Autumn is almost upon us
Autumn...the days between late September through late November is my favorite time of year in the mid-west U.S. I love how the trees change color from shades of green to all manner of yellow, orange, red, and brown before losing their leaves for winter. I love the rustling sound the leaves make, the chill in the air, the frost in the morning, fires, jackets, the harvesting of crops, and of course pumpkins. I also love time-honored family traditions, and for me, the tradition that speaks the loudest is upland bird hunting.
My father has been taking my brother and me bobwhite quail hunting since we were very small. I can still remember being so little that I wasn't strong enough to carry a shotgun but I would still walk along with him. My first memories of seeing quail were north of our farm in a thicket. The dogs pointed and my dad told me to get in there and flush them out. I crawled on my hands and knees under the thicket and shouted that I could see the birds. And he shouted "well flush em out boy!", and that's what I did. I heard the guns report and the dogs took off to find and retrieve the downed birds. Growing up at Thanksgiving we often had a heap of quail instead of turkey.
In our later years with the quail population dwindling in Missouri, we've taken to going out of state to hunt pheasant, sharptail grouse, prairie chicken, and sage grouse. This fall will mark our 20th year of going to Sandcreek Farm in north-central Kansas where we will renew friendships with the farmers, spend time together, and recall stories of years, dogs, and hunts since past. With a bit of luck and lots of walking, we might get to see the dogs work and even bring home a pheasant or a quail. I cherish this time of reflection with my Dad, Brother, and close family friend.
My father has been taking my brother and me bobwhite quail hunting since we were very small. I can still remember being so little that I wasn't strong enough to carry a shotgun but I would still walk along with him. My first memories of seeing quail were north of our farm in a thicket. The dogs pointed and my dad told me to get in there and flush them out. I crawled on my hands and knees under the thicket and shouted that I could see the birds. And he shouted "well flush em out boy!", and that's what I did. I heard the guns report and the dogs took off to find and retrieve the downed birds. Growing up at Thanksgiving we often had a heap of quail instead of turkey.
In our later years with the quail population dwindling in Missouri, we've taken to going out of state to hunt pheasant, sharptail grouse, prairie chicken, and sage grouse. This fall will mark our 20th year of going to Sandcreek Farm in north-central Kansas where we will renew friendships with the farmers, spend time together, and recall stories of years, dogs, and hunts since past. With a bit of luck and lots of walking, we might get to see the dogs work and even bring home a pheasant or a quail. I cherish this time of reflection with my Dad, Brother, and close family friend.
My wife and I enjoying Autumn
The Smokey Mountains in Autumn
Beautiful Autumn sunset at Sandcreek Farm
Me and my Father during a bird hunt
Bobwhite Quail
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