"ByGone Days" - Keith R. Bridgman - 2000:...Remembering hunting days from the past is more than garnering bragging rights, it is a right of passage so to speak, for it brings into focus those first tentative steps taken toward becoming an outdoorsman...
The old doubled barreled 16 gauge Stevens shotgun cradled nicely into the bend of my left arm as we tromped through the damp weeds in route to the brushy fence row not far from a small pond. Two boxes of number 8 field loads rattled in the pockets of my light weight camouflaged coveralls, which were wet from the knees down because of the high grass. A few stars were still adorning the cloudless sky as the dawn of September 1, so many years ago, began with a faint glow on the horizon. It was one of many dawns that collectively evolved into the bygone days I remember so fondly today.
My old time friend Ralph and I met up with two other hunting partners at our traditional dove hunting spot 'out at Morris', and the anticipation was high for another round of wasting ammunition in pursuit of the acrobatic Morning Dove. We walked past a young lady neither of us knew who was situated near a clump of trees on the northeast side of the field we were going to hunt. She was apparently having difficulty loading her new shotgun and asked us for some help. I chuckled to myself and took a minute to show her how to load the pump shotgun she was wielding and made sure she knew where the safety was. She seemed confident after that one-minute lesson and thanked us for the assistance. Ralph and I worked our way on down and I sat up near the corner of the fence row, and he continued on to the pond a little north of there.
The glow on the horizon brightened and as the legal shooting time came and went, I rubber necked my head from side to side waiting for the first flights of dove to rip across at tree top level and down the fence row. East of the fence was a plowed field, on the west, some overgrown pasture, a couple hundred yards further west some oil storage tanks and pump-rig, and to my north a pond surrounded by trees. In the silence of the morning, the rhythmic putt, putt, putt and the up and down clanking motion of the pumper-rig, along with the buzzing of insects and the smell of wet grass added a special effect to sights and sounds of this excursion into this field. A shot broke the silence, then another and three and four as other hunters began to find the range as the dove left their respective roost. I waited, but only a couple of birds flew by well out of range, then a single bird flew high over my location. I pulled up and snapped a single shot and the bird crumpled and fell.
It is a known fact that dove are the Houdini of the animal kingdom. Normally a buff gray with some white underneath in color, they instantly turn the color of whatever they fall into and disappear. It took a few minutes to locate this first bird, but soon after, there were more birds than I could shoot at. They were ripping left and right, north and south, in groups of three to six or eight. My first four shots scored, and I was beginning to get cocky about my shooting ability. At that rate, I thought to myself, I'll limit out in about ten minutes. I didn't. I began to miss with regularity and it began to appear the two boxes of shells were going to run out long before the birds did.
As the morning wore on, I heard several shots coming from where we passed the young lady. As it turned out, she downed several birds. By nine or nine-thirty the flights began to taper off and the heat began to increase, so we joined up under a shade near the pond. Rocky and my brother joined us not long there after. We talked and laughed about the morning shoot, guzzled down a cool drink and more or less skated through the next hour or so reminiscing about past hunts and all those adventures we dreamed about doing some day, but for some reason never find the time. On our way out, we ran into another hunter, a nice enough fellow who told us about his girlfriend who told him that ' A teenager and an old man' had helped her with her shotgun early on. Ralph was far from being an old man at the time and my teenage years were long behind me. We got a kick out of it, and to this day, Ralph enjoys telling the story about the Teenager and Old Man who helped the 'Little Dolly', as he called her. It was great fun and a good start on the hunting season for that year.
Winters in Oklahoma for the most part are relatively mild, but occasionally we get hit with a cold spell and a strong wind that spreads a veil of frigid temperatures across the land. I'll never forget one of the coldest quail hunting trips we made about twenty years ago down to Hitchita on the north end of Eufaula Lake. It must have been the first week or so of January and the air temperature continued to drop until it hovered several degrees below zero. The skies had taken on that steely gray of winter and the wind howled out of the north dropping the wind chill to around minus forty. Those icy clouds spit snow and sleet at us all morning and covered the ground with a thin layer of white. Ralph had brought along 'ole Doolee' his liver and white Brit and if my memory serves me correctly, my brother brought his English Setter, Lady. The fields were frozen solid and crunched under foot as we trudged on either side of the head feed rows as we crossed over to the next draw. That wind was tough and cut through every stitch and layer of clothing we had on and stung our eyes with its piercing bite. We crossed that field several times and worked the draws along the edges and on most of the passes we would jump a small covey, a brace, or an isolated single. It was so cold that Rocky's Remington 870 froze up and would not fire at times. The dogs did their job and found the birds and we attempted to do ours by shooting at them, but the cold wind and heavy clothing reduced our accuracy to nil. Even so, we managed to down a few birds between complaints about how cold it was and debates about whose idea it was to get out on such a bitter day.
We hunted the morning and eventually retired around the noon hour and tried to thaw out back at the vehicles. The anticipation of a cup of hot chocolate or coffee was subdued somewhat when we actually poured the tepid fluids from the thermos bottles. Even the high tech design of those containers could not compete with the passionless cold, but it was better than nothing and did wonders to warm us up. Although frosty winters still invade the cross-timbers and open grasslands of Oklahoma, few days since then have compared to that single cold day afield. It stands alone as one of the most memorable.
Duck and goose hunting is certainly a passion that once it gets into your blood only burns hotter with each season. Ralph and I were to meet up at Canton Lake in Northeastern Oklahoma for some late season goose hunting ten or so years ago. It turned out as one of the greatest days afield I have ever experienced. (When Nature Wins). It wasn't so much because we sloughed the geese, because we didn't. It was an outing where we witnessed one of the greatest exhibitions of waterfowl played out against a backdrop of epic proportion framed against a sunrise so magnificent as to defy even the most creative of writers. Literally thousands of ducks and hundreds of geese swarmed over the lake as the sun exploded over the eastern horizon and the lake was engulfed with a magical aura of red skies reflecting off the mirror calm surface of the lake. Ducks were everywhere, darting from every direction. I was so spell bound, I simply watched and couldn't believe what was unfolding before me. As the day wore on, we eventually got a few shots at some passing geese, but were unable to bring any down. It didn't matter though. It was one of those days where the true winner was nature, and we were only allowed the privilege of sharing a special moment in time where nature unveiled itself to us in a way I've never experienced before.
Those were only three 'bygone days' as old timers would call it, in a line of many. It seems a million years ago to me now, but they were events we repeated many times for a bunch of years. We haven't hunted in either place in recent seasons for one reason or another. Time and age catch up with all of us I suppose, but those times had afield with friends are memories I would never trade for anything. Occasionally I find myself standing on the edge of a field and hear the thumping of a distant oil pumper, and on those rare icy days we've had in recent years, I still shutter when I think about crossing that frozen field against those penetrating winds. My thoughts often drift back to those times and a melancholy sense of, where has all the time gone and the realization that I have been unable to experience such memorable moments like those in a very long time, floods into my thoughts. Ralph is beginning to slow down now and isn't able to get out much anymore. One of our old time fishing partners, Newman, and Ralph's best friend for forty or more years, passed on a year or so ago. Doolee and Lady ended their hunting careers long ago and Lady is buried 'out at Morris'. Our outings just don't seem the same without all of them. Priorities have shifted for both Rocky and I and my brother and Curtis as well. It is kind of sad in a way, but at the same time, it offers a unique perspective on those outdoor adventures from a time long ago.
Remembering hunting days from the past is more than garnering bragging rights, it is a right of passage so to speak, for it brings into focus those first tentative steps taken toward becoming an outdoorsman. Events such as those shaped and molded a raw recruit into someone who can now step beyond simple desire and interest, and dwell within the realm of true knowledge and understanding. It gives one an appreciation for nature, for life, for freedom, and for the adventures external events or rhetoric to often deflect us away from. Times such as those remembered hunting the backcountry of Oklahoma, were lessons well served, for without them the heritage of a land and the significance of retaining and passing those values to future generations have nothing as a precedent. The value of anything is relative to its owner, and those days are priceless memories that I possess. As a result, I've been truly enriched and I am pleased to share even a glimpse of what memories I have with others who seek the intangible richness from Days of By Gone Years. Each time I cast a spread of decoys across a secluded cove and throw a passing glance to the morning glow to the east, I think back to that moment on Canton Lake and appreciate more fully the very reason I am there.
Keith R. Bridgman
