Yoga for Duckhunters

from the studio to the tidal flats

Tag: birddog

the sleeper pup

I fell in love with him the moment I cupped his small body in my hands. His closed eyes searched for me, as his body folded into a secure ball around my thumb before relaxing back into my palms. Then his eyes opened for the first time. I knew he couldn’t see yet, but I saw for him. And I saw ahead to a day not far away in dog years or light years – depending on how time is measured – when we would share our set of senses again to encounter the world as hunting partners. You and me, I thought, we will have adventures.

Some pick a pup out of a litter based on size and gender. The biggest boy or the runt girl. Our problem was, we had too much time with the litter raising them and no set strategy on how to pick a pup. Steve preferred black and white or tri-color markings, which meant the biggest pup, with a distinctive orange spot on his back, was not at the front of the line. We didn’t know then we would keep the entire litter, and every time I held the big puppy that looked like a long-tail polar bear cub, complete with white eyelashes, I knew we belonged to each other.

We named him Boss. It was the name of a fine gun maker – we named all the pups after guns, but Boss’s name also fit his feeding style – Boss Hog. He was the one pup in the litter who fed the most. He woke up and searched for his mother’s teat and fed until his stomach extended, and he rolled off to sleep, the others still waking and searching for their first meal. He slept in my hands and made delightful milk yawns and puppy burps. A roly-poly pup is perhaps more puppy than those who are slow to feed and thin. In this way, only days and weeks into life and with all the worry of keeping the litter healthy, the heartiest pup was my favorite.

It’s only three years later and his littermates rival Boss in every way. Hugo shows more drive, Cogswell listens better, Purdey is the smartest, and Colt finishes the most dinner first. Colt now steals the show for meal time antics, dances, and pig-joy grunts. Cogswell taught the others how to spin for joy. Purdey scampers, and Hugo stalks. Boss, however, has something the others don’t. It’s a winning trait only when it exists in shared chemistry, as it can’t be accomplished alone.

Boss is good in bed.

That may sound scandalous or improper, to say the least. But Boss is a lover, not in the sense of what two humans share, for better or worse. Boss is so heady in his human-love he smells my morning breath as if it is the scent of wild jasmine on the wind. He looks into my eyes, and the look is an uncanny mix of worship and prayer, adoration and beg, surrender and pledge. It’s never enough, his stare into my eyes can last minutes. I’m the one that breaks it.

I’ve never enjoyed sharing sleeping quarters with people. A bed, to me, seems like a cross between a sleeping bag and a tent, part single-issue sleeping quarters, part communal shelter from the elements. While I am comfortable with two people in a tent, I don’t want to share a sleeping bag with anyone. The first and only time I did share was when Cogswell was four months old and settled himself into my sleeping bag. We were camping in the back of the truck, and he did it to find warmth and, I imagined, comfort. When I woke in the night, he was laying on his back asleep beside me like a miniature person– who could throw him out?

These days, my bed is more base camp tent than sleeping bag. There are a number of dogs jumping on and jumping off. They have various scratching and cleaning rituals. I wonder if I’ve lost my mind along with my sleep boundaries. Except for Boss, the dogs behave like five little monkey’s jumping on a bed. But, every night, when the others have found their habitual sleep spots around the house, Boss stays close to my side and makes it a point to stare in my eyes as long as I can bear the seriousness of his gaze.

Each time our eyes meet this way, my heart opens up as it did the day he first opened his eyes. I remember the fog, like the clouds of another world, and how we still saw each other through it. There are those who say what I felt and feel is misplaced motherhood. Others question allowing a dog on the bed or admitting that you enjoy having him there. His face to greet you in the morning like a tail-wagging ray of sunshine. And, when I let out the last big breath of the day before I fall asleep, he echo’s the exhale, only longer and deeper.

He’ll figure out birds one day, I think. Or not. Some of us live a dream, and some of us are dreamers. It doesn’t matter how much potential we see in ourselves and others as much as it matters that we really see each other. Every day.



My eyes follow Winchester’s point in a straight line from his nose. Nevermind that scent does not travel in a straight line, and it is clear he has not yet seen the bird he is pointing. It could be 100 yards away or travelling down the mountain. But then, his body lunges internally like an anchor dropping. He has seen the bird somewhere among the rocks that have always been there, broken down the mountain this time by an old goat, and in other times by gold miners or avalanches. What holds the mountain together as a landscape is its vastness. The sudden shift of knowledge in this vast, rocky, terrain; this unsorted panorama of glacial wreckage and debris; this endless valley of wind fighting its way into and out of rocks, is as breathless as we are. At a certain point in the morning near the summit the wind calms and whispers the secrets of birds.

The shotgun is getting heavy in my arms. I’ve already walked through Winchester’s point and past the invisible line between his eyes and the ground. He’s looking at a bird. I know him well enough to know the difference in his body between scent and sight. My fear is that the first day of the season the birds will be too young to hunt. They won’t fly but, instead will run. And the work will be steering Winchester away from these coveys for the rest of the day.

For now, I look for birds I’ve seen before – the shape of a ptarmigan’s head slightly lifting in agitation. Winchester’s flinch at any movement. But there is nothing but statues all around me – rock, dog, bird. And there it is, suddenly. A young bird, his herringbone feathers damp from the morning make him appear more rock-like than the mottled gray and brown of rock and earth alone. His head is tucked into his shoulders, his eye wide and round, unblinking. In this bright light after rain, the coal black eye reveals a pupil not often visible in the dark eye of small game.

I break open my gun and kneel to the ground. The bird, a male white-tailed ptarmigan, does not move. Now, I am a statue, and my partner, Steve, sets down his pack and kneels to change the lens in his camera. Winchester has not moved yet. I look over to him and see another young bird only six feet in front of him, similarly perched like stone. His gaze is on the first bird.

Steve lays out on the ground, and I glance at his pack. Another bird sits inconspicuously just inches away from the pack. None of the three have moved, and I wonder over the tightness in which these birds are holding. It verges on the unbelievable, miraculous, strange. Where is the hen, I wonder.

“There,” Steve says, answering my question.

We both look up toward the movement in the sky – it isn’t the hen, but a goshawk flying awkwardly from beyond the next hill and a thousand yards distant. He screams, a banshee sound echoing off the cliffs. A group of white-winged birds lifts out of the rocks below us and we see the hawk has a small ptarmigan clutched in his talons. Winchester moves, and five small birds lift into the air around us.

Later, we reflect on the hawk and the reason the birds held so tight. We climb higher into the basin and find more young birds. Winchester runs the flat-sided rocks in slides and catches, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. I stare at my feet as I walk to make sure I don’t slip, and this action forces my thoughts inward instead of observing the mountain.

The sorted news of the day and the progress of the times in terms of gear and regulations have nothing to do with the equilibrium of life and death here. There is nothing to conquer as we invade the privacy of this valley, sealed and distant from the noises of the highway beyond. There is nothing to feel we have done when we turn back except to have given ourselves over to the mystery of a place.

Winchester points an older ptarmigan on the edge of the level we have only just reached. I can see it’s an adult bird, far enough away and unsteady. The bird flushes as I approach and descends across the shale slides we just climbed, landing on a rock 100 yards below. Winchester relocates, bounding down the shale, the sound of coins pouring into piles. I follow him, my shotgun slung, digging into the solid earth below the rock to stop my fall.

He’s pointing the bird he sees. But, he also looks back at me. This is new, I think. He knows I see the bird as well. I run on the edges of rock with the thought that his look told me to hurry. The bird is uneasy, about to fly, and it does just as I reach Winchester. I don’t have my footing, but the bird turns and circles, crossing 30 yards in front of me and I shoot.

And, sitting down to examine this one beautiful fallen bird with my shotgun open causes me to miss another. I hear Steve calling from above and watch Winchester running, tongue to the side in the thrill of birds and mountains. In the house he is a different dog, we all are different. We are tame and covered in dust and hair. We breathe without wonder at the mystery – the constant moving breath of earth, and even the still vital life in my hands feels alive.

It’s near impossible to reconcile to those who do not struggle every day to be aware of the human impact on the world how hunting is not destructive, not violent. How can killing be anything but?

When done with respect, it is the rare thing that does not portray itself or act on the stage of life. It is the embodiment of what it means to be alive and relate to the natural world and its mysteries with sometimes fear, fascination, and wonder that we have come so far as a race and only in moments reflect on the greater strength of the wild we will never master.




We had driven for two hours even though we knew we were driving into the unknown. Between Christmas and New Years, two feet of snow had fallen in the pass. Winter storms had loaded an already unstable snowpack, and the avalanche advisory kept us out of the mountains. Maybe it was hope in the face of weather predictions that made us see a chance or maybe we knew better and just had to see it ourselves. We figured we could hunt the low meadows for willow ptarmigan under a clear sky as long as the wind didn’t come up and the temperature stayed low. The unexpected rain turned to snow with low visibility. Winchester slept in the backseat as I wondered if it truly was impossible to hunt or if we just hadn’t considered enough alternatives.

The mountain pass was dark with heavy snow. To see it lit by headlights gave it the same desolate appearance as the blue light from electronics I’d wanted to escape. Neither of us said anything about it, but our silence suggested we both knew the plan was going backwards on us. We pulled over to evaluate the snow, which I imagined as a new euphemism for urination. The wind blew and the wet snow sank five inches to a light crust. “What weather report said the sky was going to be clear?” I asked. But I knew the weather report didn’t matter. I didn’t know how else to acknowledge the situation. We weren’t going hunting, and Winchester wasn’t going to understand it in terms of a weather report.

When we turned the truck around and headed back Winchester fell asleep again. He was not as concerned as we were about the change in direction. Although he enjoyed stretching his legs and needed time in the field, he had the steadfastness of a dog. It was something I needed to learn from him. Things are not always what they seem. We had thought we were getting closer to what we wanted by driving for what turned out to be four hours in a snow storm. When we pulled into the driveway at home, disappointed and wasted, it was not because we’d spent a long day in the field. It was because we did not have a dog’s Zen understanding of things as they really are.

And what is real? If I had to ask Winchester, he would not have a view clouded by assumptions. He would not think we were foolish for setting out or wise for turning back. He wouldn’t fill his mind with how things seemed because he had only to notice how things are. He knew what mattered. We can’t change the weather. I didn’t mind going as far as I could – whether it was to look out the window or make the drive to the mountain or ocean – and see for myself the impossibility of certain paths if only to be certain we couldn’t take them. In the same way, I would watch a loved one walk away for as long as I had the view.

When the train, it left the station, with two lights on behind Well, the blue light was my blues, and the red light was my mind -Robert Johnson, Love in Vain

When the train, it left the station, with two lights on behind
Well, the blue light was my blues, and the red light was my mind
-Robert Johnson, Love in Vain

Because, when you love something – a person, a passion, or a dog (or those things combined in the chance to hunt together), you cannot sit at home and look at a computer screen. If the weather is bad and you’ve sat near a fire for long enough and you’ve read enough books, eventually you have to get up and see what’s preventing you. You have to stand on the beach or at the base of a mountain. In those moments, it’s possible to feel that you’re in a futile chase. There’s nothing to be done about the weather except sing its blues. And, to the extent you feel the longing and the pain, you know the feelings not in vain.