Hugh here with a few words. Some of you noticed craigmedred.news went cold for a while, and I’m here to assure you, or irritate you, by reporting that the old fart who does the reporting that usually appears here regularly didn’t die.
In fact, he’s in perfectly good health, which is why I gently wrapped my jaws around his wrist and dragged him off into the marshes to spend some time doing what we both love. And we’re both happier for it.
My only complaints are that he doesn’t shoot as well as my predecessors claim he did in his younger years, and he now tends to crap out on those infamous can’t-quit-until-we-limit death marches through the flooded grass and crotch-deep ponds in the swamps at the head of Turnagain Arm.
But we still managed to kill plenty of birds.
I love it becuase it was what I was born to do. I think he loves it because it takes him back to his youth when he was chasing pheasants in the tangles of Minnesota conservation reserves, except that slow-flying pheasants are easier targets to bring down than fast-climbing mallards, the ground was a lot drier; and the footing was way, way, way better.
The flooded grass, sinking bog and mucky-bottomed ponds here make for the worst hiking a human will find anywhere. Thankfully the boss buys into the now well-documented discovery that “Exercise is Medicine,” and figures the only time to stop moving is when you’re dead.
The terrain also helps explain why we almost never see another hunter, which is a big change from those Minnesota days in the ’70s when it was sometimes hard to find a place to hunt that wasn’t overrun with hunters.
As a result, Craig, his dad and “Freckles ” ended up hiking through a lot of marginal pheasant habitat to find pheasants. But they usually found birds or something. I’ve listened more than once to stories about that Brittany spaniel that pointing skunks.
The boss is pretty thankful he isn’t expected to step up and flush any birds these days.
He told me about some of the episodes with his father suggesting, “OK, why don’t you go ahead and take this one,” that ended with Freckles getting sprayed, Craig getting caught in the edge of the plume, and his father shooting the pheasant because, “I can’t wait all day for you to shoot, and it was getting out of range.”
Over the years, this did teach him to be a lot quicker with the shotgun, and that’s a good thing because I sometimes get a little over-excited about my job and get just a little farther out ahead of him than I should be and put up a duck on the very edge of shotgun range.
There’s about a nano-second of time in which to react then, and if the lead on the target isn’t enough, the duck just flies away, much to my chagrin. If he misses, it’s usually because he simply didn’t lead the duck enough, but I’m the one who ends up getting a lecture on the need to stay closer.
Sometimes that isn’t easy. If you were a Labrador and had ever been on the scent, you’d know what I mean. But you’re all humans with pretty lame senses of smell and hearing. So, you’ll never understand.
And still, we tend to fall in love with you anyway.
Crazy, isn’t it? But it’s nature, and some things in nature are just plain inexplicable. Like why Craig wants to go back to typing when there are still a few ducks hanging around. Admittedly, most of them have now left the state.
But the swamps haven’t frozen up solid. I don’t mind swimming around in 32-degree water. And it’s possible we could still find a few birds. But no….
Categories: Outdoors
