It's only fair that you ask, "Who is Gene Hill?" I will attempt to answer that very fair question without undue modesty or puffery.
I am here writing odds and ends about this and that, and obviously I hope you enjoy them. But to start to really answer your question let me tell you that I am that other voice of the outdoors--the nonexpert. The things I can brag about are by all standards small potatoes indeed. For example, I like to shoot skeet and trap, and occasionally when the gathering is small, the air is still, and the good shots are off somewhere else with their peers I will add to my small collection of third and fourth places. I also like to train my own bird dogs--a collection of animals that are a far cry from the legendary "gentleman's shooting dog." Not much there to brag about either, in all honesty, except that we sort of complement each other. I am fond of them in the extreme and they are tolerant of my shortcomings--which is all, in fairness, that I can ask.
Nobody likes to think of himself as "average" when it comes to his outdoor skills, but there are too many times when I've been tested, and proved wanting, to classify myself as anything else. If, however, a category was just set aside for dreamers, I guess I could hold my own with just about anybody.
If I have a reason for being, it's contained in my small-boy curiosity and wonder. The tunneling of the mole is as intriguing in its small way as an earthquake; the long-drawn notes of a single goose are as mysterious to my ear as the stars are to my eyes.
In a duckblind I'm as eager and hopeful in the last lingering minutes of shooting as I am before dawn. I can get up and get out on any tomorrow believing wholeheartedly that today will be the day I get my double on woodcock in spite of the fact that yesterday I missed four easy straightaways in a row. I don't mind getting wet, lost, or skunked. I don't mind being there now--when I should've been there yesterday or last week. I don't even care if you get all the easy shots and mine are all screamers; I've come to expect that sort of thing.
I just like being there--wet, cold, or a little bit lost. I'm there, like you, to listen to the promises on the wind. To watch the soaring of the hawk, to catch the evening call "bobwhite, bobwhite," to see a sunset that I've never seen before or to have the day unfold and offer some small adventure that I've never had.
I just like being there, in my waterproof boots that leak, wearing my briarproof britches that cover my scratched and torn-up shanks. When you ask me how I've done, I'm always between telling you that I haven't seen anything, which might make me out to be an unobservant cuss, or admitting I've had a couple shots and missed.
I just like being there because I love shotguns and bird dogs (yours--as much as, or more than, mine). I like the heft of half a box of shells in each pocket of my coat, and the security of having a pocketknife and "emergency stuff" such as a piece of rope and some waterproof matches that I'll never use. I like a dog that can catch parts of my sandwiches in midair until he ends up having most of my lunch. I like carrying duck calls and goose calls--but I never use one unless I'm miles from another blind.
I like big red handkerchiefs and soft felt hats and hip boots with patches on them. I like the smell of wet dogs, northeast winds, woodcock swamps, gun oil, bourbon whiskey, pipe smoke, and roasting ducks. I hope I'll always have a puppy to play with, a gun to trade, and a new bird cover to try out.
If you learn anything here at all it'll be about little things: a recipe or a new book or an old favorite story. If I represent anything at all it will be the voices of the owls from black velvet skies, the bossy little bark of the fox, the following of tracks in a fresh skiff of snow from nowhere to nowhere. We'll talk about "why" instead of "how," with our stocking feet up on the good furniture and the dogs curled up in front of the fire. We'll talk about being there. That's why I'm here.
This story originally appeared in Mostly Tailfeathers by Gene Hill. Copyright 1971-74 Gene Hill. All rights reserved.