6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
Kenneth Mayfield, Alaska
“My dream hunt is alive in my mind.
It is a cold day, the fact announced by my dad. ‘It's gonna be a cold one boys, better put on an extra pair of socks.’ I don't think that it will do any good to remind dad that it was 20 below when I left Fairbanks yesterday and it is well above zero here in Nevada, well a little above zero. The truck is loaded, the English pointers quivering in their kennels, they know we are going hunting.
After a short drive through the sagebrush and black rock we arrive. I have missed the high desert. The air is shimmering as the new sun lights up ice crystals that have been blown up by the breeze, it is cold. We unload the truck, shoulder worn shotguns and head towards a distant hill and the promise of chukar. As we walk my perspective changes, no longer am I a 35–year–old man, instead I am one again. Gone is the shotgun replaced with a BB gun, battered and bruised from a thousand adventures. My brother (even younger) struggles to keep up. It is a treat to be hunting with all of the Mayfield men, dad, grandpa and uncle Monty. The sagebrush is fragrant as I step on it.
Now with many miles between memory and reality, the sagebrush is still the same. I look over at my dad, greying now, but still strong. My uncle next to him. On my left is my brother, happy to be able to get off work. My grandfather has passed to better hunting years before.
Up ahead a white, thin tail is hoisted straight into the air, followed by another as the second pup honors. Whipchord lean, now taught as a spring, the pointers react to the scent that only they can smell. As we walk up the moment freezes for me. Chukar, an even dozen have launched into the air where they had been pinned by detemined dogs. As big as a 747, I forgot how noisy they could be. Time speeds up as I hear several shots from around me. Finally I remember that I am there to hunt and manage to get a couple of shots off with my battered 870.
When it is all over, dogs racing to retrive birds, the final count is in. Two for Waz, two for uncle Monty, three for Dad. How did Dad manage that with an over and under? As for me, this thin mountain air is hard to see game, and these shells are not what I am used to. My excuses fall on deaf ears as I prepare to take my share of grief for hitting nothing but cold blue sky. Today is going to be a good day.
My dream hunt is not for exotic game in faraway places. It is in Nevada for Chukar. What is special is hunting with remaining members of my family. It has been 15 years since the four of us have hunted together. Time, distance and resposibility have conspired against us for too many years. I hope that fate shines brightly down on me and I am able to have many more good hunting memories with my family until it is our time to head to better hunting.”