Outdoors/Adventure

There are no mentors and mentees in a duck blind, only friends and partners — and dogs who want to hunt

A woman recently asked an online hunting group if anyone had started bird hunting because they got a bird dog. Her springer spaniel seemed to have a strong desire to hunt. He stared longingly at geese and ducks in the sky and on a nearby lake. He chased squirrels and binge-watched the bird feeder.

I was still thinking about the woman’s question when Rigby, at 12 weeks old, made his first appearance among a group of duck hunters milling around before a Sunday trap and skeet shoot.

He ran toward a diehard duck hunter first, got his ears scratched, and heard about his future as a duck dog. The man looked at Rigby with a nostalgia that made it almost possible to see the great duck dogs he’d loved and hunted with over the years.

“Mine is 12 now,” he said. “He lays on the couch, and the other day there was a show with some ducks in it, and he lifted his head. Then he went back to sleep.”

As Rigby made the rounds, he gathered affection as each person shared stories of great duck dogs. If someone had walked in with a litter of Labrador puppies for sale at that moment, they’d have sold out.

Getting into hunting is time-consuming and can be expensive. Without someone to guide you through it, the process — learning about firearms, ammunition, hunting regulations and licenses, land and ownership laws, what to do with the bird after you shoot it — can be overwhelming.

The usual advice to those getting started beyond books and YouTube videos is to take a hunter’s education course, sign up for workshops, join hunting and conservation groups, ask to join other hunters afield, and find a mentor.

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[Turn your puppy into an adventurer by introducing him to the outdoors early]

My first duck hunt was with Steve, back before either of us had dogs. Many in the outdoors arena might call him a mentor. I don’t think of it that way, then or now.

The word mentor is not a very outdoorsy word. It belongs in the business world, the therapist’s chair, plot dynamics, or the classroom. When I read the word “mentor” — or worse, “mentee” — in the literature about hunter recruitment, I can’t put it in the same sentence with “the grouse flushed wild.”

I had only been hunting with Steve for a few years when a friend asked me to take her son duck hunting. She didn’t use the word mentor, and I doubt either of us or her son thought I was one.

We spent the morning in the marsh after a day at the gun range, and the 8-year-old shot his first pintail on the wing. Nothing about that day felt like mentoring. The kid was a natural talent at shooting and wanted to hunt more than anything else. I wasn’t a mentor as much as a driver.

The old duck hunter who scratched Rigby’s ears had a look I’ve seen before — one that longs to be in wet and cold environments for the chance to work alongside a good dog and bring back something of value in the form of ducks and experiences.

I could take a friend’s son or someone intent on hunting for her dog’s sake along with me hunting, but it is up to them to find something to love in the field, something special in the sight of decoys waiting for the tide or a gun dog perched at the end of the blind staring at the sky.

The proliferation of mentoring programs in the hunting arena often has a programmed feel with a necessary focus on safety. There are so many practical skills to learn; it makes sense to recommend an apprenticeship-type model and connect those interested in learning with those willing to teach.

Bird hunters invented trap and skeet shooting and field trials for dogs to simulate the actual activities, and many find joy in practice, never taking the next step. But the controlled environment cannot replace the magic that happens in wild places where you no longer watch or practice but participate.

No matter what side of the relationship I fall on, I prefer to call someone I hunt with a friend or a partner because it puts me on an even level, which best represents what happens between those who share a hunt. The responsibilities of hunting, including firearm handling and respect for wildlife, require equality.

[We hunt for meat — and because wing-shooting is an exquisite dance that can’t be choreographed]

One person may relive the early days as another awakens to possibility. Life is hard enough without warnings and admonishments from authority figures; far better to share the journey, learn from each other, and set aside the terminology of pseudo-parental relationships to be a part of natural cycles bigger than ourselves.

Whether it’s Steve or one of the dogs, my hunting partners are always the ones to insist we go a bit farther or stay a bit longer. It’s in this extra stretch I otherwise wouldn’t have made that everything happens.

The right hunting partner is one that joins you on the traverse to places where you both experience a transition and rite of passage into another world. Sitting in a duck blind at last light, whoever fills the seat on the bench next to you is sharing that rare view you may only see once in that light.

I think back on the woman’s question, “Has anyone started bird hunting because they got a bird dog?” Absolutely. Anything can be a reason to start, or to start all over again.

As Steve and I work with Rigby on retriever training, I can’t help but get excited about what it’s going to be like to watch him launch into a lake for the first time or bring back his first duck.

A hunting mentor, partner or friend can be anyone that wants to go, who gets you out of the house and brings an extra set of eyes, ears and skills. They are doctors, attorneys, cooks, professional gunsmiths, taxidermists, 8-year-old boys and girls, Labrador puppies, or a springer spaniel staring at the bird feeder who would love to learn the ropes with you.

Christine Cunningham is a lifelong Alaskan who lives in Kenai.

Christine Cunningham

Christine Cunningham of Kenai is a lifetime Alaskan and avid hunter.

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