Sixty-some Years Later

I began hunting birds as a sophomore in high school in 1961. I’m still at it, concentrating mostly now on pheasants and quail. A couple years back, I attempted another chukar hunt in the Snake River canyons of Washington State, “for old time’s sake,” but sadly noted afterwards that while stepping on my tongue as I plodded uphill with an arthritic, reconstructed hip was painful, the agony in my knees on the downhill run to my vehicle was worse. The greatest pain came from having to admit that hunting wild chukars was something I would never do again.

- Alan Liere

Today, rather than give up a sport that has been a passion for so long, I have learned to somewhat compensate for the nasty little surprises my aging body has waiting for me: diminished energy, painful joints, a bad back, neuropathy, hammertoes and muscle cramps. There are also paybacks for an assortment of freaky accidents like a falling tree crushing my shoulder and my snapping both Achilles tendons a year apart in overly optimistic and ridiculous attempts to play basketball again.

As few as 15 years ago, pheasant hunting for me was an uncomplicated affair. I arose at 5:00 a.m. so I could be in my favorite draw by dawn. I dressed, laced up my boots, grabbed my 12-gauge, my shells and my dog, a Thermos of coffee, a jug of water, a couple Snickers bars and an apple; I was out of the house in 15 minutes. I’d hunt until I had my threebird limit or until dark – whichever came first – and on weekends, I’d do it all over again the next day.