Enjoy every moment afield because the time, it flies by way too fast . . .
Located in America’s heartland, far, far from seemingly anything relevant, this iconic watering hole and inn, aptly named the Traveler’s Den, welcomed those willing to stop with a warm meal, soft bed, friendly service, a conversation, or a cold brew . . . whatever cured that which ailed you. A melting pot at the interstate crossroads, parking lot license plates displayed a menagerie of colorful designs . . . patrons could be from anywhere, just traveling the nation for any reason whatsoever.
The combination of early-evening darkness and a blustery winter night left unfavorable driving conditions as we trekked from Minnesota south to hunt wintering woodcock in Louisiana. With two bird dogs and my five-year-old boy along for the trip, an overnight visit to the Traveler’s Den appeared like the perfect cure for my dry and weary eyes.
With our breathe showing from the sub-zero temps, my boy and I pushed through the large front wood doors and helped ourselves to a quiet high-top table in the back corner shadows of the bar. As I sat down, the image of an older gentleman sitting in a nearby lounge chair next to the glowing fireplace caught my attention. A quick glance revealed what looked like brush pants, L.L. Bean boots, and a tan-colored shooting shoot with a padded shoulder patch, a lefty. Obviously a bird hunter, I guessed him in his 60s and wondered what storied travels and travails he could tell about his upland hunting life. He looked to be patiently waiting for a guest.
As our waitress arrived, she made a flirting comment to my boy, “You have a mighty bright hat on sir!” Shy as he is, he pulled down his blaze hunting cap over his face and muttered a quiet, “Thank you ma’am.” After we ordered, she kindly asked why we were traveling so far from home. I explained we were taking the bird dogs to Louisiana for some late-December woodcock hunting. The fireside gentleman looked over, and I had the feeling our quick chat about pointing dogs and bird hunting piqued his interest.
As the food came, I enjoyed the evening telling stories and teasing my boy. I was trying to milk every moment from our time together, building on the excitement of the trip. We have family in Houston, Texas, and in reality, my boy would spend more time with Grandpa and Grandma than actual hunting, but to him this was a hunting trip with his dad, which made me proud. At that young age, he liked what his dad liked: Northwoods trail walks, playing with dogs, and the challenge of the hunt—but I was sure that would change as he got a mind of his own. Nevertheless, our hunting trek across the United States was a special one for a father and a son.
Halfway through my T-bone, I noticed a younger gentleman, probably about my age, join the older hunter near the fire. He, too, was clearly a bird hunter, and I wondered where they may be going—could be quail in Kansas, pheasants in South Dakota, maybe a late-season grouse trip to the Northeast—but it didn’t matter—to me bird hunters carry with them a kindred spirit. I guessed them to also be a father and son, albeit of another, older generation than us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them share stories over iced, tan drinks. Although I couldn’t hear what was said, they’d take turns raising arms as if swinging shotguns through the air and making the pose of a pointing dog—all gestures signifying the inherent bird hunter’s language. Their relationship was noticeably close, and the excitement for their unknown hunting adventure seemed as high as ours. Their behavior was contagious, and the father caught me staring in admiration during a belly laugh at one of his son’s tales.
It was getting late, admittedly past my boy’s bedtime, and the dogs needed to be fed. As I was helping my boy down from the high stool, the father stood up from the lounge chair and limp toward us with aged hips and sore knees, probably from high stepping blowdown and cattails for many years.
He approached, patted my boy’s head and held out a hand to me with a smile. As I reached forward for the handshake, he said, “Good luck on the hunt, young men. Enjoy it. Time goes by way too fast.”
That’s all he said, and he walked away, joining his son again for some more stories and cocktails near the fire. He knew we were bird hunters. He knew we were father and son, too. I guess, that’s all that needed to be said.
That night, I couldn’t help but think about that special experience and the man’s advice. It was almost like we were looking at ourselves 30 years down the road in the same place but at a different time in our lives. It really felt like we were looking into the future that night.
Before we know it, the seconds of life turn to minutes and then years. Gray hairs and wrinkles and sore knees of age eventually set in. When that inevitable time comes, I can only hope that my boy and I will likewise meet at the Traveler’s Den amidst cocktails by the fire, waxing poetic over long-passed bird dogs, laughing at memorable misses, and reveling in our upland days afield together.
Until then, enjoy every moment afield because the time, it flies by way too fast.
~ Matt Soberg
First published in the Ruffed Grouse Society magazine, Winter 2016
Matt Soberg 