The Leap

This entry begins in a similar fashion to the August 11th blog, titled “The Birth.” Once again, a photo stood out to me. It wasn't a photo taken by my grandfather or illustrated by him, but rather a solo portrait of him taken for his work in advertising.

It was a black-and-white shot taken from a distance. The edge of the frame captured a cluster of leafless trees, making the scene feel cold, gloomy, and dark. In the background stood a white barn that had clearly seen better days. Put to hard work, I’d imagine it had housed many animals throughout its time. The photo was taken back in the 60s, and I often wonder if that barn still stands today.

In front of the barn sat a large, winding driveway. Positioned closer to where the photo was captured sat what looked like a brand-new, off-the-lot 1966 Ford Mustang. Leaning against the quarter panel stood Grandpa, wearing what was likely a tweed jacket, suit pants, dress shoes, and one of his signature tweed flat caps. He loved his tweed. Being of Scottish descent, it made sense.

Slung over his shoulder was a shotgun. What type is too difficult to tell, though it appeared to be a semi-automatic or pump action. Knowing him, it was likely something purpose-built from a reputable, reliable brand that he either hunted game with regularly or used for trap shooting with friends at one of his clubs. I’d imagine it was a field gun, as he tended to favor his over-under for trap and skeet.

Yet the true focal point of the image was not the car, the setting, or even my grandfather. It was a beautiful German Shorthaired Pointer. He had a large, symmetrical head, with even larger ears framing his face, and what looked like liver spotting. He was strong, looking as though he could handle a multi-hour brace in the field, though his body hadn't quite grown into his paws yet, so he was likely still a pup.

The dog was jumping up, front paws pressed against my grandfather while his rear legs stayed planted on the ground. Shotgun still slung over his shoulder, my grandfather held the dog with a slight smile, almost embracing him while leaning against the front-left quarter panel of the Mustang.

Fast-forward about 55 years or so. I got my hands on that photo along with the newspaper advertisement that marketed that year's Mustang. Seeing the photo for the first time, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride. It re-confirmed that I had the coolest Grandpa a kid could ask for. But I also felt sadness: sadness that he was gone, that I didn’t have more time with him, and that I couldn’t ask him about that photo, that dog, or that gun. That image remains etched in my mind as a constant reminder of how badass a man he was.

It wasn't just the setting, the car, or Grandpa that stayed with me, but that dog. He stood out as if calling me, taunting me to begin the journey my Grandpa took and follow in his footsteps.

A few years later, following my graduation from college, I found myself in need of a true hobby and a larger purpose. What that would be, I was unsure. But that photo hung in my kitchen, and one day it clicked. What about my first dog? I thought to myself. What type of dog? Well, that had already been decided.

After weeks of searching for a litter nearby, I found a litter of GSP's on the ground. The sire (father/male) was a farm dog who hunted occasionally but had no pedigree. The dam (female/mother) came from a strong line of show dogs and was also hunted over from time to time. The pedigree didn’t matter to me. This was my first true dog, so I was undereducated and entirely unprepared. Despite serious pushback from my father and most of my family, I brought home Wellington, "Wells" for short.

The number of times I wanted to tell my father he was right, well, I’ll keep that to myself. Man oh man, was Wellington a handful. Full of energy, big emotions, and large in size, I sure had my hands full. But in exchange, he had the biggest heart and the most love to give. By month two, he was sleeping in my bed, mainly because I couldn’t handle the crate training anymore, a mistake I still regret. Yet the void I felt after college was filled, and Well's and I had created an inseparable bond. A mans best friend through and through.

Soon after, I made the move to Charlotte, North Carolina for a change of scenery from the Philadelphia area. It was the best decision I’d made since deciding to get Wellington. But Wells remained high-strung, energetic, and difficult to handle. I began researching obedience training and found a great trainer in Emily Shirey of Horizon Retrievers and Shorthairs & Shotguns. Wellington spent two weeks with her learning basic obedience. It turned out to be my best decision right behind getting Wellington and moving to Charlotte.

The transformation was night and day. He came home a calm, well-mannered dog with a structured obedience routine. What he learned with Emily became the foundation of where he is today. That obedience allowed us to do so much more together, whether bringing him out on the town or taking him on new hikes and adventures. It strengthened our bond far beyond what it already was.

Jump forward another year or so. I had been skeet shooting a few times in Charlotte using a Browning Citori 28-gauge left to me by my Grandpa. But something was missing. Yes, Grandpa was missing, but something else was too: my dog, my "bird dog," my "gun dog." In a way, I felt like Wells carried a piece of my Grandpa, pushing and egging me on to take the leap into the uplands. The shotgun carried a similar influence, making me feel as though I was doing it a disservice letting it collect dust rather than using it for its intended purpose. My mind started churning, and soon after, the real work began.

I asked Emily if she could help work with Wells and me to get us acclimated to upland hunting, as well as train Wells on the fundamentals of being a bird dog. She mentioned she could, but recommended I reach out to Grayson Guyer at Lost Highway Gundogs if I wanted a true bird dog.

So that’s what I did. I worked with Grayson every week to build drive, though Wells already had plenty of it. That became abundantly clear after our first session. We introduced him to a bird using a crippled quail to see how he would react, and boy did he love it. We were off to the races. The following week, we continued building that drive while introducing gunfire, starting with an agitating whip, moving to a .22 blank gun, and finally a 12-gauge, all while Wellington went to town on a crippled quail. After a few weeks, we were confident he was neither gun-shy nor bird-averse. Grayson told me, "Go book a preserve, buy six quail, hand-place them, keep your expectations low, let the dog figure it out, and most importantly, have fun."

That week felt like the longest of my life. I booked a preserve an hour away for six quail. The gentleman running it was named Rocky, a kind man with a thick southern accent. His preserve, Rock Haven Farms, was incredible, featuring rolling hills with perfect brush and woods for all sorts of field hunts, many of which I ended up booking later on.

Wells and I arrived, grabbed our birds, and drove out to our private field. I parked the truck, quickly geared up, full of excitement, and walked over the horizon of one of the rolling hills into the brush. I attempted to plant the quail. The first two flew right out of my hand, so I tracked where they landed and made a mental note. The other four I dizzied and placed in light cover to allow the scent to carry through the brush. Then, it was time.

I walked back to the truck, grabbed my grandfather's gun, let Wells out of the cab, and dropped two shells into the chambers. Seeing the shotgun in my hand, Wells immediately flipped into high drive. He knew there was game out there, and that gun confirmed it. I gave him the command, "Hunt 'em up," and off he went.

Without any expectations on him, he covered the ground with curiosity, excitement, and a surprising level of method. He quickly approached the first spot where I had hand-placed a bird. I sure hope it's still there, I thought. He ran past it, quickly spun back in my direction, and turned once more.

Then, boom. He froze dead in his tracks. Paw up, tail pointed high, head held proud like a statue, looking exactly like one of my grandfather's paintings.

I thought to myself, No way. Did I actually place a bird right there, or was my mental map off? Or had it slipped from cover, leaving a cone of scent drifting through the brush?

I walked past Wells as he stood motionless, not even blinking. Sure enough, the bird was there. Everything went quiet. I closed the action, disengaged the safety, and stepped into the brush. Moments later, the small Bobwhite quail flushed, darting into the sky and fleeing like it had somewhere to be. I raised the shotgun, lined up the small white bead, and squeezed the gold-inlaid trigger.

The rest is history.