Memories, your most cherished?

[DisplacedDuck]

@Grif said it best, for whatever reason, while other memories fade or get fuzzy, I can remember nearly every detail from every hunt--the good, the bad, and the in-between.

One of my favorite memories was a flooded field hunt with my dad and brother near Horseshoe Lake in SOIL. Miserably cold. Spitting snow. Knowing we were hunting against the clock, so to speak, and that the snow would get to be too much too quickly for a safe drive back home. Probably had two hours to hunt, tops.

The snow was thick, and the wind so strong, you could hardly see as far as you could shoot. Ducks were in range before you you see them.

It wasn't long before we were one mallard shy of a limit. All drakes. My brother and I set our guns aside, for our dad to take the last bird.

Before too long, with the snow blowing even harder, and visibility reduced even further, a trio of mallards came in--two drakes and a hen.

We watched our dad rise up, take his time, find his mark and BOOM--roll the hen.

We walked out of there as camo-clad popsicles, but the laughter warmed us mightily. 11 drakes, 1 hen. Dad, indiscriminate hen-killer.

He claims the visibility was too poor and he lost his true mark in their losing altitude. I'm sure that's true. But we gave him seven kinds of he11 regardless.

 

[Holesinthesky]

Time for another…..

It was Mid November in NE Missouri.
We did not have any snow on the ground, and temps were in upper 30s. There had been a lot of rain the previous week, and thankfully most farmers had gotten the corn and beans in.

It was the middle of the week, and I had not seen a buck I was after.
I went to the house and was visiting with Grandpa. I remember asking how he was doing, and he said he was having a good day. I told him to get in the truck, and we would go for a hunt.

He told me no. A little while later, my dad and mom came to check on him. And during the conversation, I mentioned I had tried to get him to go hunt with me.

My dad said that was a good idea, and convinced GrandPa to ride with. Dad would park at one of our fields, overlooking our horseshoe field.

So we all loaded up in Dad’s super crew truck. Dad and Grandpa up front, mom and me in the back.

Because of all the rain, we couldn’t drive thru our field, and had to park along a fence line intersection.

Not where we wanted, but still a good place. Just limited view compared to the Horseshoe field.

It was about 20 minutes before legal shooting time ended, and I spotted a buck off to our right, walking the tree line.

We were elevated Above the buck, hidden by the fence line.

I got out, opened front passenger side door, helped Grandpa get out. Rolled the window down so he could use the door as a gun rest.
I got him lined up where the deer was going to cross.I kept watching the buck, and when he stepped into the clearing. Dad said, you see him Pop? Grandpa replied no. I made sure he was lined up. Unfortunately, his vision had deteriorated and he just couldn’t see the 75 yards.

Dad asked me if I had him lined up? I replied yes.
Dad said….. Take a crack at him Pop.
So he “sighted in” and let one go With that 1917 sportersterised/reworked/army surplus Springfield 30-06.
Grandpa asked if he got it? (He hadn’t, his shot hit the dirt about 30 yards in front of us.).
Dad said no, shoot again.
And so it went until the gun was empty.
Needless to say, the buck was long gone after the first shot.
But we let Grandpa keep shooting.

I got him loaded back up and we started for the house. All of us laughing and talking about the hunt.
When we got to the house, I got him unloaded, and that little red headed Irishman wrapped his feeble arms around me, gave me a hug and said, Thank You Grandson.

The next afternoon, I found my self at the same place, where we took him the day before. I parked and walked to where one of my old wood ladder stands stood at the intersection of two fence lines. About 50 yards from where the buck came into the clearing the day before.
As if the buck was on a set schedule, there he was the same as the day before ( I assume it was the same buck, and like to think it was).
I watched him make his way to the clearing.
As he stepped out, I raised my gun, found him in the scope and held it.
I then lowered my gun and watched as he looked towards where we were parked the day before. I watched him slowly walk towards me, and then jump the fence about 25 yards away.
I let that buck walk, as that was Grandpa’s buck.

That was the last hunt I shared with him, by the end of January he was gone.

 

[tripper]

Late 50's, early 60's, walking behind a pointer and a llewellin setter, with my Dad and my Uncle, bird (quail) hunting. Had to carry an empty gun, until the dogs pointed. Then I could come up beside them and load one shell in that old 20 gauge (still got it). You better believe I was going to shoot that shell when the birds flushed.
They knew everyone within 10 miles either direction and nobody minded if you hunted their land. Just don't shoot out a covey and all was good. If I could just go back and walk with them.... one more time........
Those that never got to hunt with family are missing some really golden memories.

 

[blacktail]

My memory that hooked me was simple. I will never ever forget.
Me and a buddy were hard on everything local. Jack rabbits, dove, quail and some duck hunts on the Rio Grande in NM.
Buddies dad invited me to drive north to the Jicarilla Indian reservation. I was a sophomore in HS. Duh. Let's went!
Hip boots, canoes and stupid ducks. It ruined me. Here's a pic from 1985(I'm the tall one). I have been obsessed ever since.

 

[WHUP ! Hen]

My dad had almost given up on quail hunting in the early 80’s. He had been diagnosed with prostrate cancer that had spread to other parts of his body. At that time prostrate cancer was a death sentence, much different than it is now. One Sunday afternoon after dinner my son and I were getting ready to go hunting, he said “Ya got room for one more”, I said he!! yes. I got his Remington Model 48 out of the cabinet. We had planed to hunt a brushy fence row that always held quail. I had a brace of really good English Pointers, I put Dad and my son on one side with Jack while I was on the other side with John. We hadn’t gone much more than 25 yards when both came on point. I put them on the side where I thought they would flush, a big covey flushed, Dad got one and Joe and I got 2. We had four more coveys flush, Joe and I ended up with our 8 bird limit and Dad got 4. That was his last hunt with son and grandson. 5 months later he passed away.

 

[toby]

I was an only child after 11 yrs. of marriage so I got to go places other kids didn’t and I had family friends who were surrogate Aunts and Uncles. One was my “Uncle Tom”. At his house I had my own BB gun, got to pattern shotguns, and had the run of the dog kennel which included at least two labs at any given time. The smell of the guns, dogs, and whiskey was gripping and the stories of the first pheasant season in South Dakota, ducks in Iowa and how the new shotgun came home were mesmerizing. I got to hunt just once with Dad and Tom but they laid the foundation for why I started and always made time for it. I am 65 and I can stop , close my eyes and remember that smell of Hoppe’s #9, Harwoods Whiskey, and Labrador retriever like it was yesterday. And I wish it was.

 

[bullpinnie]

Time for another…..

It was Mid November in NE Missouri.
We did not have any snow on the ground, and temps were in upper 30s. There had been a lot of rain the previous week, and thankfully most farmers had gotten the corn and beans in.

It was the middle of the week, and I had not seen a buck I was after.
I went to the house and was visiting with Grandpa. I remember asking how he was doing, and he said he was having a good day. I told him to get in the truck, and we would go for a hunt.

He told me no. A little while later, my dad and mom came to check on him. And during the conversation, I mentioned I had tried to get him to go hunt with me.

My dad said that was a good idea, and convinced GrandPa to ride with. Dad would park at one of our fields, overlooking our horseshoe field.

So we all loaded up in Dad’s super crew truck. Dad and Grandpa up front, mom and me in the back.

Because of all the rain, we couldn’t drive thru our field, and had to park along a fence line intersection.

Not where we wanted, but still a good place. Just limited view compared to the Horseshoe field.

It was about 20 minutes before legal shooting time ended, and I spotted a buck off to our right, walking the tree line.

We were elevated Above the buck, hidden by the fence line.

I got out, opened front passenger side door, helped Grandpa get out. Rolled the window down so he could use the door as a gun rest.
I got him lined up where the deer was going to cross.I kept watching the buck, and when he stepped into the clearing. Dad said, you see him Pop? Grandpa replied no. I made sure he was lined up. Unfortunately, his vision had deteriorated and he just couldn’t see the 75 yards.

Dad asked me if I had him lined up? I replied yes.
Dad said….. Take a crack at him Pop.
So he “sighted in” and let one go With that 1917 sportersterised/reworked/army surplus Springfield 30-06.
Grandpa asked if he got it? (He hadn’t, his shot hit the dirt about 30 yards in front of us.).
Dad said no, shoot again.
And so it went until the gun was empty.
Needless to say, the buck was long gone after the first shot.
But we let Grandpa keep shooting.

I got him loaded back up and we started for the house. All of us laughing and talking about the hunt.
When we got to the house, I got him unloaded, and that little red headed Irishman wrapped his feeble arms around me, gave me a hug and said, Thank You Grandson.

The next afternoon, I found my self at the same place, where we took him the day before. I parked and walked to where one of my old wood ladder stands stood at the intersection of two fence lines. About 50 yards from where the buck came into the clearing the day before.
As if the buck was on a set schedule, there he was the same as the day before ( I assume it was the same buck, and like to think it was).
I watched him make his way to the clearing.
As he stepped out, I raised my gun, found him in the scope and held it.
I then lowered my gun and watched as he looked towards where we were parked the day before. I watched him slowly walk towards me, and then jump the fence about 25 yards away.
I let that buck walk, as that was Grandpa’s buck.

That was the last hunt I shared with him, by the end of January he was gone.

that story reminds me of an old song

 

[Shirleyshusband]

^^^ Hoppe's #9 ALWAYS brings back a good memory! Sometimes from last month, sometimes from my childhood and lots from in-between.

 

[riverrat47]

Throughout my life after the military, I'd spent too much time living on the road, so I felt that I couldn't do a dog justice. I'd shared fields and blinds with various dogs and breeds, but hadn't owned (or been owned by) a dog for decades.
I bought my first hunting dog, a yellow Lab, when I was 50. It just so happened the pup was born on my 50th birthday, I was to have one more year of being on the road all summer, then less traveling, so accidentally running into this birthday dog was an omen.
I hadn't been around a pup since my pre-teen years. I admit to doing everything wrong the first few months. How the dog kept from hating me, I'll never know.
Not knowing a thing about training a hunting dog, things weren't going well. When my work season was almost upon me, I started calling around to trainers. As I was going to have to kennel him Monday thru Friday for several months, I might as well get some training, too. Yes, I was so stupid that I thought I could get my pup in at the snap of my fingers.
After calls to several trainers, I realized my error. Luckily, I talked to a trainer who had a kennel open, but no real training time for my dog, but he'd try to work Casey in...occasionally. Greatest move I'd made thus far. He ended up being impressed and worked with Casey way more than he had promised.
Fast forward to Casey's first hunt. I had access to a little oxbow off the small river just north of town. I knocked down a greenwing drake, which Casey didn't see fall. I sent him out and he was on track, but the bird snorkeled off to the left. I stopped him, but he was getting somewhat confused. I filled the empty hull and tossed it toward the bird and he took off in that direction. When the bird moved, he was on it in short order. After the retrieve to hand, he went back and retrieved my empty hull.
I relocated so that he had a viewing platform and he performed flawlessly the rest of the day...and the rest of his life, IMHO. He was never flashy, making picturebook leaps into the water...more methodical and steady, but always completing his mission.
With his time running short, I contacted Woodduck31 and he carved an urn, greenwing drake. Every time I look at that decoy, I see Casey with that teal then the shell in his mouth.

 

[denduke]

This 6 drake limit laid across Pop’s Belgium Mag....