Accipitrarius Sordidatus

Last Sunday was one of those rare days that could have ended at any point and it would have been a good enough one.

Spring has come and green is showing everywhere.  The greenbriar vines are thickening and the blackberry vines are getting a deeper red.  Places we could get into for a deeper chase are starting close off behind walls of thorns.

The huntable birds are still curiously absent, usually having been back several weeks ago.  No matter because Smash’s attention is fully focused on fur right now.

Charlie is fed up and molting, unconcerned with field and its activity.  He’s waiting for his turn to start again in a few months.

I don’t remember exactly how the day began, probably it was annoying in some way.  The dishwasher is broken, so there is always a pile of dishes.  Work is changing back to its old ways of giving me way too much to do.  I’m sure however it got going, it started earlier than I wanted and later than I needed.

Then it changed.

Dee Ann came downstairs after having read a few chapters of In Season, Matt Mullenix’s excellent journal of a season of falconry and, for those living close to a falconer, a source of great insight as to why we are are what we are.  After years and especially the last few months of living with my almost unending frustrations, Matt’s words hit home with her.

In his book, Matt admitted, after his many years in falconry, that he has given up trying to explain why he goes through the rituals, pains, and, when fortune is uncharacteristically benevolent, elations that are our sport.  My own explanation has been reduced to, “I can’t not do it.”

In just a few of his words, she changed from “Why do you do this to yourself?” to “Now I understand.”

That made the the day good enough.

In the early afternoon, my new pre-apprentice, Redcoat aka He-Who-Travels-On-Thin-Ice-In-The-Comments-Section, came by for a Sunday hunt south of here.  On our way down Preston Road, there were an uncountable number of red-tails pairing up, chasing off interlopers, and setting home territory for this year’s brood.  By the looks of it, we will have an unusually large number of them and many other species of raptors this year.  I haven’t seen it like this in many years.  The drive alone was worth the day.

We met up with an old friend, Jay, who was flying his gyr-peregrine hybrid while also taking a young man on his first hunt.  I used to have the hybrid and never had any success with it at all.  In fact none of its many previous owners have ever been able to get to go up over 50 and pay any attention to matter at hand.

Jay is a true Master falconer, not the time-in-grade master falconer like most of us.  I gave him Cowboy after his own peregrine was killed last year by a red-tail.  I figured he’s the only one who could ever make this falcon work.  I wasn’t wrong, yet still I never expected what I saw.

Cowboy went up to about 500-600 feet over a pond and turned the fastest stoop I’ve ever seen on a pigeon.  The pigeon never made more than a hundred yards.  I would have never believed it if I hadn’t seen it.  No ducks for him this year, but I am positive that won’t be the case next season.  Good enough.

After that we all went spec hunting with Smash.  Jay knew of an isolated spot in the flood plain in his neighborhood.  It has a major road on one side with a school, school district office and a nursery bordering the other three.  It’s not very big, maybe 10 acres or so, with a lot of water and brush in it.  He always suspected there might be a rabbit or two hiding out in there.

Smash caught the first one in less than a minute out of the truck.  90 minutes later my game bag was full.  He caught four large ones, averaging over 3 lbs each.  There were at least more 20 flushes he either never saw or happened out of his range.  He could, and would, have caught more, but I had no room left to carry them and I was worn out.  Next time I’ll wear my larger vest.

At 11:00 pm Sunday night I finished butchering the last of the rabbits and the latest squirrel kill from the dog.  The most tender rabbit cuts went into a bowl of milk for Monday night’s Rabbit Sauce Piquante.

One last draw on a good, cold beer and Sunday was over.

It was good enough