The art of wingshooting, like other arts, is more of a practice than an acquired skill. How else would I have fallen in love with it or enjoyed it in a way no one could teach me? And yet, some words have stayed with me.

This is what fall smells like.

Nothing in nature is dirty.

We’re in the country now.

These words do not appear in my mind as if they are on a white page. They appear in a duck marsh, a river flat with the feel of tidal mud caking on my cheeks, and just above the tree line where the trail ends as if so many before us agreed exactly where to stop just to tell us where to start.

The art is in the imagination and recollection, something we are maybe born to recognize. Others may never see it. Fall smells like fall. Dirt is dirty. The trail is life.

But I’d like to think I knew before I ever shot a gun – like you know before you ever make love – that your heightened sensitivity toward the object of your affection is half of your making. It’s a dream embodied in life. In wingshooting, the field awaits at dawn.

When you go out, it is with a dog. There are hunters who don’t hunt birds with a dog and painters who don’t use paint brushes. I’ve done both but prefer to see paint brushed onto a canvas and the flash of a dog work a field. It’s my dream, not just something to be done.

For me, the way a hunter hunts is not a practical matter. No matter how many instructional books or how-to-do-it articles exist on a subject, they exist to fill the cup, not empty it.

It matters that there are ways to do things properly. The bare necessaries of wingshooting require that a hunter become a good shot and have a gun, shot, and choke that make sense. The poetic nature of the pursuit informs the practical so that there is some joy to be had by an obsession with every detail so long as the lessons do not become limits.

A dog to find birds provides a division of labor that allows the wingshooter to perfect his or her art. That is not the only reason. For some, a dog is a partner who lives between the wild and the human worlds. Maybe they are a medium. Maybe they are reincarnated zen monks. I really don’t know.

What I do know, is that bird hunting did not come to me as an inheritance. No matter what I’ve learned from books or days afield as an adult who woke up to life late, the birds I hunt are close to my heart. When a bird is in your heart, it’s on your mind. And when you go out to hunt it, you cannot fail to bring it home. I can’t tell anyone how that magic happens – how to fall in love, how to digest food. Even though I am sitting down right now trying to figure out how exactly to do just that.

So this. Don’t love what I love. Love what you love. Open your heart up to everything that belongs to that other world whether it is Frisbee golf or collecting cow figurines. I don’t know how you do it.