A Dog and a Gun
By Randy Schultz
In the late ’80’s. I bought a used, red, 2-door, F-150 with a V-6, a bench Naugahyde seat, a 4-speed on the floor, and a 6.5’ bed. It was 2WD with a limited-slip rear end, and I remember I paid top dollar for it- $8000. I loved that truck! It was my main mode of transport back then. Thankfully, it had air conditioning, since I was living in Georgia. When my wife bought me a Brittany puppy from the “hunting dog” classifieds in the newspaper for my birthday, I knew I was ready to conquer the bird-dog world. I bought a shotgun at the pawn shop- a 12 ga. Browning A5 with a Cutts Compensator- for the sum of $200. I ordered some LL Bean hunting boots, the ones with rubber bottoms and leather up top. I found an old plywood box that originally held some jet engine parts. I cut a door, attached hinges, and bolted them on. With a little straw thrown in, I had a classy little dog box in the bed of my truck. For clothing, I figured jeans were fine; I didn’t need gloves, a hat, or sunglasses. My genetically questionable, "world-class" Brittany was growing up, and when he was a year old, November arrived, quail season opened in Georgia, and I was ready to shoot some birds.
At that time, I was part of a deer lease on 2000 acres in Georgia’s pine country. The owners decided to clear-cut the pines and leave the hardwood bottoms. Little did I know that it would become prime Bobwhite territory for the next 5 years- until the re-growth got too thick. I would spend time at work thinking about the property and which area I wanted to cover with my dog. By the time I arrived home, I knew I’d be leaving the next morning, before light, for the 2-hour drive to the lease.
The next morning, I’d load Rocket in his kennel in the bed of the truck, grab my shotgun and put it in the holder behind my head in the rear window, pack a sandwich, fill a mug of coffee, and back down the driveway headed for some awesome hunting. I knew every time that truck turned south to hunt that Rocket and I would have a great day.
For several years, I hunted every chance I got. One year, I made the drive south 57 times. That was in addition to the weekend NSTRA trials- 10 or 12 trials per season. Hot, cold, rain, sunshine, sleet, windy, or even snowing a few times, it made no difference to me. It was during that time that I realized I had found my avocation.
It was a simple time. A dog, a gun, a truck, a place to hunt.
I chuckle and contrast that with today.
I drive at least 1000 (usually 1200 to 2000) miles pulling a camper, in the coldest months staying in motels, sometimes with a friend, usually by myself. My F-250 eats the miles as I churn out 800 to 1100 miles per day. Too excited to take it slow, I start around 5 a.m. and stop to sleep around dark. In the early days, I’d drive 80+ mph, now not so much. I would hunt states from Michigan to Arizona and up to Idaho, and all the states in between. When I find a place to hunt, I will unload my considerably better-bred bird dogs, hook up their individual GPS collars linked to my handheld GPS with an integral satellite communication device. I’ll mark the truck location on my iPhone, GPS watch, and handheld device. I’ll ensure I have my mapping app on my phone to determine boundaries and mark my track for future reference. I will also mark every covey (unless I’ve shot birds in this area previously) for a download to my hard drive back home. Deerskin gloves, a crushable felt broad-brim hat, bird hunting boots, technical pants, a Gore-Tex jacket, and sunglasses to match the cloud cover are also a part of the uniform. The dogs are off-loaded from their padded, heated, and cooled kennels, and I’ll reach for my bespoke 28 ga., grab a handful of shells to stow in my Wingworks vest, give the dogs a short whistle, and head into the wind.
And yet, all that stuff is really just…stuff. (Except the gun, I love the gun.) Am I happier, more excited, or more successful hunting now than I was back in the day? No. I’m realizing that 35 years ago, I already had all that I needed. Just like that boy or girl in South Dakota who comes home from school, calls the dog, grabs the shotgun, and heads out back to pop a rooster before dinner. It was much simpler then.
I had a dog, a gun, and a place to hunt.
