10 OCTOBER

TRAVELING "THREEDOME" ROD TIPS and ROAD TRIPS

It is upland bird season and I have a dog that is bred for bird hunting. I spent a long time taking the circumventors route to avoid saying bird-dog for a reason. My dog is not a bird dog, she is more of dog-bird hunter. You see, Delta, as she is named is certainly no alpha. She looks like a white German short hair mixed with a Holstein cow and Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. She is, however, fully trained in bird hunting. It is a tool and skill she doesn’t brag about. Kind of like the guy that does home improvement and gains a construction skill but found it such a negative experience that he hires out next time.

She likes the idea of bird hunting as long as there are no guns involved. She also is very wary of birds. She avoids them if there is no handler around. When she catches scent of a bird, she usually leads me away from the trail and not to the bird. That’s the type of bird hunting she likes.

For small tweety type birds, she is far more comfortable seeking and chasing those…as long as none of them attempt to hold eye contact. So, to get my fill of bird hunting, I have to let the birds hunt us. We sneak up on birdy areas and when the birds flush, we run away. If we can hold our ground for a few moments and watch the birds fly off- that is a bonus perhaps even to be considered a ‘bagged bird’ in our world.

Once Delta has been flushed by a couple of birds, she is content to return home and resume her guard duty on the couch. She also, doesn’t like to get involved with briars, wet grass, stiff winds, high humidity, low humidity, too overcast or too sunny conditions when hunting. The good news is that, with our unique style, we can hunt year around.

I maintain a two-acre parcel for her to be hunted on. I let the Timothy and Johnson grass get tall there. Of course, it is only a few minutes’ walk from her couch. She does get excited and wants to go to the patch when she senses it is time for a walk. We sneak over to the patch and creep along the edges until the birds fly out and then she crouches until they fly off. Once they are gone, she is exhilarated that she survived.

Occasionally, I force her into the grass itself to flush out even more birds. She doesn’t like it but goes in thinking maybe the grass will give her cover and the birds will not notice her. With tail down and ears draped over her squinting eyes, she doesn’t like the grass touching her face and she doesn’t like her paws touching anything. She high steps and tip toes through the grass covering her face making me feel as guilty as possible for making her act like a dog. When the birds flush, she bolts out of the grass right back to me and wipes her paw over her sweating brow and breathes a sigh of relief.

After a flush or two she is ready to head home. If I don’t take her directly back home, she will act like she is all excited to hunt more. In actuality she is only trying to get out of sight long enough to slink and circle behind me and once she thinks she is clear; she will bolt for home. I am used to this ruse and go along with it. It is one of the few ways she gets any exercise at all. When I arrive on the porch, she will be laying there in front of the door, pretty proud of herself and expecting a treat.

If I am ever to pick up a gun, she gives me a dirty look and turns her back on me. Carrying a gun on a hunt with her is a definite no, no, even though she is afraid of the birds. I also, can’t pick up a bow, a pistol, a knife or a letter opener over two inches long or she will go on complete strike. Not a hunger strike mind you, just a strike where she lays on the couch and won’t even be concerned if someone steals it. If that happens, I believe her plan would be to stay on the couch as the couch nappers pick it up to weigh it down and perhaps get a belly rub from the criminals.

If you would like a dog like this, I am afraid you maybe out of luck. We can’t breed her; she is afraid of puppies.

See you along the stream.

THE HAUNTED HUNT

It was a Friday during late October circa 1985, I wanted to hunt but I had to finish work first. My boss at my first job needed some tasks done before the weekend and I had promised a homeowner on my side job that he’d be able to have his party on his new deck by Saturday. So, I admit I was a little more tired than normal by the time my truck was loaded and I was headed through the inky dark towards “my” mountain.

My truck at the time was my pride and joy. It was a souped up and jacked up Dodge Power wagon. All-time four-wheel drive, heavy duty everything, a four-barrel 650 double pumper on a high-rise carburetor, dual headers on class pack pipes coming off a 360 block…no radio, wouldn’t have been able to hear it any way. I was all about stripped down power and very little frills. I was lucky to have seats and heat. In order to add a little homey touch to my tone of steel on muscle, I touched up the interior with furs that I had trapped. Raccoon and fox on the seats and there were some feathers around for a light touch.

I did keep a “boom” box on the seat for times when I just couldn’t get enough noise. As my truck tore up asphalt while humming down Route 80, I was listening to “Midnight Rider” by the Allman brothers when my headlights caught a beautiful girl hitch hiking down the side of the highway. Now, in those days, west of the Susquehanna river and maybe even a little east of the Susquehanna, Route 80 was a little different than it is today. The road looks the same but now it isn’t a good place to hitch hike because you’ll get run over or picked up by a creep. In 1985 you were more likely to end up standing along the road all night; there wasn’t much traffic on 80 between the big rivers of Northern Pennsylvania. I’d had driven hours before without seeing anything but a bobcat.

Getting that truck to a stop from highway speed wasn’t anything that ever happened quickly, it seemed like it took three hundred or more yards to get to over. So, I was surprised at how fast the hitchhiker got to my door after I came to a stop. She opened the door and without saying a word, jumped into the cab, with no any introductions or questions about where I was going. I was struck by how pale she was but rationalized it off that it was just cool outside. After a short pause I said, “Hello” and she merely responded, “You have something dead in your truck.” She had a strange accent but I just thought, “There are a lot of different accents in Pennsylvania…maybe she’s Amish.” Figuring, maybe hoping she was referring to my trapping trophies adding a touch of décor to my truck. I nervously explained I was a trapper and that she was merely surrounded by furs. I asked where she was going and she gave me a non-descript, empty exit name. I knew there was nothing at that exit but woods. So, I offered to take her to the town near there, thinking perhaps she was being polite. She declined and maintained that she wanted off in the woods. I explained that it was no problem to take her somewhere because I wasn’t on any schedule for the rest of the weekend. She didn’t explain why but insisted that she wanted to be let off right off the exit. So, we drove down the highway towards her exit which was more than an hour away.

As we rode, we talked little. I think she told me her name but I don’t remember it. (Admittedly, it was a hard truck to hold a conversation in) I do remember that it got awfully cold in my truck even though my one luxury, the heater, was working overtime. I brushed that off as cold air on uninsulated steel. When I approached the off ramp for her exit, I offered one more time to take her directly to whatever final destination she was headed for. She simply told me that I couldn’t do that. As I turned onto the cross road and pulled under the overpass she told me to stop. Then, she only said, “Goodbye”, opened the door, stepped out…and disappeared. I looked for her to see if she fell but she was gone. I turned the truck around came back and put the head lights on the side of the road and there was no girl. I kept on driving through the night to the place where I was planning to set up camp for the night and as I did, I watched my rearview mirror a little more often than usual. At my destination I built a big fire which I sat awake by most of the night clutching my shotgun a little tighter each time I thought over the “conversation” I had in the truck that night. A conversation that was more informative, after the fact than during the time it occurred with the pale, cold girl saying, “There’s something dead in my truck, the insistence to be dropped off in a lonely spot and the comment that I couldn’t go where she was going.” The truck was able to warm up after she left and then there was the whole disappearing thing…that trick I haven’t been able to figure out yet.

I didn’t get much hunting done that weekend and was back at work early on the following Monday morning and was glad to be there. Since that night, I’ve ridden down Route 80, past her exit and that stretch of road hundreds of times. I watch for the pale girl every time but have never seen her again. I’m hoping she’s content and happy and that her final destination was a good place.

See you along the stream.