Mouthful of Feathers

I once read that everything beautiful must have an end, because true beauty is found not just in desire and longing, but in the acceptance of beauty’s fleeting impermanence and the impossibility of possessing it for more than the moment it takes to entrance you.

I failed the one philosophy class I took in college, so I have no idea if that’s true or not. But I do know that I’ve been chasing birds and dreams across this same piece of ground for a quarter-century now, and it’s still as gorgeous as the day I first set foot on it.

I wish I could say the same about myself.

Time etches even the hardest of what we are, and this past year time etched me deeply, and permanently. I dug graves both real and metaphorical, and I buried much of what used to be me in the cold earth of the past.

Every shovelful of dirt I tossed atop those ghosts hurt, as it always does, and so I mourned their passing in the only way I know: I fled, into the silence and emptiness and beauty of long walks in lonely country, never really knowing where, exactly, I was going, just following the meandering track of the dogs and my own wind-scoured heart, my life-scarred soul.

I knew it would end, of course. Maybe it is true after all, that to be beautiful, all beautiful things must contain their own demise.

And now this beautiful, lonely, lovely poem of a season, a season of days and miles and months of running away and running toward, a season in which both the pup and I went from being one thing to being something else entirely, has brought me here, to the last day.

To the end. And what a beautiful end it is.

Metamorphosis tends to happen quickly only if you are a caterpillar, and for both this little pointer pup and myself, that transformation has taken much longer.

It’s been measured in footsteps through grass, long runs across prairie and sand-sage, rimrock and cholla, in sunrises and covey rises, a warm sleeping bag on cold mornings, and triumphs small and large, leavened always with mistakes and the learning those mistakes bring, for both her and myself.

And on this precious final day; this last, fleeting, beautiful chance to touch one more time — if only for a moment — the essence of who and what you really are at your soul’s deep core, I decide to leave the other dogs behind and bring only her.

We are raw, both of us. She in her wide-eyed innocence and puppy trust in the world, I in my life-battered lack of both. I know I may or may not shoot a bird over her, but that’s not why I brought her. If I wanted a veteran stone-cold bird finder, I would have brought her older sister.

I don’t need to kill birds today. I don’t need one last perfect hunt where everything plays to script like a well-written story. I’ve written many such stories.

No.

What I need today is the unscripted, unpredictable joy and exuberance of happy imperfection.

What I need today is not expectation or some arbitrary measure of success, but a reminder that I can still smile, still laugh, still not give a damn about anything other than the moment I inhabit right now.

And for me, nothing accomplishes that better than being alone with a young dog in big country on a day such as this: A lonely, beautiful day that whispers of smiles before endings.

I’ve always believed that the real reason we hunt with dogs is not the pursuit of birds, but the opportunity to vicariously — if only for a short while — live out the wildness and freedom of our dogs by watching them flow so fluidly across a landscape through which we can merely plod in our clumsy, bipedal way.

And she’s a runner, this one, with bigger wheels and a longer gait than her sister, and I want to see that spirit and speed and unchained joy on display.

I need it.

So I have brought her here, to this place of time and memory for me.

A lifetime ago I wrote an essay titled “Home Covey.” It was about this place and a long-ago dog now long-dead.

I’ve been walking this ground since I was young and dumb enough to think of the age I am now as old. That’s how years work, I guess.

I’ve seen a lot here.

As a young man, I saw my first prairie chicken on this ridge.

As it turned out, that was an equinox of sorts, a hinge upon which the past and future teetered, because that was also the last prairie chicken I ever saw in this country, though I still hear the booming of their ghosts.

Each year in November I slip into the first light of morning to sit and wait, and I will quietly shoot a prairie buck as he walks across the grass-covered, gypsum-laced red clay soil walked by countless generations before him.

But killing is becoming more difficult for me these days, and I suspect that someday soon I will watch my last sunrise from this ridge, at least while holding a rifle in my hand.

I once watched a harrier dancing in the sky above the grass, the slow, flapping cadence of its wingbeats no match for the quail it was pursuing.

And now I am here with the pup, hoping but not hoping to shoot a bird for her out of the descendants of the quail I once shot for that long-ago dog.

That dog is buried a few hundred yards away from here, her bones entwined in the roots of prairie grass so that her ghost can still hear the whistle of those birds.

I have other dogs buried here, too, and on quiet days when I’m feeling the weight of my weaknesses, my faults, my demons, and the mistakes I have made from their prodding, I come here to sit in the red dirt and remember things important only to me. I try to atone for the past, and I talk to the ghosts of dead dogs.

It beats therapy, and it’s cheaper.

But today is all about a dog very much alive, so conversations with dead dogs will have to wait. I want just one bird for the pup. And just one bird is all I will try to shoot.

This deep into February I rarely shoot even that one bird, preferring to let the dogs run and the quail fly. I like to believe they sense the promise of spring and warmth, renewal and redemption, as much as we do.

That knowledge makes me keenly aware that with each bird shot, what I hold in my hand is not just a bit of feather and flesh and blood, but a future denied, for both them and my own future bird-chasing interests.

So I hunt them gently, these survivor birds, because I recognize something of myself in them. They’ve been through it. So have I. So have we all.

In a season like this one you leave a lot out there in the grass, and at some point during all the walking and questioning you have to turn your back on what you thought you were, what you thought you wanted to be, and instead walk toward what you know you are.

Because you find a lot out there in the grass, too. Including yourself.

Sylvia Plath once wrote that she didn’t know how it felt to not have deep emotions. “Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely,” she wrote.

For a better or worse that has always been me.

And it has cost me much.

I never could repair myself of my own self-inflicted trauma; never could divest myself of deep emotions both ugly and beautiful, never learned how to build up without first tearing down. All that emotion stays bottled up inside until I shatter, and then what I become is what I can make of the jagged pieces of what I once was.

I know I will never fit those pieces back into what they once were, so I have no choice but to make them into something new.

And what I build myself back into, time after time after time, is this: A man, a dog, a place, and a moment. And sometimes — but not always — the promise of a bird to complete the arc.

I hope that someday, with enough shattering and rebuilding, I will eventually become something good. Something shatterproof. Something worthy of my dogs, worthy of the people who have borne the pain of my faults, and worthy of these moments framed by grass and sky and silence that always seem to put me back together.

Anxious to go, the pup whines at my side. I give her neck a scratch and lean my face into her ear to whisper what I have whispered to her all season long, what I will whisper to her one last time, here, at the beautiful end.

I release her, release myself, and in an instant, we are gone.

Guest Post

By Travis DuBois

The heat of the day has come and gone as I gently carry the anchor up a cutbank and set it, this would be a bad river to lose my boat to. Everything I do is intentional and quiet. Everything Kenai does is now intentional but very loud, her incessant whine is something I’ve become accustomed to but my level of annoyance never fades. As the river slips by her yips and yaps help me gauge how fast we’ll have to push this island. The collar on her neck is tight and the dam that holds her back from blowing the whole popsicle stand. The fire from the cottonwoods are a good representation of the butterflies and excitement I feel but try not to show. The fire never dies.

Glittery pages of hunting magazines with naked setters, Instagram posts with poetic points, advertisements with steely eyed labs and bearded hunters are great, but this is not my world. Fall with Kenai is a party, in every sense of the word. Her ten year old, fifty pound, yellow lab frame is built for pushing the dirtiest and nastiest, the jungle. If her eyelids don’t bleed and her joints don’t hurt by the end of the day she is not satisfied. Her nose is scarred from frantically chasing wounded birds through barbwire and thickets, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

I sometimes think I should have taken more time to train her properly, but I have grace for myself that I have been learning with her since she became mine. When I bought her as a year and a half old pup, sold by a family moving from rural Montana to the city, she was a trained duck hunter and I was a firefighter/paramedic in Idaho who missed his home in Alaska. I yearned to hunt upland birds like I did in my youth but in the field my new dog would barely leave a heel, not a complaint many people make. I guessed at the only solution, let her be free, let her run, let her grow with me and relearn the ways of the hills, the forest, and the river bottoms where the birds live.

I quickly learned after hunting with a few friends that my dog was not like the others, her speed was like a greyhound, her nose as keen as a lead cow elk, and her drive was something I had never seen before. When I watched her clear a 7 foot fence to retrieve a ball I realized that I had something special, all the other dogs were running around the fence for the open gate and she chose the hard road, the danger, and the reward. I learned to hunt with her, around her, and for her. I learned to stay in her orbit as we throttled through space. We found her species, which was ringneck pheasant. We found her cover, which was the most brutal terrain that pheasants live in, where the pointers shy away from and only the most driven dogs will venture, and so far she has been the only one.

This specific set of requirements initially presented a challenge, and a learning curve for me, but over the years we have become a cohesive unit. Once she is on the ground we make nary a sound. I know where she is without hearing or seeing, and I know where to be when the opportunity to take our quarry presents itself. We find success, but often it is just the two of us. Sitting on the edge of an island, or a sea of greasewood, or on the side of a brutal hill, we are covered in mud and breathless. She flops down panting, blood coming from somewhere always, I slip a warm bird into my game bag and dab my cheek to see if I am bleeding from my belly crawl through a thicket. There is no use in fancy upland pants because by the end of the season the barbwire and organic armor we push through destroys everything except our souls.

This day is different though, my good friend from Oregon is sharing the sprint with us on a Montana river island in October. It is a small piece of real estate but that is what we hunt and I have briefed him on the details, this is no John Day chukar hunt. In the essence of safety when I follow my dog with other humans I seldom pull up on a bird. I am so used to hunting alone and a 360 degree shooting window. Kenai has already flushed and retrieved a rooster that day, dragging it out of a log pile that it buried itself in, so she is primed and on fire.

Pushing the island we are now single file on the edge of a cutbank, it is 5 feet straight down to the river, which is flowing mightily. Kenai is up front, Tom behind her, and I take up the rear. Thick bushes, narrow shooting lanes, ridiculous cover, perfect. Kenai sends a bird into the air and it is brought down with a single shot but running. The linebacker masterfully chases the thick-legged bird down and pins it, waiting for us. Her soft mouth holds the rooster as we move to her when a second rooster explodes and flies out over the river. Time slows down and Tom drops the second bird with his last shell. All the colors of the rooster drop to the water 20 yards from the bank. We are close to Kenai now and I don’t say a word because she saw the whole thing. My perfect girl inflicts a death squeeze on the bird in her mouth so it won’t run away and in seconds is launching herself off the bank and into the swirling water below. I am breathless. She makes something so monumental look so simple as she propels her exhausted body to the middle of the river and grips the flopping bird in her teeth. As she returns to the shore I drop off the bank into the ribbon of shallow water below along the deep to retrieve the retriever and toss her and her prize up to dry ground. The mud and water in my boots felt like sweet honey as I watched her drop the bird and shake the water from her body. So much excitement and joy commanded the next few minutes.

Eight years is a long time to wait but my dream was always to have my companion return to her roots and retrieve a pheasant from a river, or any body of water. When my wife and I discuss life and God’s timing we are always amazed at the way He chooses to show us things, on His time and in His way. This moment was no different. It could not have happened in a more beautiful way, to a more beautiful dog, and in a more beautiful place. It felt like a culmination of years of boot leather, blood, lonely but fulfilling miles, and a lifetime of following that party animal. My jungle dog.

Travis DuBois

His high school report card read: 

“ . . . Easily distracted and perpetually absent, even in the rare event that he is marked down as ‘present’. Shows considerable potential but is content to float along near failure, with the hope that cramming for a final test or essay will deliver a passable grade.”

Twenty odd years later and not much has changed.

Two weeks until opening day and he’s planting live pigeons in the mornings and shooting clay ones in the afternoons.

Attempting to put in the work he’s been putting off for 243 days.

It is humbling to have strangers, strung out across the country, buy a book sight unseen. When we opened the pre-orders for the limited edition copy of Mouthful of Feathers, I was staggered by the reception. Thank you to everyone who reached into your pocket and paid for a limited edition copy of the book. Your faith in us is overwhelming. And, you enabled us to bring this project to life.

You made this possible. 

I know many of you are waiting patiently for your hardcover. I am too. I am sorry for how long it is taking. It turns out that building a limited edition hardcover book is pretty hard.

But, the books are printed and we are expect them to arrive early next week. It will take a little time to package each book and print, label and mail them. It will take a little longer to journey to each of you. But you will get your book.in the coming weeks. And what’s inside is pretty damn good. And the print from Frederick Stivers is remarkable. 

Since the inception of the blog, we hung the best stuff up for free. When we created the first ebook, we sold enough copies to pay overhead. As a I recall, contributors got paid enough to buy a bottle of blended scotch (Famous Grouse, most likely.) But, over the years, we made a lot of friends and found a lot of people who valued the same things as us and maybe we wrote a few lines that meant something to the select few.

This go round, we paid the contributors up front, (this time maybe enough for a good pair of hunting boots.) But the editors (Tom, Reid and myself) are just hoping we break even. Mostly, we hope that this book will mean something to each of you. We hope you will find some passage inside that lights up your heart like a young dog on a wild bird.

For us, bringing this book to life has been a privilege, bestowed on us by all of you. Thank you for trusting us. Thank you for reading. Thank you for investing in this book. 

And if you’re waiting for a hardcover, know it’s coming. And know that it is going to be worth the wait.

GM

The water was prime and the birds were flying. We made a quick scout to a log pile near the water’s edge. It was shooting light, so I gave Luke the go ahead to if he had the opportunity while I grabbed a few decoys and a minimal setup. 

It was the youth waterfowl weekend, a two-day jumpstart for the under-18 crowd, and it was warm enough for T-shirts and rubber boots. Over the last few years hunting with my twin boys – sometimes with their younger sister in tow – I have learned to be nimble and flexible. I have learned that it’s not always important to be on time or even kill birds. Instead, it’s important have fun, to pack sunflower seeds and to never underestimate the volume of ammo you might need. We eat ramen noodles and granola bars by the case – even an occasional gas-station corn dog ­– and we try not to take our pursuits or ourselves too seriously. 

Today only one kid was up for hunting, so it was just the two of us. As I headed for the truck, I turned back for a last look and said, “If you get a good shot, take it. But whatever you do, don’t shoot a bird way out in front where it will land in the deep water.” He nodded and smiled and I knew he was happy and proud to be left hunting on his own for a bit. 

We were dogless on this trip, a symptom of being an upland hunter and diehard setter man. When I was younger, I had springers that could do double duty. Now, I have a pair of setters. Only one retrieves reliably, both are reluctant swimmers, and neither can sit still for more than a moment. Personally, I’m not much of a duck hunter. When we sit in a blind and try to decoy ducks, the boys pepper me with questions that are mostly answered with, “I’m not sure, we are  learning to hunt ducks together.” But 12-year-old boys are blood-thirsty creatures, eager to hunt and not always content to follow a pointing dog patiently waiting for everything to line up in a perfect sequence. So sometimes we craft a makeshift blind and retrieve our own ducks. 

A couple of years ago, I met two friends on a cold winter morning for a quick duck hunt and not one of us brought a dog. Between the three of us, we owned 7 different pointing dogs and we still arrived planning to retrieve our own birds. On that frosty morning, shortly after the first shot, a chocolate lab from a nearby farm simply showed up and waited patiently until he got a chance to retrieve. He was an outstanding dog, retrieving to hand and patient as a saint. The irony of a random lab that wanders into a duck-hunting trio with a stable of “not labs” at home was not lost on us. 

I hunted that spot again the next year and no lab showed up. I wondered if he had moved on or maybe had his hall pass revoked. Luckily, I knew what to do and I focused on shooting birds that would land in the shallows. 

At the truck, I shoved half-a-dozen decoys, mostly feeders, into a bag along with a roll of netting and a water bottle. I was almost back when I heard the first shot. Luke was grinning when I arrived, and he didn’t bat an eye when I asked where the bird was. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a dead mallard floating in the very center of the dank pond we were hunting. 

This was a moment of reflection where I stopped to ponder the important questions, like, why didn’t I bring waders? Why did I walk away from a red-blooded 12-year-old boy with only vague instructions about what not to shoot? How deep exactly would the waterfowl poop be in this particular pond?

In a turnabout, I hoped for a wind that didn’t show. As my son expertly dropped other birds on dry land and in shallow water, I tried to will that lone bird to shore, but it stayed anchored in the center. Eventually, the day wore out and I called it. He offered to swim for it, and for a moment I considered sending him before I emptied my pockets and waded out. 

I made it waist deep before I was in danger of losing my boots, not even halfway there. I turned back, pulled off the boots and threw them on the shore. It was 200 miles and five years since that lab had come to my rescue on a cold day. Still, I couldn’t help but scan the horizon for any sort of miracle, like a stashed canoe, a 30-foot-long pole or a random, enthusiastic Labrador. 

There were no miracles to be had, so I waded back out, this time with my sock-clad feet clearly communicating the depth of the muck. About two feet deep. Two feet of duck muck, pulling at my socks. The water was surprisingly cold, but when it reached my chest I was glad to swim because at least my legs were free of the slime. At least I didn’t have to turn back and take off my waders before I kicked into a mediocre dog paddle.

Mallard in hand, I swam, then slogged back to shore. Luke stood on the bank, chagrined, but not enough to keep from smiling.  At the truck, he helped me pull off the muck filled boots and found a piece of cardboard for me to sit on during the drive home. He said he was sorry, but I wasn’t mad and he knew it. 

On the drive home, we ate sunflower seeds and I told him about the time a rogue Labrador retriever came to my rescue years before. 

And then I gently steered the conversation toward taking the setters after grouse the next weekend. 

A huge thanks to all of you who pre-ordered the book. You guys are the ones bringing this print copy of MOF to life. We couldn’t have done it without you and we are so grateful to each and every one of you.

We have stories from 18 writers and we are so proud of the incredible stories in the book.

If you pre-ordered a book, you will hear from us about our progress in the coming weeks via email.

After we ship the pre-order hard covers in early June, we will have a soft-cover book available to buy. Stay tuned for more information about the soft cover.

Thank you.

Thank you for reading. Thanks understanding this thing that we do here at MOF. And thank you for supporting this project.