The Big Chukar Hunt (From the "Riley" Series)
Posted: Friday, November 04, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
Riley and I arrived at the shooting preserve to guide a bird hunt shortly after sunrise. The sky was clear. The thermometer stood at 6 degrees. There was a steady, biting breeze that sent the wind chill to below zero. I was dressed in several layers of wool. Riley sported his neoprene zip-up jacket. I checked in with management, then, as I usually did, I let him out of the truck to run a little in the field behind the office. He needed to loosen up and get his toilet duties accomplished. He didn’t look comfortable, his ears flapped in the wind, his nape mane was puffed up against the bitter air. I certainly was not comfortable either. My fingers were already cold, so I pulled on another pair of jersey gloves.
The fields in which they did the first stocking were thickly covered in knee to waist deep sorghum and grass. Our section of the preserve was about 150 yards wide and 500 yards long. There were five yard wide, lengthwise mowed strips that divided the plot into four fields. We waited patiently as the ‘hands’ placed our birds. The 25 chukars were scattered throughout our fields.
Riley, an American Brittany, was a pointer. He’d sniff out the birds, and when he found one, freeze, not moving a muscle or twitching an eye lash—not necessarily ‘pointing’ to where the bird was, but indicating there was one nearby. When Riley ‘went on point’ it was a guarantee. There absolutely was a bird there, somewhere. Because of the ‘pointing style,’ gunners did not have to march across the fields in line, ever at the alert for a bird to flush up. They could stroll along like gentlemen, conversing. When a bird was pointed a gunner could be selected to get the first shot and move in to flush the bird. More frequently, I, as guide, would move in and flush the bird while several gunners stood ready.
Chukars tend to run, especially in thick cover. They try to double back behind the dog and gunners as they proceed down the fields. I always positioned a shooter on the mowed paths and instructed them to keep an eye out for birds coming out of the grass and sorghum and running out ahead of us. I insisted that Riley cover only one section of the field at a time. Sometimes, especially with the strong winds we had that day, he’d catch scent of a bird in one of our adjacent strips. I would usually permit him to go after it. We meticulously worked our way to the end of one field then back in another.
Even in the cold, the birds were flushing well. The shooters were more than adequate. They missed very few shots. When a bird flushed and the shooting began, Riley was trained to immediately ‘break point’ and go after it. Frequently, he was on it instantly as the bird hit the ground. The clients paid a substantial amount of money for the pleasure of hunting there. If a wounded bird escaped or a downed one couldn’t be found, our tips were affected. Riley would do his utmost to retrieve them all. He did not have a ‘soft mouth’ and would kill a bird that tried to get away from him.
They missed a couple birds. Riley would want to chase them as far as he could see them fly. Occasionally he’d catch up and grab them when they landed, but if I saw they were long gone, I called him back. There were a few mistakes. Several times, while he was running over to retrieve a downed bird, he’d flush another. Some of the surprises were good, though. We occasionally came upon a pheasant that had been missed by a previous hunt. A couple of hours later, after we’d covered the fields twice, we counted the bag. We had 21 chukars and three pheasants. Everyone was happy and broke for lunch.
The clients were (how shall I politely say it?), of the elite class. I often was invited to lunch with our hunters, but this group had no inclination to dine with the “hired help.” Riley and I sat in the truck listening to the radio, sharing a sandwich and some cheese doodles. We both stripped down some. The temperature had gone up to almost ten, but the wind had picked up. At first we were overly warm, but soon we both were shivering. I pulled my hooded sweatshirt back on and zipped him into his vest. Riley curled up on the front seat and took a nap. If I walked a mile during a hunt, he’d run five or more, scouring the fields and hedges for birds.
We both were a bit irritable, tired and chilled by the time the clients were back from their fine dining experience and the ‘bird wagon’ had showed up for the second stocking. Riley looked downright miserable while he waited for me to turn him loose again. The wind was exceptionally sharp and bitter. When he caught scent of the fresh load of chukars, though, his attitude changed. He was the most intense gun dog around. Even that haughty bunch of guys realized, and repeatedly said that they had gotten a good dog that day.
It took several more hours to completely tire out, freeze and thoroughly satisfy the clients. Their shooting, and Riley’s finds and retrievals, continued to be great during the second half of the hunt. Few birds suffered and none got away. When we finally called it quits we found that, out of 50 chuckars stocked, they had gotten shots at 49 of them, bagged 46 of them and, in addition, bagged seven pheasants. They were extremely happy. So was I. There were now five more people added to the ever lengthening list of those who thought Riley was the best gun dog they’d ever hunted with.
Between the pay from the preserve and his tip, Riley earned about $25 an hour that day (Jan. 2001), not including the two hour lunch break in the truck. Not bad for spending the day, regardless of the weather, doing what you loved to do most. Riley was never a crated dog. He ‘sat’ in the front passenger seat for the ride home. I kept poking him and rubbing his neck, calling him my ‘hunting buddy.’ When we got home he got a warm bath and a massage, like I gave him after every hunt.
By that time, Riley had his own business. We filed the forms with our taxes. He had a notebook full of clients. We’d fixed him up his own room at the house. The walls were plastered with pictures from Brittany calendars. On the shelves there were framed portraits and several albums full of his personal photos. There was a rack of videos that were made of some of his hunts. All the guns and hunting gear were stored in ‘Riley’s room.’ The single bed, which had been one of the kid’s, was now exclusively his. He retired early that night and slept soundly. He needed his rest. He had another hunt scheduled for that weekend. I wish I loved my job as much as he loved his.
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)This is absolutely the best writing on this topic I have ever seen. You have your warm love and association. The kind passion for this particular dog. And, yes, we all cry and laugh and scream for joy when our dog does the best.
But what you have done, is the best!! And I mean it. You have showed the intimacy, the kindness that passes spiritually between two beings. You refer to him as a "business", and yet we all feel that "human/animal" coming together. How can anyone understand what Mr. Schick is actually feeling? I don't know., I just know there is communion.Thanks. I don't really know how to respond. (why the 3?)Just an oversight. Sorry about that.
These stars tend to return to white. There that's five,it doesn't really matter, but suggestions and critiques are welcome and useful. Thanks for your continued support
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