. A beam of light shined down through the canopy directly upon her as if someone was spotlighting the moment from above.
He failed to notice his father sternly motioning him into position as the setter’s beautiful pose kept him distracted. He followed the quiet instructions, and they slowly walked north, one on either side of their dog. The moment from point to flush seemed like an eternity for him. He had anticipated this very instant for a long time, and anxiety consumed him.
The launch of the young bird left easy aim across a clearing. Two shots rang, but no grouse was had. He stared down at the gun as if it was somehow L.C. Smith’s fault. His father glanced at him with a smile and gave him a pat on the back. Right then, they decided it was a good time to stop for a sandwich and a much needed break.
While sitting, side-by-side, on a fallen log, he put his head in his hands, dejected and said, “I can’t do this, Dad.”
“Don’t worry boy . . . you will be okay.”
As always, his stoic father’s words reassured him that he could conquer anything. His father was his hero, and he looked up to him, trusted him. And, from that moment on, that simple statement in the grouse woods forged an October bond that could never be broken.
***
For many years thereafter, life and its responsibilities were hard on Jack. After his mother passed on, way too early, his father and younger siblings started needing help at home. Serious news about his father’s health had left him worrying, hurting for a long time, and the most recent days had gotten worse. As the eldest, it was becoming evident that he would need to take more responsibility for the family.
A man can feel defeated during certain moments in life. He didn’t want to think about his father in heaven, not yet anyway. What he feared most was not being able to hunt partridge at the farm with his favorite hunting partner, afraid of this being the last October.
Sometimes it’s necessary to escape that reality, and for him, it was thoughts of following a setter through raspberry-choked covers that did it for him. A morning slalom through new-growth aspen behind the “kalank, adank” of the sleigh bell was the cure for all that ailed him. In those moments, the challenge of the bird screened the stress of life from his mind.
On the days when the prognosis was grim, he would sit down with his head in his hands and force himself to remember the good times, those days at the farm with his father.
Today was one of those days.
***
Jack’s thoughts wandered to the long lost “Johnson farm” and the trail that led from his backyard through the woodcock swamp and across the river to that old place. It wasn’t Tinkhamtown or grouse Valhalla, but it was a special place to him and his father nonetheless.
Years back, the road to the farm started at his driveway and past his house before it was there. After the last of the Johnson family had moved to town, before his father was even born, his grandfather had purchased the property and hills that lay behind and built a new house closer to the highway. The hidden farm was abandoned, and over the years, the old road leading to it from his backyard was forgotten. A hardly discernible trail was all that remain.
Some locals remembered the Johnson farm, especially the old codgers in town who’d sit at the café’s round table drinking coffee every day. It was known more for its beauty in the hills, berry gardens and Mrs. Johnson’s fresh corn dodgers than for any partridge hunting. But ol’ man Johnson’s logging business and incessant cutting of the forest hills to heat his home during the furious winter months made a special place for the birds for many years after he passed.
***
Jack remembered back to the first time he went to the farm. He was just a boy then.
That evening he was making castles below an orange maple tree in the box his father had built for him with old two-by-tens and a yard of sand. His father drove up in his rusted, red Ford and slowly got out as the dust settled from the dry gravel driveway. He swiped the sawdust off his jeans after a long day spent sawing boards and bending nails. Work had been hard to come by that year.
Jack ran up to his father and gave him a big hug around his legs. They went into the house together, and his mother immediately mentioned something about supper with a worrisome tone to her voice. The faces of his parents looked concerned from what he could remember. His father mumbled something about going to the farm.
As his father sat on the backdoor bench to tie his hunting boots, Jack climbed up alongside. It was high, but he grabbed his father’s pant leg to hold his weight and climbed up one knee at a time. His father said he was finally old enough to go to the farm, and it was his job to carry home the birds. He was little then and hesitant. It seemed scary, a new place he’d never been before, and he now had a job to do. Even at his young age, he had a feeling that this journey was important for the family.
While sitting, side-by-side, and with his head in his hands, he said, “I can’t do this, Dad.”
“Don’t worry boy . . . it will be okay.”
Without pause, his father stood up, grabbed his double and a couple shells from the cabinet and went out the back door. After the reassurance, Jack was eager and confident, right on his father’s heels.
***
His father walked to the outbuilding where Sam was kept. She was a carbon copy of her daughter Briar. She had the same half-black mask, but hers was graying with age. She had been to the farm many times and knew the way by heart. She understood the grouse game, especially in the hills behind the house. The intricacies of the woodcock swamp and the grousy hiding places of the orchard were programmed in her mind. She made partridge hunting easy, and because of that, Sam was and always would be his father’s favorite.
His father unlatched the kennel door keeping Briar and her siblings back with his foot, they were just puppies then. Sam whoa’d as she was taught. A quick pat on her head sent her hunting down the trail toward the farm.
With Jack’s strides being doubled by his father, the trail seemed long, but he didn’t mind. The sights and sounds of the travels were special. As they entered the forest just beyond their backyard, it was like discovering a new world, one of adventure and opportunity, a new beginning.
His father was in a hurry with determination in his eyes, and that was rubbing off on Sam who appeared to understand the importance of this hunt. As they approached the swamp, the elder setter worked the bog bottom harder than she had for years before. An early woodcock migration that year left no birds in the area, so they hurriedly continued toward the river.
The farm was found just up the hill on the other side of the old wooden bridge. After crossing and as they approached, he could see an old gate, open as if to welcome those willing to enter to enjoy what it protected behind it.
A little further, he could see that very few remnants of the farm buildings remained. The old orchard and berry gardens had overgrown, wild, and choked what used to be the farmyard. He stopped long enough to taste the sweetness of a couple over-ripe raspberries, nature’s candy. His father heeled Sam close, stopped and stood for a few seconds as if to take in the beauty of this magical and important place. His father took a deep breath, reached down and touched their setter on the head.
Off they went, and within minutes, Sam went stiff, not as stylish as Briar would later be, but effective nonetheless. Relentlessly utilitarian, she was positioned on the other side of what used to be an orchard row. Wasting no time, his father approached and motioned him to stay behind, and luckily, it presented a magnificent view of what was about to happen.
Before his father could flush what their bird dog was pointing, he was startled by the beating of wings just yards in front of them, a rush of not one, but two birds heading straight across the yard. His father was visibly surprised, startled actually, but he regained composure and aimed down the sight plane cleverly planning the proper lead.
Both grouse went high, not low, which gave Jack a charming view across the deep blue sky. After two quick shots, he witnessed both birds valiantly falling to the ground through the white clouded background – a true grouse double, the one and only he’d ever see.
If only he could have painted his mental snapshot from that day. This moment was the most special he ever had with his father – the moment he strained to relive each time he hurt. He was proud of his father then and had been ever since. Their days of tripping covers together solidified their bond.
***
On report duty, Sam delivered the birds to his father’s hand, who then handed them to his son. This was a lesson for Jack, one that was necessary and not noticed by him until years later. He learned that the birds are special, they meant something important for the family, especially that day, and it was his job to help out, to provide.
They started walking the trail back home.
The heft of the harvest was gladly accepted as a challenge. He followed as best he could, one set of partridge feet in each hand. The long trail seemed longer this time with the anticipation of the hunt behind them. The weight of the birds strained the young boy’s body.
They were almost home, in fact, they could see the rooftop of the house through the pines as they descended the hill. Despite this, he was physically worn from the long journey. He started to struggle and stopped. His father understood and stopped with him.
They sat together, side-by-side, on matching cut stumps along the trail to take a break. He didn’t think he could continue, doubted he could fulfill his important task, and he looked to his father for reassurance.
With his head in his hands and dejected, he said louder than he ever had, “I can’t do this, Dad!”
***
Shouting this out loud startled Jack awake from his memories and longtime trance, and he realized where he really was at that moment. As he opened his eyes and lifted his head from his hands, he looked up to see his father next to him, side-by-side, in the hospital bed, his father’s body slowly relaxing.
He was hurting for his father, had been for a long time. He was scared to lose him, but he was calmed by the thought of that special day together at the farm. It eased the pain and reminded him of the strength and persistence needed to carry out the job he had to do for the family then . . . and especially now.
He stood up from the chair to get closer and grabbed his father’s hand.
With every ounce of effort one could possibly muster, his father moved his lips in reply to his son but made no sound.
Jack knew what his father said, had heard it many times. It was his father’s words to reassure him, to say he was proud of him. It was now Jack’s turn.
“Don’t worry Dad . . . you will be okay. We will all be okay.”
His father then closed his eyes, seeing his last October.
~ Matt Soberg
First published in the Ruffed Grouse Society magazine. Illustration by Jim Nagy.
Matt Soberg 