Pahtridge Hunting With Den

“Hell..lo” he drawls over the phone, “Hell..lo, is this the person to whom I’m speaking? Is this you?”

“Ah, yes it is and yes I am.”

“What is it you want this time and just how do you plan to get me into trouble tonight?”

“Ah…well…, I really do not want to get either one of us in trouble tonight…However, I’ve been thinking…”

“Stop right there…You and your thinking. That’s how you got us in trouble last time and we wound up in Key West. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t like Key West. Because if so, you won’t be invited back when I call my good friends again…”

“Well, maybe I could make an exception…just this once you understand. That is if you’ve got something interesting tucked away in that malignant brain of yours.”

“You are fiesty tonight aren’t you,” I said, “Bad day pushing pills, have to talk to someone on the phone, or do you just need a break. Something of which I might just suggest, seeing as how I know you as well as I do.”

“Oh! Really.”

“Well, I’m not sure you’ve taken time to look at a calendar lately, devoted as you are to standing behind that counter and cracking jokes while you count. It is hunting season and from what I’ve heard the Pahtridge are thicker’n Robins this year and much the better dining experience…”

“Oh really!!”

“Anyhow, I’ll pick you up at Molasses Pond Thursday cause I know your boss won’t pay you double time this week, he’s already covered. We’ll borrow Les King’s old camp. I’ll pick up the grub and libation…you can pay me later.”

“Can we go double or nothin’ like last year? I’d like to get a little of my money back.”

“7 AM. Be ready. We’ll see about this double or nothing. I like still spending your money from last trip.”

9:15 and one coffee stop, we’d stepped into the woods off of Rte. 9, the famous “Airline” barrels high, one foot quietly ahead of other, stopping often to listen…look…signal…before taking next few steps when I see Den freeze. I stop as he raises his old “Ainsley Fox” slow and steady to shoulder and I do the same, looking in same direction as backup…Den takes a step…noisy…and flushes first pahtridge of the day. Two simultaneous shots ring out.

“Godfrey Domens,” Den says, “We didn’t need to skin that poor bastard. Still early you realize. Next one we better call the shot.”

“You’re right. I apologize. Could say I wanted to make sure we had bird on the menu tonight and I was hungry…but none of the above will work....first flush of the season. Too fierce.”

Nearing sometime after one we’d decided might be time to give the poor birds a break, have a sandwich and swing over to Les’s camp. Knew full well we’d have to give it a good sweeping, get a smudge going to warm it up…and just perhaps we might see if there wasn’t a drop or two in a pint bottle Les had squirreled away from some past expedition.

Couple of false turns later we’d pulled in to what would no longer pass for driveway. Two trees down. One just missing the camp, other had completely done in the old outhouse. Both of us agreed, “That was no great loss!!”

Hour or more, probably on the more side, we had the driveway/parking space cleared, spruce kindling cracking in the old “school stove,” and split enough wood for a few days. Welcome spruce aroma was gaining ground on the mice odiferous with a warming libation under advisement. Birds were skinned and pot simmering. We’d parboil dinner first, then use the oven for a finish roasting. Along with roasted new potatoes, and last of season’s corn we’d possibly have enough vitamins to carry us into the morrow.

7AM…Daylight…Just plain something refreshing about first morning in hunting camp. Bit cool ’til the fire’s stoked then a strong whiff of ignited spruce, coffee goes on to add it’s fragrance followed immediately by bacon cracklin’ in the old cast iron spider. That’s when all becomes right with a universe we’ve endured the past 11 months. Week or two no television, no radio brain clutter. Asleep as head hits wad of clothes for pillow. Yes…Nirvana.

Next few, Den’s “Fox” managed to keep ahead of my old Remington 16 ga. I wasn’t staying awake counting. Fact was we weren’t missing any pahtridge calories. But…were a few remarks regarding missed birds I’d had to smile with until I suggested we put up a little wager. Hundred bucks apiece into the pot, draw ten each bird we shot. Miss, ten goes back in. Den chewed on that one for awhile…” What happens if pot goes dry?”

“It won’t. You’ll miss enough to keep it topped off. You get shakey when money’s involved. I know there’s nothing for me to worry about…now you on the other hand better have more than the scratch you pulled out. Swear I could see flies hatching when those bills surfaced.

Closing on noon, we’d stopped at a firepit and mixed a wine. Opened a bag of almonds, got a lunch smudge going and proceeded with the kick in butt routine how “neither could shoot straight…when were we going to learn to fire a few rounds before October first…” This conversation after (8) shots that morning, (7) scores.

It was a great week. Den managed to pull off a hundred and ten dollar lead, for which phone calls have been merciless with suggestions I go to shooting classes. My comeback is I’ll go to class if he’ll stay out of the kitchen, and seeing as how he’s now “loaded” with extra scratch, the bourbon’s on him.

• R E C I P E •

I’ve got to believe this recipe for tartar sauce is a much better take on an old classic than my usual mix of mayo and a few tablespoons of sweet relish mixed.

Tartar Sauce

1 ½ cups mayonnaise
1 t. chopped chives
2 T. chopped sour pickles
1 t. mustard, pref. Dijon or Dusseldorf
1 t. finely minced onion
½ t. finely chopped tarragon
2 T. chopped parsley
Lemon juice to taste
2 T. coarsely chopped capers
1 hard-cooked egg, sieved (optional)

Combine all ingredients and chill. Yield will be about 2 cups.