"The Great Debate"
The Deer Hunter glanced around at his counterparts, cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “I tell you there is no greater calling in the outdoors than that of the pursuit of the whitetail. Noble, majestic and bold, the whitetail commands a respect that is unparalleled in nature. Nothing can be finer than a cold January morning against your face as you watch deer stream into a field below your favorite stand; or watch a line of does course past your climber along a creek bottom trail, their noses held up into the wind. When the rut is on, the woods take on a new life, and excitement becomes redefined. Not one of you can present any outdoor reward that is sweeter than taking a big-bodied buck and holding his thick horns and heavy head in your hands. Deer hunting is the ultimate pursuit.”
He glared at the others for a brief moment and let this final pronouncement hang in the air before retaking his seat. The others cast unflinching glances at one another.
The Duck Hunter pounded his feet together, knocked some dried creek bottom mud off his waders, and took the floor. “Our friend here talks about no greater calling in the outdoors. That’s funny, because deer hunters don’t call at all, unless you count that burping sound they make every now and then to kill the boredom. Any animal that will come to a burp emitted from 20 feet up a tree ain’t an animal I want to pursue anyhow. Now calling ducks; that’s where it’s at. Where else can you see God’s creation come alive so vividly as from a sunken blind in a rice field levee; or from a secluded spot among the reeds and cattails overlooking a frigid marsh? When the sun shatters the horizon and blankets the panorama with its warming hues, it’s like God Himself has reached out and touched you on the shoulder. Then the teal start screaming by like blue-green bullets. By the time you’ve heard the first few go whistling by, the teal flight’s almost finished. Bringing down one of those screamers is truly a sporting feat, gents! Then the big ducks begin their flights. Mallards, gadwalls, wigeons and shovelers. Nature’s grace is embodied in the lilting, cup-winged, flatted-footed approach of a flight of mallards as they descend into a tupelo gum hole. And that is to say nothing of the blue-collar work of the retrievers; the camaraderie of the duck blind; or the exquisite table fare that awaits the successful duck hunter after a cold day in the timber. From my chair, duck hunting’s the most serious obsession in the sporting world.”
Water squished out of the Duck Hunter’s waders when he sat back down. The others sized one another up, wondering who’d step up next. The Sport Fisher pulled down his Costa Del Mar shades, revealing a respectable set of raccoon eyes. He cast a boyish grin to the group and took to his feet.
“Hell, boys, I’ve heard it all now. Look, if you want to appreciate God’s creation and see sunrises and all that, try appreciating it a-hundr’d-n-twenny-five miles from land over the bluest water you’d ever care to see. I’m talking about tuna fishing. Bill fishing. Marlin fishing. Leaving on a Thursday night, not coming back until a Monday morning, and not seeing a speck of land in between. Sleeping in a beanbag while the waves slowly rock you to sleep and the Gulf lapping up against the sides of the boat sings you a sweet lullaby. Scouting the horizon for birds, and then motoring off in their direction to cut into a school of yellowfin. No greater reward? It ain’t holdin’ a set of horns, boys, it’s hauling in a yellowfin through the tuna door, or fighting a marlin for 8 straight hours while your buddies pour ice water over your head and beer down your gullet! That’s what it’s all about, guys! Let’s load up the Yeti and hit the water.”
Silence overtook the group after the Sport Fisher sat back down and kicked off his flip-flops. The Deer Hunter peered from under his camouflage hat over at the Duck Hunter like he were recruiting an ally. The Duck Hunter looked upward as if he were scanning the sky for whistling wings.
The quiet was broken by the sound of ice clinking in a glass. The Bird Hunter, looking stately in his tattersall shirt, canvas brush pants, quilted orange vest and well-worn zip back leather boots, jiggled a bourbon in his right hand before taking a long, determined sip from a highball glass that was adorned with an image of a bobwhite quail in flight. He nonchalantly extracted a dog hair from his drink and stood to address those assembled. “Hogwash,” he uttered. “The history and grace that come from holding a fine double gun in your hands while you approach the point from behind a brace of locked-down pointers cannot be rivaled by any of the endeavors referenced by my colleagues thus far. Magnificent is the call of “bob-WHITE! bob-WHITE!” Need I point out that quail are referred to as the Prince of Gamebirds? Bird hunting is as noble a sport as you can ever hope to enjoy. It is a timeless pursuit where man and dog and nature become nearly one; where, if you were to take a black-and-white photograph of the engagement, others might mistake it for a one-hundred-year-old image. Meager words cannot do it justice.”
He swirled what was left of the ice around the base of the glass and sucked down the rest of his drink before sitting back down and petting his German Shorthair on the head.
Everyone looked around to see who, if anyone, would conclude the parade of advocates. The Turkey Hunter smirked and rose to his feet. The bags under his bloodshot eyes indicated to everyone that he didn’t have the time or energy to linger. “No one here, except for maybe the Duck Hunter,” he began, nodding in the direction of the Duck Hunter, “knows the first thing about true dedication and sacrifice to your sport. I’ve heard words like respect, obsession and grace used here today. Turkey hunting exemplifies all three. Name me another pursuit where the sportsman’s respect for his quarry is so great, he’d rather not kill it at all than to kill it the wrong way. Tell me one other obsession so gripping that we risk our marriages and our jobs and wake up long before dawn for thirty- or forty-something mornings straight, just for the hope of hearing the animal we’re after, much less harvesting it. And grace? I can think of no other grace than that of a longbeard in full strut, fanned out with the morning sun shining iridescent upon his brilliant plumage. Nothing, so far as I’m concerned, can match the exhilaration of a tom turkey’s gobble as it rips through the silent morning woods.”
The Turkey Hunter sat down and inspected the contents of one of his vest pockets.
Suddenly, everything got bright white, as if the shades had been thrown open. The orators disappeared, their point-and-counterpoint drowned out by an incessant electronic honking. The Sportsman shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He sat up in bed and looked around until he saw the calendar on the wall across the room. August. He heard his wife in the kitchen. “Honey? Let me tell you about this dream I just had,” he called out. “It was like I was arguing with myself . . .” And so the Deer Hunter, the Duck Hunter, the Sport Fisher, the Bird Hunter, the Turkey Hunter and the Sportsman got up and went into the kitchen to relay the Great Debate to she who already understands it all too well.
(c) Roger Guilian 2010
He glared at the others for a brief moment and let this final pronouncement hang in the air before retaking his seat. The others cast unflinching glances at one another.
The Duck Hunter pounded his feet together, knocked some dried creek bottom mud off his waders, and took the floor. “Our friend here talks about no greater calling in the outdoors. That’s funny, because deer hunters don’t call at all, unless you count that burping sound they make every now and then to kill the boredom. Any animal that will come to a burp emitted from 20 feet up a tree ain’t an animal I want to pursue anyhow. Now calling ducks; that’s where it’s at. Where else can you see God’s creation come alive so vividly as from a sunken blind in a rice field levee; or from a secluded spot among the reeds and cattails overlooking a frigid marsh? When the sun shatters the horizon and blankets the panorama with its warming hues, it’s like God Himself has reached out and touched you on the shoulder. Then the teal start screaming by like blue-green bullets. By the time you’ve heard the first few go whistling by, the teal flight’s almost finished. Bringing down one of those screamers is truly a sporting feat, gents! Then the big ducks begin their flights. Mallards, gadwalls, wigeons and shovelers. Nature’s grace is embodied in the lilting, cup-winged, flatted-footed approach of a flight of mallards as they descend into a tupelo gum hole. And that is to say nothing of the blue-collar work of the retrievers; the camaraderie of the duck blind; or the exquisite table fare that awaits the successful duck hunter after a cold day in the timber. From my chair, duck hunting’s the most serious obsession in the sporting world.”
Water squished out of the Duck Hunter’s waders when he sat back down. The others sized one another up, wondering who’d step up next. The Sport Fisher pulled down his Costa Del Mar shades, revealing a respectable set of raccoon eyes. He cast a boyish grin to the group and took to his feet.
“Hell, boys, I’ve heard it all now. Look, if you want to appreciate God’s creation and see sunrises and all that, try appreciating it a-hundr’d-n-twenny-five miles from land over the bluest water you’d ever care to see. I’m talking about tuna fishing. Bill fishing. Marlin fishing. Leaving on a Thursday night, not coming back until a Monday morning, and not seeing a speck of land in between. Sleeping in a beanbag while the waves slowly rock you to sleep and the Gulf lapping up against the sides of the boat sings you a sweet lullaby. Scouting the horizon for birds, and then motoring off in their direction to cut into a school of yellowfin. No greater reward? It ain’t holdin’ a set of horns, boys, it’s hauling in a yellowfin through the tuna door, or fighting a marlin for 8 straight hours while your buddies pour ice water over your head and beer down your gullet! That’s what it’s all about, guys! Let’s load up the Yeti and hit the water.”
Silence overtook the group after the Sport Fisher sat back down and kicked off his flip-flops. The Deer Hunter peered from under his camouflage hat over at the Duck Hunter like he were recruiting an ally. The Duck Hunter looked upward as if he were scanning the sky for whistling wings.
The quiet was broken by the sound of ice clinking in a glass. The Bird Hunter, looking stately in his tattersall shirt, canvas brush pants, quilted orange vest and well-worn zip back leather boots, jiggled a bourbon in his right hand before taking a long, determined sip from a highball glass that was adorned with an image of a bobwhite quail in flight. He nonchalantly extracted a dog hair from his drink and stood to address those assembled. “Hogwash,” he uttered. “The history and grace that come from holding a fine double gun in your hands while you approach the point from behind a brace of locked-down pointers cannot be rivaled by any of the endeavors referenced by my colleagues thus far. Magnificent is the call of “bob-WHITE! bob-WHITE!” Need I point out that quail are referred to as the Prince of Gamebirds? Bird hunting is as noble a sport as you can ever hope to enjoy. It is a timeless pursuit where man and dog and nature become nearly one; where, if you were to take a black-and-white photograph of the engagement, others might mistake it for a one-hundred-year-old image. Meager words cannot do it justice.”
He swirled what was left of the ice around the base of the glass and sucked down the rest of his drink before sitting back down and petting his German Shorthair on the head.
Everyone looked around to see who, if anyone, would conclude the parade of advocates. The Turkey Hunter smirked and rose to his feet. The bags under his bloodshot eyes indicated to everyone that he didn’t have the time or energy to linger. “No one here, except for maybe the Duck Hunter,” he began, nodding in the direction of the Duck Hunter, “knows the first thing about true dedication and sacrifice to your sport. I’ve heard words like respect, obsession and grace used here today. Turkey hunting exemplifies all three. Name me another pursuit where the sportsman’s respect for his quarry is so great, he’d rather not kill it at all than to kill it the wrong way. Tell me one other obsession so gripping that we risk our marriages and our jobs and wake up long before dawn for thirty- or forty-something mornings straight, just for the hope of hearing the animal we’re after, much less harvesting it. And grace? I can think of no other grace than that of a longbeard in full strut, fanned out with the morning sun shining iridescent upon his brilliant plumage. Nothing, so far as I’m concerned, can match the exhilaration of a tom turkey’s gobble as it rips through the silent morning woods.”
The Turkey Hunter sat down and inspected the contents of one of his vest pockets.
Suddenly, everything got bright white, as if the shades had been thrown open. The orators disappeared, their point-and-counterpoint drowned out by an incessant electronic honking. The Sportsman shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He sat up in bed and looked around until he saw the calendar on the wall across the room. August. He heard his wife in the kitchen. “Honey? Let me tell you about this dream I just had,” he called out. “It was like I was arguing with myself . . .” And so the Deer Hunter, the Duck Hunter, the Sport Fisher, the Bird Hunter, the Turkey Hunter and the Sportsman got up and went into the kitchen to relay the Great Debate to she who already understands it all too well.
(c) Roger Guilian 2010
posted by Days Afield Host | 9:47 AM
