I've been thinking about why I especially like to hunt with you. I don't remember our ever having a day together that I didn't enjoy, because you care much more about why we are together in the field than about what we take away in game.
I like the fact that you don't talk too much, don't make excuses, and never brag--unless you say something nice about my dog, something more than being plain polite.
When we gun the covers that you've chosen, I know you always let me take the choicest spots and often pass up shots in hopes the bird will swing my way.
I know you count the few birds you've hit and lost against your limit, and I've seen you time and again refuse a chancy shot that might touch a bird we couldn't fairly bring to bag.
You always remember a little-something gift, and take some pleasant time to chat with the men that own the land we like to gun. You make a point of stopping in the local store to say hello.
You've always been on time, and do more than your share of the little things that make a hunt a happy day--regardless of the birds we've found, if any.
I always know that you know where I am in heavy cover. You are careful to let me know your whereabouts as well--and I have never, not once, looked down the end of your gun barrel. Nor do I ever expect to.
When the day is over and the guns are put away, you show me that your gun is empty. You know when to drink, how much, and when not to.
You never complain about being too hot or too cold or too tired--unless you think I might feel the need of leaving early, and somehow you make it easy then for me to say "Let's go." If you think I'm just plain tired, you say you are and suggest we sit and smoke a pipe and ease the dogs.
You always seem most pleased when I've had some sort of outstanding day. You never forget the few things I've done more or less well and tend to say "barely all right" about yourself, when in all fairness it was often just the other way around.
It seems you pick and clean more than your share of the birds--and then offer the most and the choicest to the rest of us.
You manage to keep the camp cheerful, claim you like to cook and wash and dry, as well as make sure of the wood supply.
And somehow, everywhere I go you're there. You turned up my Texas bunkie who helped me do my whitetail buck in half the time and twice as well as I'd have clumsied it through all alone.
I remember the time you gave me a stand that "wasn't very special," when we gunned an Arizona sunflower field for doves--and then you marked my birds and quit when I had gone the limit even though your gunning day was far, far less than you deserved.
We met in Pennsylvania gunning grouse, and somehow you put me just so behind your soft-footed little setter, where I got the kind of shots that even I can make.
You marked my singles down in waist-high South Carolina broom and never failed to say "Nice shot" when I took one bird where I think you might have taken two.
I remember how well you called the pintails in that Utah lake and how you let me take first shots at swinging honkers on the Eastern Shore.
Sometimes I've called you Tex, or Billy Joe or Little Jim or Pat. No matter now--like the outdoors gentleman you are--names don't mean a thing. I know we'll meet up again this fall, and I'll be all the richer for it.
You'll be the man who remembers to bring a flashlight, an extra sweater, and that I like my coffee black. And just in case I never said it to your face before, you're as big a reason as I know to spend a day outdoors. You make the days seem all too short and too few and far between, my treasured friend. You are everything that puts real meaning in that simple phrase: "a Sportsman."
This story originally appeared in Hill Country by Gene Hill. Copyright (c) 1974-78 Gene A. Hill. All rights reserved.