Good hunting memories remain worth shooting for

Good hunting memories remain worth shooting for

As the soybeans and trees began to surrender their summer green to the inevitability of autumn, my mind started to drift to pheasant hunts long ago.

A half-dozen or so hunters, my dad’s friends--having left behind day-to-day concerns of family and business -- would traverse the fields near Westfall. We’d admire the flawless azure sky and savor the fresh Kansas air. The pheasants would roar upward in a frighteningly wonderful crescendo of feathers and flapping wings. The staccato report of shotguns echoed across the prairie. The roosters (well, mostly) would fall earthward, and the dogs — Ginger, B Girdy, Bubba and others since gone to glory — would bring them to our feet.

They were grand times. Occasions to look forward to, and back on.

There was something magical happening on those November mornings long ago. Hunting trips had an ethereal mien: They were fleeting and yet still somehow lasting moments rendered from an alchemy of gunpowder, camaraderie and sunshine. One knew the trips would end but also last forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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