I
n truth, the words shucks, darn or phooey would have
been wholly insufficient for the calamity that we had just
experienced. And although the preacher always encouraged
his congregation members to witness, this was one event
for which he wished there had been none. That genuinely
unique woodcock hunt is three decades old now, so it
should be safe to tell the story that was enough to make
a preacher swear.
Following a tour of duty in Vietnam, 1st
Sgt. John returned home to chart a new
pathway for his life. Although he’d
earned a Ph.D. and become an
ordained minister, Dr. John
shunned the big cities,
choosing instead
to take the gospel
to the hill country
folks of Maryland,
West Virginia and
Pennsylvania. The
Reverend Doctor
John is a good ol’
southern country
boy with an Abe
Lincoln appearance,
a handshake that
will make your eyes
water and an equally
powerful personality.
Doc loved bird
dogs and could handle
a shotgun as efficiently
as he shouted the
gospel and called
down the wrath of God
on the heads of sinners. He could literally scare the “hell” out of
sinners with booming oratory that felt so personally focused that
I’d confessed to a few fishing exaggerations.
Arriving a bit late for one of his evening revival services
and already feeling tardiness guilt, I was stunned when he stopped
leading the congregation in singing the opening hymn and strode
back the aisle to confront me. I cringed with dread of chastisement
for my late arrival, but when Doc laid his big hand on my shoulder,
leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Hang around after the
service, we’ve got to talk,” I was absolutely fear stricken.
Quaking in my seat, I wondered what sins I’d committed
that commanded such personal attention and how the heck
could he know about them. For nearly an hour, Doc railed about
the wages of sin with the combined fervor of a father, friend
and drill sergeant while my dread deepened. Gracious to a fault,
Doc never rushed the post-service handshaking, but this evening
he was strangely anxious. Nodding toward the door and for me
to join him, he fairly trotted to his old pickup truck as I hustled
along behind. “Let’s go somewhere private and talk,” he insisted
with strange urgency.
“I’ll follow you,” he called out as his truck door slammed.
A mile from the church and with a big lump in my throat, I
pulled off the gravel roadway and exited my truck to learn what
so concerned Dr. John. “I really need your help!” he exclaimed.
“My help? With what?” I asked, startled by his intensity
yet relieved from my apprehensions.
“Since I’ve seen you last, I bought a German shorthair – big
male with a nose. Oh, what a nose! He can smell a pheasant four
fields away and get there in two seconds flat. He is absolutely
the fastest thing I’ve ever seen on four feet.”
“Great, I’d love to see him work sometime,”
I responded.
“Great – heck!” the reverend yelled.
“He won’t point! All he does is chase
’em! I’ve hunted him hard and
haven’t been within a 30.06
shot of a bird yet! I want
a dog like old Jake here,”
he said, kneeling to caress
my old Weimaraner’s
head and stroke his long,
silky ears. Ole Jake had
a special affection for the
preacher, and he’d nearly
knocked me down while
leaping out of my truck to
get to him. Doc and I had
hunted pheasants together
on several occasions with
great success, and Ole Jake
loved a good wing shot.
“What can I do to
get Duke to point?” the
preacher pleaded. “I know
if I could only kill one bird
that he pointed, he’d get
the idea. He’s really smart,
and man does he have a
nose – did I tell you about
his nose? I need your help.
Please, help me get him to point like Jake!”
“Let’s put him on some woodcock,” I responded.
“Some what?” the reverend asked with a cocked head and a
quizzical look.
“Woodcock,” I responded, adding a brief description of
these wonderful little game birds that typically hold well for
pointing dogs. “Let’s do it soon, though,” I prodded. “The fall
migration is at its peak right now.”
We agreed to meet on Monday morning to introduce his
Duke to woodcock and awaken his pointing instinct. Fairly
confident of success, I stopped just short of guaranteeing that
the big going dog would repent from his bird chasing ways.
On Monday we parked our trucks at the honey hole, a
pretty, narrow little valley at the eastern foot of the Alleghenies.
Bisected by a small trout stream and thickly furred with
hawthorn and alders, the honey hole is a veritable woodcock
paradise, one of those very special places that you share with
very few people.
The preacher wrestled the big shorthair into a bell collar,
and 60 pounds of spotted dynamite rocketed into the cover.
“You’re right about him being fast,” I commented to the
preacher. “Didn’t get much of a look at him though.”
“Oh, he’ll be back when he’s tired and hungry,” Doc
commented.
Seconds later, a woodcock zipped by us so fast and straightEnough to Make a Preacher Swear
T. C. Flanigan