The final bird hunt of the season, and everything old feels young again

“It will be a good day,” I said to the dark piercing eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. The same eyes that penetrated to the depths of my soul some 10 years ago, when Winchester came into our lives.

We were driving into the deep blue, star-filled pre-dawn light that promised a full sun that would drench the mountain slopes in early spring. It was March 30, and would have to mark the end of an ever-tumultuous year.

Christine and I don’t pay attention to Jan. 1. Our year is measured by the upland bird hunting season.

When things are normal, the new year starts at the conclusion of a final trip in mid-April to Alaska’s Interior, where, in some places, the upland season remains open a month longer than March 31 closure in Southcentral.

The trip coincides within a day or two of Winchester’s April 11 birthday, a celebration of his life and the new life that spring brings.

But, it would seem, after nature’s scolding with the heat and the extraordinary fire season, the penance wasn’t enough. We would finish out the year hiding from a bug that has all but froze the human condition in its tracks.

We would grudgingly honor the premise of refraining from distant travel that we could not accomplish without some human contact, and Winchester and I would close the year early.

At the base of the mountain, the thermometer read minus 3, and the stars had finished winking out as the eastern horizon glowed that color that has no name besides simply gorgeous.

My spirits were high as they always are when heading out with Winchester, but this day more so. A crippling leg pain had left me climbing mountains at half speed. It took nearly a year to discover the femoral artery in my right leg was blocked. A recent surgical procedure corrected it, and now I was feeling almost normal and eager to prove to Winchester that his papa could still get it done.

He arose from his bed in the back seat and laid his soft muzzle on my shoulder, where our eyes meet, and we have the pre-hunt conversation.

Winchester loves going no matter what, but when it is just him and me, he is a different animal. The connection between us is uncanny and a delightful measure of mutual adoration.

I opened the back door and hugged him while whispering, “find the birds.” He launched as if he were a pup and ran across the frozen snow crust, straight to the high country. He knows where the birds will be, and he knows where they won’t be.

I took my time strapping snowshoes on and putting a camera in a small backpack. Most of the time these days, I carry a camera on my chest, where it is instantly available and, in truth, take as much pleasure from the making of photos on hunts as anything.

But today would be different. I would forget about trying to get the perfect image in the viewfinder and just enjoy the day with my partner.

I pulled the short canvas gun case containing the 12 gauge over/under Winchester 101 from behind the seat. The gun was a gift from Christine, purchased when Winchester was a puppy. She bought the gun because, well, it is a Winchester, and the engraving of the dog on the bottom of the receiver bears a strong resemblance to Winchester.

Most often, I hunt the uplands with a 28 gauge, but when it is just Winchester and me, I carry his namesake, sort of like when you were a kid and you only donned your best shirt on Sundays.

There is something about assembling the double gun before the hunt that is special, although I cannot put into words what it is. Removing first the buttstock with receiver, then the barrels. I released the latch on the forend and placed it on the seat and then fitted the barrel assembly to the receiver, closing it with that satisfying “chunk,” sort of like closing a vault door.

As I snapped the forend back in place, I glanced at the GPS monitor lying on the seat. Winchester was 1,100 yards northwest, about where I expected, a place where we find birds often. Well, I thought, this will prove if this damn leg is fixed, and headed up to join him.

When we broke out above the trees, the mountain air was as still as death, the nemesis of the bird dog. No breeze to carry scent meant Winchester would have to perform a meticulous search of the country to find birds.

I could see him working the distant willow and alder patches, his feathered legs flowing in the ice crystals he kicked up as he ran, the sun backlighting his movement. Back and forth he went, leaving no cover unchecked, but to no avail.

A few hours up the mountain, Winchester’s pace slowed, and I was feeling the lack of judicious mountain pursuit for a year. In other words, my will to put one snowshoe ahead of the other was on the wane, and thoughts of calling it a day were creeping in.

I called Winchester in for a break, and as he licked the prolific growth of icicles off my mustache, the wonder of being on the mountain with him flooded over me. Memories of our younger days together, when we didn’t save for the trip back.

Then I thought, I’m on this mountain with the champ, doing what has defined our bond, what we cherish above all else. No matter what we do or what happens, time is running out for both of us. The hell with the trip back.

“Find the birds.”

Winchester’s nose took us east across an avalanche chute towards a gulley choked with alder and willow. He was perhaps 50 yards ahead of me, running through the alders when a breeze came in from behind. In an instant, he spun around and went into one of those low stalking points reminiscent of a leopard ready to pounce on an impala. The point I want a photo of in the worst way.

I abandoned my thought to retrieve the camera from the pack when I saw four willow ptarmigan running downslope through the alders.

There was a clearing at the base of the alder patch where they would run out of cover and then flush. Leaving Winchester on point, I double-timed it down the edge of the alders.

The birds flushed to the west, and when the cold comb of the stock brushed my cheek, I slapped the trigger, and the lead bird crumpled.

When Winchester ran and picked up the ptarmigan, my thoughts from the morning were confirmed, it was a good day. Happy birthday, Winchester.

Steve Meyer is a longtime Alaskan and avid shooter who lives in Kenai.

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