What did the voice of the lesser god say
to him?
It was a day along the Mayo, with a steady breeze from the northwest
and a cover of mixed hardwoods and new second growth. A day for
perfect dog work and close-rising birds. Max was born to be my
right-hand man, but when the parts arrived he got a dominant
left eye. He became a gawky, ill-fitted teenager with parts that,
from time to time, seemed to go off on a path of their own. Betrayed
by his eyes, my son was a natural right-hander who now had to
shoot as a lefty.
Still, like any young pup, he was having a good time barking
salutes at flying birds. His failure to fill the game bag had
to be addressed, however, because I, as the "able and capable
bird hunter," could not see the value in missing. I had
a limit, but unless Max killed a bird he was going to (somehow)
ruin my day.
Another point and another failure. The superb efforts of the
dog and the great luck of finding so many chances in one place'
became a curse. I am sure my son was praying that our able -
shorthair would not find another bird to point. But, time after
time, the dog pointed until Max stopped shooting altogether.
He was dejected and miserable, the chief resident in the home
of the losers. I could have encouraged him, handed him my unused
shells, but instead I took that opportunity to apply correction
to his shooting technique. As any drowning man can tell you,
the last thing he needs is to be told how to swim.
When I walked over to give my son some more "instruction,"
I saw his eyes well up with tears. I had carried this thing too
far. He was trying as hard as possible to live up to my image,
instead of his own, and failing at every turn.
It should have been over. It certainly was for me. I had no idea
how to salvage my son from this hell I had made for him. But
it wasn't over. I didn't know it then, but the lesser |
gods were speaking to me, not him. Until
that moment, however, I hadn't been listening.
Beans made a final point, facing into a fence line, only fifty
feet from the trucks. Time and all the hunters came to a stop.
We were presented with a shot-on a bird that could only be a
grouse-in low scrubby dogwood. In the class of opportunities,
it was going to be nothing less than wide open. It was my son's
chance to pull it all together and was also a risk of hideous
proportions.
I thought what none of us dared speak: "If there is a small,
sympathetic god in this red-eyed day, let Max get this one!"
The boy made a choice. He straightened his shoulders, drew himself
up to his full six feet, and walked to the dog in steady, measured
steps. He did it all just the way I had taught him: eyes up where
the bird would appear, the gun tucked in under his armpit.
The grouse was there and flushed up, broad tailed, gray, black,
and magnificent. It cleared the understory and banked slightly
left to right. Max shot.
He missed once and then twice.
It may have been an echo of the last shot, but I swear, that
time, hope and the held breath of all of us snapped back into
the vacuum left when that last grouse sped away. I heard the
voices, and I have never been more proud of my son than I was
at that moment.
In my time I have heard every word said in a like circumstance.
I have seen a grown man, a self-professed icon of the sport,
kick his dog breathless. I have said many of the words myself.
Yet without a single good example in front of him, and in the
face of overwhelming bad luck and unrelenting pressure, my son
kept his temper and dignity, and bore the weight with presence,
patience, and tolerance.
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"Max," I said, "I have never,
ever, seen anyone have a worse stretch of bad luck, nor have
I ever seen anyone handle himself better. I want to shake your
hand."
"But I didn't get anything," he answered.
"You got experience and my respect," I said, "two
things that I promise you will last a lot longer than a pile
of dead birds."
* * *
The devil with a problem is that it comes at you whole and all
at once. The answer to the problem, on the other hand, comes
in small parts that arrive at odd times. When you least expect
it, some small segment of the answer is delivered. Perhaps it's
in the form of a paragraph read in a newspaper article. Maybe
a friend gives a small piece of advice. Sometimes, while working
on an unrelated project, the answer to a fragment of the problem
is discovered. Then, one morning you wake up, and there it is!
The whole answer.
Time and civilization work against my grouse hunting. Hardly
a year goes by that I don't lose a cover to a land sale or aging
forage or a deed that gives Suzie five acres so that she can
put up a trailer. That is a devil of a problem.
So, in the middle of my life, I decided to put together a map
of all the places I hunt grouse and study it a long time. I thought
that if I could see the pattern it made, and then I would better
know where to go next.
The problem I was searching to solve was for more places to kill
more grouse. What I learned was that I could not confine the
nature of the grouse and where it lives to those limits. The
answer was available, but I had to stop thinking like the goal
oriented, type A, anal-retentive human I am. I had to give up
my world, where the rules are:
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