What feels like a few lifetimes ago, I grew up on our family farm in Southwest Missouri. Being raised among my great grandparents and grandparents, I was immersed in the activities required to thrive in rural communities where self-sufficiency was not only a way of life but the true essence of survival. My grandpa, the youngest of three, was born in 1929 and memories of surviving the Great Depression spilled out from time to time. The stories were so vivid and foreign to a naive boy, who simply couldn’t comprehend truly hard times, that they’ve stuck with me all these years.
Daily life on the farm was a direct reflection of the true fabric of a remarkable generation. Rising before the sun for breakfast made from eggs snatched from the chicken house the day before fueled days of hard work contributing to the family’s well-being. Summers were spent tending to the gardens which produced bushels of vegetables that lined the shelves of the cellar in mason jars to sustain the long, harsh winters. Working the land produced the forage and crops necessary to sustain the herd. And the cattle kept meat on the table for the family and income to sustain the operation.
My journey into the outdoors took root on the back of my great-grandma, long before I even formed lasting memories. My folks often reminisced about great-grandma packing me snug into a makeshift cradleboard and watching her crest the hill into the hardwoods north of the farm to run her trapline. As years clipped by, the heavy hand of time began to weigh upon her, and I found myself being sent out to check traps, leaning heavily on the wisdom she’d passed down to a young boy. Her steady hand taught me the art of field dressing small game and how to transform it into meals shared with the family at supper time. I still hear her voice providing gentle direction as I pass those same lessons on to my daughter, who happens to share her name, all these decades later.
As the years have escaped, I’ve been fortunate to traverse countless miles alongside upland-inspired folks with backgrounds as diverse as the landscapes we shared. What I’ve begun to realize is that while the paths that led us to the crossroads we’re sharing are always unique, we share threads that weave into a common fabric. It’s those experiences that bind us together which led me to a remote bird camp in North Dakota with Jon and Micaela a number of years ago.
A couple from Minnesota I’d met years before at Pheasant Fest, Jon and Micaela were a young and exuberant couple joining our crew on their first out-of-state hunt. Growing up in the Midwest, chasing pheasant with their friends and families, they were as excited as they were nervous to pursue a challenge well beyond their comfort zones. In the months leading up to bird camp, we chatted over the phone on a few occasions, covering a broad range of topics including the basics of camp, prairie grouse, out-of-state licensing, and even details like recommended shot size and preferred bird camp meals. An OnX pin was sent, and we’d soon meet to kick off an epic adventure in the uplands.
Bird camp was nestled in a valley flanked by rolling grasslands, dotted with a few natural springs, red dirt roads drawing lines through the landscape, and mesas breaking up the horizon in every direction. With our tents staked and protected from the harsh prairie winds, drinks were poured, meals cooked, and we began catching up like old friends. It wasn’t long before a special announcement was made to camp, we’d soon be sharing the field with a couple of generations, Micaela and Jon were expecting their first child.
Moments shared with good people should be cherished, and I am humbled to be a small part of so many over the years. As the Milky Way stretched across the sky, blanketing our camp, we retreated to our sleeping bags, minds racing with visions of bird dogs tearing up the prairies in search of wild coveys. The stage was set to kick off our season in just a few hours, and a restless night awaited us.
The anticipation of the upland season spread out before us was simply too much, sleep would have to wait. The smell of coffee began to drift through camp before the glow of the sun broke the horizon and overwhelmed the stars. The time before sunrise provided ample opportunity for stretching dogs, morning rituals, gear preparation, and a quick breakfast. We were soon loaded up and rolling out of camp, and the crunch of gravel under tires was nearly muffled by the whine of bird dogs in anticipation of what they knew awaited them in the field.
Dust trails carried by the morning breeze danced across the prairie in our rearview mirrors as the caravan rumbled down dirt roads. As the vastness of the landscape begins to sink in with each mile, it’s easy to ponder whether birds exist in such a harsh environment, let alone whether we would stumble upon them. In the end, it’s been my experience that boot leather is the only way to find out, and we’d know soon enough. As our trucks veered towards the edge of the gravel, we surveyed the grass swaying gently in the breeze to ensure the most advantageous direction for our bird dogs given the terrain. Then came a few final sips of coffee before we dove into a new season.
The familiar “thud” of tailgates was followed by the jingling of e-collars laid out for the bird dogs who would soon join us in the field. Vests were quickly suited up and pockets laden with shells. The slow-stepping effect of zippers followed as shotguns were pulled from their cases. As I began talking through our game plan, Micaela pulled an aged Winchester from its sleeve. The over and under’s 30” barrels and wooden stock appeared sizable, broken open and cradled in her arms. I remarked, “That’s a beautiful gun.” Micaela smiled and looked down where it rested. “Thank you,” she replied, pausing for a moment. “This is The Cannon, it was my grandpa’s.”
The old Winchester was worn in through decades of service, being handed down through the family to his sons and then granddaughters. Grandpa’s classic over and under had been carried countless miles through southern Minnesota pheasant cover and helped put many wiley roosters in game bags. Walking across the prairie, I wondered, could Grandpa have ever imagined his old over and under would be venturing into a foreign landscape in his granddaughter's arms? I’m confident, knowing his granddaughter, he’d be humbled and thankful to know a small piece of him continues to be part of her, and her children’s, upland inspired journey.
With each stride, our bird dogs consumed more ground while their keen noses investigated cover in search of game birds camouflaged by the surrounding habitat. Contact came quickly. The percussion of double barrels echoed across the expansive countryside behind the flutter of wings taking flight. As the gunsmoke evaporated from each barrel, bird dogs leaned heavily on their noses to pinpoint the intoxicating aroma of downed birds among the thick cover. Within moments, Micaela was looking down upon the copper-tipped feathers fluttering in the gentle breeze. Grandpa’s gun rang true, and her first Hungarian partridge rested gently in hand.
Months of preparation and planning led us to this moment, but the true spark that set this course was lit generations ago. In these moments, I’ve found words are lost and the silence speaks. My mind considered the three generations of her family all intersecting in the uplands at this moment in time. Memories of my great-grandma, who put me on this course, flooded forward into the present. In the end, it’s the people, places, and moments we’ll take with us.
As I grow older, I recognize time is a precious gift, a gift that’s best shared. Grandpa’s gun was just another reminder that this way of life was shared with us. It now falls upon us to ensure the next generation is taken into the field, has the wisdom stored within us, and is filled with inspiration to believe this is a gift worth sharing. So, what knowledge will you pass on, and who might carry your gun into remote places in search of wild things?
Published in Western Hunter Magazine - January 2025