Good Boy, Sogn!

Calhoun is a much better writer than I am, please enjoy this story from him.

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It's not usually a good omen for a day of hunting when your wife beats you out the door on her way to work. I was tired and unprepared, bumbling around the house gathering gear and making lunch. I should have left hours ago. She was sprinting out the door on nothing but coffee to make the case that an unfortunate Indian fellow was the victim of human trafficking and deserving of what she calls a T visa. As I kissed her pantsuit goodbye, I couldn't help but think the day wouldn't turn into much.

I headed out around 8:15 with our nine month old terrorist-in-residence. It was his fifth grouse hunt, although I doubt he knows that. For him, hunting is like going to the dog park, only better: no fences, first choice of the sticks, and plenty of swamps. I was starting to worry that this dog had no hunt in him, that he was more of a stick dog than a bird dog. Knowing the day was already short, I headed for one of my best covers to put him on some birds. The area is only 1500 acres of so - the better part of three sections - but it's all young aspen and alder, enough for a full day.

A little after 10am, a long while after the road hunters had called it a morning, we headed down the first trail. Now, when we're walking on a trail Sogn often thinks it's a racetrack for repeat sprints. He runs up and back, up and back, until his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth. After about a half hour of this exertion he hasn't once thought about birds, but he's ready for a nap. In an effort to curtail these antics and show him what hunting is supposed to be about, I've been spending most of my time off the trail. Once he's no longer on the racetrack, his leg rpms goes down and his nose and brain sputter to life.

100 yards down the first trail I dove into the brush with Sogn. 200 yards further into the tangle he started spinning in circles. Bird! A single shot brought it down. Good boy, Sogn!

A half hour later, he started weaving and bobbing, following a scent. I got ready to shoot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a prickly, slothlike lump inchworming up a tree.

Porcupine!

Sogn, come! For once, he did. Disaster averted. I checked to make sure I still had a pliers for quills in my vest (I did), but I was really glad that I didn't have to use it.

We finished that first trail seeing three more birds, two of which offered a shot, and one of which went in my gamebag. After the first trail the score was Sogn: 2, Porcupine: 0. Good boy, Sogn!

We hunted a few more trails, seeing three birds and bagging two. I had told Harriet I'd call it quits by 5 to be home for dinner with a guest by 7. At 5 we had four birds, one shy of a limit. I hadn't shot a limit of grouse since 1998, and I wasn't doing to walk away from the opportunity just for dinner. After a quick blessing from the homefront, I resolved to walk one more trail.

As we headed out, I slipped a cold Oktoberfest into my vest, just in case this day needed celebrating. I didn't want to jinx it, but I didn't want to be unprepared either.

We walked a half mile down a prime trail that I'd resolved would be the last of the day without seeing a bird. Drat, perhaps the beer in my vest was just a little hubristic.

Up ahead a jack pine had fallen across the trail. I was looking for a way around, wondering if it was even worth it, when Sogn ran full bore straight toward the downed tree. With one leap he was over the tree, and for a moment the flying puppy must have shared airspace with the two grouse who were previously sunning themselves on the far side of that crumbled jackpine. I wanted this one so bad for Sogn; I fired both barrels.

When everything and everyone returned to the ground, the day was done. Good boy, Sogn!

The Land of Honey

Last weekend Calhoun and I packed up Sogn and made the trip north, to the land of Calhoun's forefathers, the land of honey.

I met Calhoun in college and knew him as a serious, button-up shirt khaki wearing, academic guy. As I got to know him more I realized that there's a lot about him that's kind of surprising. Perhaps the most surprising thing that I've learned about Calhoun is that when he was growing up, his father was a bee keeper. I was familiar with farmers kids, pastors kids, professionals kids, but I have never in my life met the child of a bee keeper.

Calhoun's grandfather was in bees and his dad took up the business. Calhoun was raised checking the bees, working in the honey house and he's been stung more than I could ever imagine. He talks about the work in the field, the long hours and the heat. Calhoun's dad is not in bees anymore, but something I love about going up there is the honey. I, like most lovely suburban children, grew up eating honey out of the honey bears in the grocery store, with no specific loyalty to the honey producer or its origin. But the honey at Calhoun's house is different. It's in huge canning jars and it's kept next to the stove, above the refrigerator and in the basement. It's also on the table in its crystalized form, where it goes directly onto bread products such as dinner rolls and pancakes. The honey is also appreciated as one might appreciate fine wine, they have developed the ability to taste the different pollens that have gone into the honey and appreciate honey that is from far away lands.

Although he doesn't formally keep bees anymore Calhoun's dad has access to honey and we were able to use honey from his yards as wedding gifts this past fall. I was so happy to be able to give away beautiful honey bears with the family name on them.

Calhoun's dad has sold most of their bee keeping materials and hasn't set out to have a hive of bees in years. But this spring, in a small, haphazard stack of honey supers, his dad discovered that some bees had found themselves a queen and set up shop next to the honey house. This means honey!

I've only ever seen a beehive on TV and when I heard that they had a working hive that was the only thing that was really on my list of stuff to see this weekend. I imagined walking up to it and pulling off the lid to look in on honeycombs. I wanted to stick my finger in there and have honey straight from the hive (like Winnie the Pooh). So, we made plans and we headed out to the honey house. But, after some reminding from Calhoun that I haven't been stung by a bee since I had a horrible allergic reaction about ten years ago, the fear of being stung setting in, and I didn't have the courage to get out of the car. A working beehive has a lot of bees going in and out of it! Although it was cool to see Calhoun's dad out there with a smoker, with just his baseball cap and some bands around his pantlegs, I remembered that I don't like buzzing or stinging creatures and stayed in the car. It was like a safari, we drove up real close to the hive and I stuck my nose against the window to get a good look at the busy bees, but I enjoyed the hive from inside my little hatchback. Maybe someday I'll get up the courage to eat honey straight out of the hive, but this time I just needed a good, close look.

And, we brought some honey back.