My Favorite Lunch - An Essay

[Bobwhite]

Hi everyone,

I hope that you'll enjoy this essay.

My Favorite Lunch

"There is nothing like good food, good beer, and a bad girl."

Fortune cookie

I stood next to the truck and stared at the rolling hills of wheat stubble. They seemed to march away from the dawn, held back only momentarily by the wind that fell from the distant mountains. Frost lingered in long shadows cast by the low morning sun, and as the day advanced the bejeweled fields retreated, glistening for a few moments in their glory before the frost melted. The back of my neck was chilled and my face was warm.

My friends intended to hunt deer later in the season, and the next few days were designed to be a scouting trip. There were several maps spread across the hood of the truck, held down by gloved hands and marked over with colored grease crayons.

There's something about the wind that I find comforting, even mesmerizing, and my mind drifted away on it. The conversation with the owner of the ranch and his son seemed distant and unimportant, until the boy began arguing with his father about the best route to a distant ridge. A hundred yards away a small covey of sharptail grouse flew past, their staccato wing beats and glides marked them as the prairie grouse that I'd seen in the distance, but had never held in my hand. "Sharpies!" I said over my shoulder, interrupting the quarrel and pointing, "They're flying into the wheat."

"Prairie-carp," the rancher's son mumbled. "You can have 'em all."

My friends and the kid turned back to the map, but the old man's eyes, as blue as the sky they reflected, stayed on the birds. Their wings flashed in the low sun as they hovered and then settled into the stubble to feed. There was a smile in those eyes when he finally looked away and walked over to me. "That's a nice bunch of birds," he said. "They roost on the big hills behind us to get the first bit of warmth from the dawn, and then fly out to feed once the light reaches the fields."

"I've never shot a sharptail," I said as a way of explaining my presence; I wasn't a deer hunter. "Do you mind if I walk them up?"

"I'd join you if I could." He said, looking up into the hills behind us, "but I've got a lot of beef to move before winter. Are you sure that you wouldn't rather hunt pheasants? That's what the boy likes; drives 'm crazy, and there's plenty around the place."

"I've shot lots of roosters," I replied. "I've never held a sharpie, I'd rather hunt them, if you don't mind."

"Naw... 'course not." He said. "Let the kid have his ditch-parrots."

The pencil drawing, "Prairie Still Life" was used to illustrate this essay when it was first published in the March/April 2007 issue of Shooting Sportsman magazine.

The kid seemed to enjoy his newfound importance, and climbed into the truck with my friends. I fell in with the old man, and we bounced across the fields in the old ranch truck. There was a suspicious hole in the floor, and he noticed me looking at it. "The boy likes to pot-shoot roosters out of the truck," he said. "I'm glad I wasn't along for the ride that day."

As he showed me around the ranch that his grandfather had carved out of a wilderness, I was told all about sharptails; what type of cover they favored at particular times of the day, and where I'd be most likely to find them. As I listened, it became clear to both of us that it would be extremely difficult to hunt these birds without a dog. "I'd let you use my old setter," he said. "But Mac’s shoulders have plumb given out. The doc says I should put him down, but I just don't have the heart to do it."

I'd lost my bird dog in a tragic accident the year before, and had just found a pup that might replace him when I'd started to guide in Alaska. Rather than subject him to the travel, I gave him to a friend when I left. I'd walk them up on my own.

Eventually, we found ourselves back at the ranch house, where I met his old Gordon setter and had coffee with his daughter. "Kelly can give you a ride out past the alfalfa fields, and save you some time," he suggested. "Work the edges of the wheat stubble until late morning, then concentrate on cover that protects the birds from the wind until mid-afternoon. The edges around the alfalfa fields will be good in the late afternoon, then walk the higher, east-facing slope at dusk, that's where they'll be going to roost."

The daughter, Kelly, drove me down the hidden valley, the heart of the ranch, past the alfalfa, and out to the cut wheat fields. There was endless cover to hunt, but my plan was simple; I'd walk with the sun at my back until mid-day, rest and eat the lunch that I carried in my vest, and then turn and hunt my way back to the ranch house with the sun behind me.

"Don't be late for supper." Kelly said as she turned the old truck around and headed to the ranch to help her father gather cattle from the high summer pastures.

It felt good to slip shells into the double gun and get started. I began my hunt between the stubble and a brushy draw, and dropped down into it whenever it broadened enough to look suitable for the prairie grouse that I sought.

Once, as I pushed my way through tangled brush to get to an opening of sparse grass, I flushed a hen pheasant. I was so keyed-up to see a sharp-tail that I almost pulled the trigger as I swung through it. The cackling of a second bird, as it towered into the sky saved the first, and I dropped the rooster. It's weight felt right in my vest.

At mid-day I found myself in a wide draw, and wanting to look at the horizon and listen to the wind while I ate my lunch, I began to climb.

As I stepped out of the high grass onto a vast field of cut wheat, a covey of Hungarian partridge flushed off to my right, chattering as they made for the safety of the open field.

I was surprised and missed with my first barrel. Pull through the next bird, I admonish myself, and the second barrel of the little 20-gauge barked without my knowing that I'd pulled the trigger. The bird that I was swinging through continued on its way, seemingly unscathed. Then began to slow and finally towered straight up for what seemed like a hundred feet, before it flipped over on it's back and pin-wheeled down in a slow spiral, landing gently in the cut wheat.

The little partridge made a perfect still life lying in the stubble where it'd fallen, the composition was natural, the colors both rich and subtle. When I picked the bird up to examine it, I found that a single pellet had pierced its head, just behind one eye. Other than the tiny red spot on either side of its head, it was a perfect specimen. If I had wanted to mount a partridge, this would have been the bird of a lifetime.

I was ready to eat, and sat down in a pile of wheat straw next to the little bird, and as an afterthought, added the pheasant from my vest to the still life so that I could admire them both. Gusts of wind ruffled a feather every now and then and brought life the composition.

The lunch had been thoughtfully packed, and included all of my favorite ingredients. There were pretzels, hard cheese, a tin of kippered herring, a big dill pickle, a bottle of hoppy Czech beer (one that actually tasted fuller and richer at air temperature), and for dessert, a tart green apple.

My favorite lunch would be the product of its individual parts, like a symphony, and it would be important to orchestrate the amounts that I ate so that I'd not run out of any one item before I finished them all. The foundation of my meal was the pretzels, the big, hard kind that can break teeth, and I started with one and a bit of cheese. A bite of the kosher dill pickle followed, and it was strong with garlic. It was time to open the beer, and because a real beer necessitates an opener, I pulled the Swiss knife out of my pocket. The rest of the first pretzel was washed down with a swallow of the Pilsner.

Back to the pretzels, but this time accompanied with kippered herring, then more pickle, a bit more cheese, and another swallow of beer.

The symphony concluded with the last foamy mouthful of Pilsner; just enough to wash it all down, but not so much that I didn't want another swallow. It's nice to finish a beer wanting a bit more.

There was a tuft of feather and dried blood on the blade of my Swiss knife from the last bird that I'd cleaned, and I scraped it away with my thumbnail before quartering the apple for dessert. I wiggled into the pile of straw, and watched the high clouds while I savored the perfection of an apple. I may have fallen asleep, it seemed cooler when I finally sat up, stretched, and wondered about the rest of my day.

The sun had passed over me on its way toward evening, and it was time to hunt back to the house. As dusk came on, I remembered Kelly's request not to be late for dinner, and decided to walk a direct line back to the house. I was disappointed not to have seen a prairie grouse, but the weight of my vest was satisfying enough. I was happy with the day.

The shortest route back to the ranch house took me across an enormous field of short grass, and as I climbed to the crest of a rolling hill a sharp tail flushed at my feet. I missed with both barrels and watched my prize fly away in the opposite direction I was walking. It's cackling sounded like sarcastic laughter as it disappeared into a distant shallow bowl.

There was nothing else to do but follow, and as I crested the slight rise that created the depression where it had landed, it flushed a second time. I missed with both barrels and watched as it flew out into the middle of an alfalfa field. I walked directly to where it had landed, and was surprised that it held and flushed a third time, right from under my feet. I missed yet again, and diligently followed after the lone bird. Mercifully it didn't have much energy left when it flushed the forth time, and I hit it with my second shot.

I was in high spirits when I climbed the porch stairs and laid the three birds in front of the old setter to admire. His eyes brightened, and it made me feel good to see his tail wag. The smell of dinner wafted from the kitchen, and my day seemed complete. "There's a mess of big ducks on the stock tank," Kelly said from the kitchen door "and Daddy loves to eat roasted duck. Do you think that you might be able to get him one?"

My day was looking even better. "I have a second double gun." I said, "Would you like to be my loader?" She giggled, and we were off.

"This is great," I said. "The only thing I haven't bagged today is a bunch of ducks."

"All we need is just one for daddy," she said.

"Oh, that'll be no problem," I insisted.

We crept up to the earthen berm that held back the stock tank and slowly peeked over it's top. It was a sight to see. There were no less than a hundred big northern mallards and pintails crowded onto the small pond. I could have easily killed a dozen of them on the water. This is my chance to be a real hero, I thought to myself. "Here's what we'll do," I whispered importantly, while loading the two guns and handing one of them to her. "We'll both stand up to flush them, and after I empty the first gun, you hand me the second."

Perhaps, because they felt a safety in their number, the ducks didn't take wing when we stood. There was an un-nerving delay of several seconds before they erupted all at once. I don't recall much about the next few seconds. I don't remember picking a single bird, as I'd been taught as a boy. I don't remember the first two shots, or taking the second gun from Kelly and emptying it too. I don't remember watching any ducks fall to the water.

What I do remember is the sick feeling of disbelief as all of those ducks flew away, and that Kelly's laughter sounded a lot like a shirttail's cackle as she walked back to the house.

In the end, I'd have to add a little crow to the day's menu.