The last time I’d hunted pheasant had been in Iowa and those birds had been wild. They’d run ahead of my dog when he was trying to point in the thick cover crop between the cut-over cornfields. When they flushed, the birds looked big against the sky and seemed like they should have been easy to hit.

But they weren’t. Nor were the birds here at Primland, though we hit more than we missed. They would hold sometimes and run sometimes; flush unexpectedly, then fly strong for the trees and drop down into them for safety.

The real joy, though, was in admiring the diligent work of the dogs, seeing one catch scent and strike a rigid point and, then, seeing the other dog honor the first one’s point. And in listening to Junior’s running commentary.

“I believe that young dog is on to something. Yessir, he is. Look, there, he’s on point. And yonder the other dog is backing him. Let’s move in now. You stay to my left, if you would, ma’am. Get ready now.”

When one of the dogs stopped suddenly and locked up like a statue, Marsha said to Junior, “That’s the part I love. Watching the dogs.”

Junior agreed. “I’ll step in a hole — for looking at them when I should be checking the ground,” he said. “Watch that other one back, now.”

Driving between fields, Junior stopped to point out the site of an old still and to tell a few stories about people who once made a living, of sorts, making whiskey in these hills. He recalled the days when ruffed grouse had been plentiful, and his first years at Primland, when they’d cut firewood and sell it up and down the eastern United States. He told us about the deer and turkey hunting on the property. It sounded good enough — especially the turkey hunting — that I found myself wondering if I could book a couple of days in the spring.

“I’d be pleased to take you out,” Junior said. And that just about settled it.
By lunch, we’d shot enough pheasant and chukar partridge for one day. We considered touring the ground by ATV or on horseback. If it had been a couple of weeks earlier, we might have gone trout fishing. And, there was still that golf course. But we had come for the shooting, were still dressed for the field and had the shotguns with us, so we shot a round of sporting clays. The course wound through a little valley grown up in hardwoods, and was broken up here and there by small ponds, most of them dry. It was a drought year.

We broke some clay targets, missed some others, and watched at one station as three deer slipped through the trees fifty yards from where we were standing. They showed no alarm — no interest even — at the sound of shooting.

By late afternoon, we’d had enough of shotguns. But we had a thirst and an appetite. Britton served pheasant piccata. Marsha raved over it and when we were finished asked for the recipe. We would be taking home the birds we had shot, so why not? It would be a while before we’d get back to Primland, but I felt certain that we would. Turkey season wasn’t that far off. Early spring. And, then, there was that golf course where, when you step up to the first tee, you feel like you are on top of the world.

And, in a certain sense … you are.