A Memorable Day

 A Memorable Day
           Sam Pike parked the old beat up pickup just off the track near the tank. Out in front of us the old house was half down with its roof caved in and the clapboard sides weathered and bleached from years of exposure and sun. The old Aermotor was missing some blades but it still turned slowly and squeakily in the breeze. Around the old homestead a few half dead trees and some scrub brush hid any further damage to the place. Some scrawny cottonwoods survived near the tank from the runoff when it overflowed which wasn’t much in the dry season, but this was early January so they had a bit of life from the rain and snow in the late fall.
            Behind the house lay a field that may once have been cultivated but it was only overgrown now in wild grass and weeds. An old “bobwire” fence stretched away until it ended somewhere beyond the horizon. There was a small fenced in plot beside the house that surely had been a garden that sustained fruits of the earth once but now was a mess of brambles and dead branches from the dying trees. Once this had been a home to someone, perhaps a family and I wondered who had lived here and what had happened that this old place had become a deserted relic of a past life.
            We had a cooler in the back with soda and water along with some sandwiches and snacks. Sam had packed it so I was at the mercy of his taste as far as lunch fare. Usually he included some small tins of “Beanie Weenies” as he called them and they might hit the spot after a morning walk in the sun. Along with the cooler Sam had stashed a half dozen or more boxes of his reloads in both 20 gauge and 12 gauge, the 20’s for me with my new side by side and the 12’s for his Winchester over/under. We were at one of his favorite quail haunts and I felt grateful that he had included me on this hunt even though I was a Yankee from Michigan! I had only hunted quail a few times and had not yet been out on the high plains to do any real hunting.
            The plan was simple, we would start behind the house and walk slowly along the old fence for a ways and then shift over into the middle of the field and come back and do it again until we had rousted any or all of the quail in that area. Sam took the fence and I walked about thirty yards out and followed his lead. We no sooner stepped out when a covey of a dozen or more birds lifted in front of us and sailed down range. I fired once, missing and fired again to hit the air behind a lone bird, Sam had a double. I was soon to find that Sam seldom missed and if he would have had more than two barrels he would no doubt have tripled or more. He was a veteran wing shot with a lot of experience.
             I struggled to get one bird out of two shots for most of that morning but I was having a great time.  We were allowed fifteen birds if I remember correctly and Sam was done well before me and jokingly  walked along with me “spotting” my misses coaching me how to lead the birds to hit them. By noon Sam was limited out and we stopped for lunch. Lunch was a sandwich and soda, a Twinkie for a sweet desert and then a short siesta to rest and reflect on the morning. I had passed on the beans and sausage content to watch the clouds float overhead as we rested.
             I hunted for a few more hours after our lunch break and I still hadn’t reached the magic 15. I was not disheartened though since I was a newcomer to this quail thing and it was a great learning experience. I hoped that I would get many more opportunities to improve my shooting skill on the tiny birds in the future. I guess I fell in love with quail as much as I did with my native ruffed grouse. I figured I could get along quite nicely if I had only quail to hunt for the rest of my life. I finally called it quits on the birds and we decided on a sightseeing trip.
            The rest of the afternoon was spent driving around the southwestern plains exploring old ranch or homestead sites and possible future hunting areas. Sam knew most of the landowners and where to go so I had a good guide. We would stop at times and sit on the tailgate drinking a soda and just listening to the sounds of the prairie. It’s surprising how much we miss in the city versus what there is out in the wilderness. The high plains wind sometimes moans and wails like some quiet banshee calling out to some forgotten soul and I found the silence as eerie and exhilarating as anything I have ever experienced.
            We drove over sagebrush ground and watched the antelope run and the birds soar above and as the day drew to an end the sunset was out of this world. I grew up in a land of trees and farmland with towns and villages scattered about so I had never been out on a plain whose expanse was as treeless as a desert where the sun could set on the horizon like a huge fiery ball ablaze in brilliance as it disappeared beneath the sea of grass. I could readily see why it was called “The Land of Enchantment”.
Chris
Courtesy of my daughter Jacque