Over the years my father has had many hobbies, some stranger than others. These range from fishing and golfing to scuba-diving and collecting cookie jars (he calls them an investment). But the longest running hobby, and also his favorite, in my opinion, is hunting. From what I know, he has ventured out in pursuit of deer, squirrels, raccoons, and ducks. On at least one occasion, I know he has also shot and killed a rattlesnake, but that may not have been an intended hunt, per say. For the last six or seven years, his focus has been pheasant. It’s a decent-sized bird, a bit larger than a chicken but not quite so big as a turkey, with an almost dramatic spray of tail feathers on the males. I’m just working on a mental picture for the reader, so they can follow me when I get started here.
A hunting trip is a very manly adventure. It involves many masculine things, like dogs, mud, pickup trucks, big talk, and shotguns. Normally, my dad likes to keep this a very masculine event, so he takes my brother along. Roger has a hunting license and manly boots, so he is a very logical choice. Never mind that both my brother and I took the same hunter safety course, or that he only got his license because I gave him my safety pass when his was lost. No, according to Dad, Roger is just more focused on ‘the hunt.’ But Dad has lost his hunting partner, because Roger started back to school and also has a job in the produce section of our local grocery store.
The reader might also need to know some other information before I start my story. I am eighteen years old and I do not have my driver’s license. I had my permit for a while in high school, but it expired before I was ready for the test. The main reason that I wasn’t ready for my test is because my family was afraid to teach me. My mother has always been a nervous woman, and my sisters all have young children, and didn’t really want them riding in a car controlled by an inexperienced teenager. Being taught by my dad was never really an option. We both have active tempers and stubborn wills, so being in a moving vehicle together while trying to learn things didn’t seem wise. Strangely, however, almost the instant I moved out of the house and into the dorms, he seemed to like me better. Apparently it was logical in his mind to get me my driver’s permit and start teaching me himself when I got home for winter break. Which happened to coincide with pheasant season. Do you see where this is going?
One night in mid-January, I was in bed reading, when my dad knocked on the door and told me to be ready in the morning by six thirty. He looked surprised when I asked what for, and explained to me that we were going pheasants hunting tomorrow, and I was driving. All the way to Comanche Hills Hunting Preserve, and all the way back. We would be there most of the day. Yes, of course, dad. What was I thinking? Of course any plans I may have had for my day are inconsequential. No problem. Let’s go.
My day started very grumpily at five-thirty the next morning, and we set off as planned with the dog, the gun, the shot and some food and drink all loaded up. I was bundled in a sweatshirt, scarf and hat, and my shoulders were already tense from just the thought of driving for a full hour, at 55mph most of the way. I won’t go into excruciating detail here, just that we got through the drive with little mishap. I mean, what’s a few stop signs ran between family? We arrived at the club just after eight, and checked in, where two of the hunting club employees referred to me as a man, despite my bright purple hat and pink shoes. Thanks.
I’m going to take this moment to explain a little more about the pheasant hunting my dad does, because it‘s still news to me. There are people who breed pheasants for a living. Those people sell the birds to the hunting club, who literally plant them in the field. The employees take the birds out in trucks and toss them, one by one, out into the grass and hunting areas. The hunters come in and pay for so many birds at the beginning of the season, then go out and shoot these birds. Aside from the certain death, the birds really are treated well. Food and water are provided for them, in the crates and storage areas as well as in the field. And the death part isn’t even that certain. There are plenty of rules in place to keep it a sport; that is, to make sure the event is a hunt instead of a kill session. The bird has to be at least two feet off the ground before the hunter can shoot it, and the hunter can only use certain types of guns and shot. And people do miss on occasion, as my dad did on that day.
We had just driven out to the zone we wanted, the least crowded one we could find, and got ready to set out, letting the dog out of her kennel and getting the gun ready. Dad and Addie, our German shorthair pointer, started off in the lead, with me tagging along behind. I soon realized that I had not dressed with the elements in mind. At eight o clock in the morning, there is still enough dew on the ground and in the tall grass to make canvas sneakers a bad idea. I decided not to mention this, because I didn’t want a lecture on being prepared. I’m not exactly a Boy Scout. Besides, my dad was very focused, and rightly so, because Addie pointed. This means she found a pheasant in the field and wants my dad to find it. She points very enthusiastically, with her whole body, from nose to tail. Dad aimed and said, “Okay,” which is Addie’s signal to flush the bird out of the grass and into the air. I covered my ears and my eyes so as to avoid the sights and sounds of a dead bird, but they never came. The first shot rang out, and the second, but the bird was still flying when I uncovered my eyes. I looked to Addie, thinking perhaps she had done something wrong, but she was staring at my dad with a definite look of disapproval in her doggie eyes. I felt I could understand her perspective: she did all the work, and Dad couldn’t finish up the job. Dad saw the look as well, and scratched her ears in apology, looking like a little boy who didn’t finish his homework and got caught.
But Addie was happy enough after the scratching, with plenty of room to run. So much room, in fact, that she quickly sprinted away over the hills and out of sight. My dad reached for the whistle on his lanyard to call her back, but it wasn’t there. The next line of defense would be the radio/electric collar (no, it doesn’t hurt the dog) but that was missing the antennae and therefore out of commission., leaving us with only one way to find her: we began the search on foot. A good forty minutes later we reached the top of a hill, and see Addie waiting patiently next to our green minivan. My dad gave me a look that told me loud and clear to keep my thoughts to myself. I thought it best to listen. At that point we both realized that hunting was over.
It was at about this time that the power steering went out of the car. I’ve heard that this is something a person needs, especially while driving a large car over uncertain terrain. We barely made it to the parking lot at the entrance of the hunting lodge when my dad pulled over and told me to make myself comfortable because we were going to be there for a while. Now, I didn’t mind waiting, but what irritated me was all the men driving past in their big trucks without stopping to offer help. We were there with the hood wide open for a full hour before one person stopped to offer a hand. Lucky for me, the guy who did was quite good looking, and used to go to Sonoma State. Man, am I glad I wore my college sweatshirt that day. We didn’t have much of a conversation, but it was kinda fun to watch him talk about car parts and look all manly, until my dad had an idea. Apparently there was some specific tool that would fix the car in seconds, and the tool shed at the lodge would certainly have it. Like an obedient helper, the guy ran off in his truck in search of this tool. The second he was gone, Dad jumped in the car and drove off, with me in tow. He proceeded to not only forbid me from driving home, completely defeating the purpose of going on the trip, but also to drive from Comanche to Lodi without power steering . That’s a good twenty-five miles.
In the end it cost more than $70 and about three hours to fix the fan belt, the cause of the car trouble. Judging by this trip alone, I’m not entirely sure I ever want to go on a hunting adventure again. Or perhaps it was a ploy on the part of the pheasants to prevent us from killing them. If so, those are some very intelligent birds, because it worked. That day was my first time, and Dad hasn’t asked me along again. The season will be over in a few short weeks and I am officially at college now, so I can’t go. It’s a real disappointment. I guess this means my dad will have to find another hobby to drag me along to. Maybe even one with less mud. A girl can dream, can’t she?
