The air is fresh and the temperature crisp on an Alabama January morning. The sun is barely below the horizon and in the distance hardwoods are softened by the early morning glow. Coffee is brewing by a man who appreciates the art of making the perfect cup. The ritualistic beverage is prepared- three scoops ground, ten cups water, heat. The all too familiar smell lures like-minded men to the kitchen to begin their day. A kind southern “good morning” is muttered below breath before a careful sip of coffee meets the lips. The hunt has begun.
Meanwhile utilitarian assortments of clothes are selected to meet conditions. Camouflage and earth tones disguise the flesh from a bird’s eye and bright orange alerts position. Boots laced and the body layered, ammunition gathered and the gun selected. Men meet and now march forward in likeness and purpose. Now then the sun sits above the southern pine and oak casting beams in a western direction as hunters bath in the golden stars warmth. Long shadows dance as men pace and fellowship with laughter and smiles. The dogs are released.
Fields of gold lay beyond the sight of men with guns held midway and two handed. Meanwhile, bird dogs are racing back and forth with scents igniting their noses. Suddenly, dogs point toward a covey of quail; their bones shivering with excitement pressing ahead ever so slightly careful to charge before the command of their master. Whistle blows signaling the flush and quail soar. In an instant the hunter raises his gun and aligns his mind with his eye, his eye with the sight, the sight shortly ahead of the quails line of flight, trigger pulled, bird is harvested. In the end quail, chucker, and pheasant are harvested and placed in one line to affirm success of the hunt. Men glance in each other’s eyes and agree a job well done accepting and giving affirmation. The hunter and gatherer instinct has been fulfilled, joy is among them. A job well done, yes, a job well done.
