Problems in pilgrimages

You’re always going to have problems, sometimes the problems are big or small, they can be deep problems or superficial ones, they can be personal problems or grand, existential ones which have no clear answers but the hard truth is that they’re always going to be there.  When you’re climbing a mountain your problems don’t go away but they do look very different.  I learned this about five minutes into my journey up Croagh Patrick when I realized that I was already in way over my head and had a long way to go.

The pilgrimage began at a quarter to four in the morning as myself and Basil ate breakfast and contemplated the day ahead of us, we had a box of sandwiches and biscuits prepared along with two flasks of hot water which would be miraculously transformed into mugs of tea once we made it back down from the peak.  Sitting in that warm kitchen, munching on a bowl of corn flakes it didn’t seem like all that imposing of a prospect, Basil had done the trek around forty times and every member of his family had done it along with him an odd time or another, all told about 20,000 people climb the peak annually on the last Sunday of July so how hard could it be?  I’d been implored numerous times since coming to Ireland that I had to climb ‘The Reek’ as the hill is informally known and these people certainly wouldn’t try to put me in harm’s way unnecessarily, right?

We set off before dawn in a spattering of summer rain, never mind that it’s the dry season in Ireland there’s still going to be rain and of course it had to fall on the one day we were planning to climb a mountain, the day before was reasonably clear and the day after has been blissfully sunny but someone up there has a great sense of humor so we began belting down the tarmac as rain pelted against the windshield.  We’re leaving so early because Basil wants to be at the summit for first mass, starting at 8 am every year a series of catholic observances run all day in the chapel atop of Croagh Patrick, the eponymous saint made the ascent himself and fasted for 40 days upon it helping to solidify his position as the island’s patron holy man.  While St. Patrick’s day is known internationally as the most Irish holiday, Reek Sunday is the day which the more devoted inhabitants of the island pay their respects and say prayers at the feet of his statues all over the country, furthermore, all those who make their way up Ireland’s holiest mountain are believed to have completed their penance for the year and are duly forgiven for the past year’s transgressions.

For my part I’m just in it for the craic.  Not being a catholic I’m not looking to absolve myself of any wrongdoing or make good in the eyes of a merciful God, but I am an amateur avid outdoorsman so the opportunity to haul my bones up a pile of rocks to a wonderful view of the surrounding landscape is all of the motivation I need to get this done.  Just one year prior I took a stroll up past Lake Annascaul while down in the Dingle peninsula, the weather that day was generously suboptimal as well but the reward of amazing overlooks and peaceful mental state was more than worth the effort, so I was expecting much the same from this hike, a long road and a wet one, but all the same not one outside of my comfort zone.  The day before Basil produced two branches from a recently cut down Ash tree which we trimmed to serve as walking sticks, he says that walking sticks are an absolute necessity and many enterprising individuals will be selling lengths of wood to unprepared pilgrims at a modest markup of three to five euro a pop.

After a little over an hour of riding in the ‘jeep’ we pull up to the mountain itself true to Basil’s word the road is lined with men in vans offering sticks for The Reek on hand drawn signs, just past daybreak we pull into a local farmer’s field transformed into a parking lot with a five euro entry fee.  I strap on my boots before loading up with a bottle of lucozade and a pack of biscuits for energy, grabbing our sticks we set out under a ceiling of drab grey clouds lightly drizzling down on the whole affair.  The mountain doesn’t look so bad from the bottom, then again the sky is closed in as a thick mist of cloud cover shrouds everything but the first rise of the hill, there’s a paved path, a gift shop, a flight of broad, shallow steps that finish up at a statue of the man himself St. Patrick.  Basil starts walking circles around the idol, and I gaze out across Clew bay, a stretch of the Atlantic ocean which  reaches inland and holds in its waters a series of small islands all with sheer, low faces on their western sides trailing down towards the waterline.  It’ll be a fine view from the top if the weather clears up, Basil says once he’s finished his circuits, that’s a big ‘if’ I think as things get well underway.

The first stretch is the hardest, they say, and this is where I hit my first wall, barely 100 yards up the hill and I’m already flagging, my body is betraying me as I’ve let it go soft over the past few months, too many big dinners, too many beers, not enough time spent jogging or chopping wood.  All of that is taking its toll as I’m using muscles I’ve let go to seed without realizing it, hamstrings and calf muscles are complaining and my lungs try to figure out just what the big idea is.  To cope with the burning in my chest my body puts into practice all sorts of measures in the hopes of settling out the breakfast churning in my guts and the unstable build up of lactic acid which there isn’t enough oxygen to pull out of my muscles.  I start yawning and burping, spitting out the contents of my sinuses as the fresh mountain air needs new avenues to get into my system, this trail isn’t want I expected as water washes past my boots while they crunch through the fist sized rocks which make up the path.  Up ahead I can see how the mountain curls around a ridge and ascends higher and higher up into the unknown space within the clouds, whatever is up there is going to be harder than this if only for the fact that it will have come after I’ve already taken a beating.  My big problem is that I underestimated this, my small problem is that my systems aren’t properly calibrated for the exertion, I’ve just got to find a balance of bodily functions which work for me and I’ll be alright I just keep moving. 

We’re not alone on this hill and the people we pass and see pass us up are a strong motivator, I’m not yet thirty and Basil’s just over sixty but we’re joined by children too young to drive and those who grew up before the country had electricity.  I’m not exactly struggling my way up the hill but it’s a hard fight, everyone else seems to be managing alright even once the rain begins to fall more earnestly, chalk it up to experience and  heritage, I’ve heard that Italians climbs mountains wrong as they do more wrestling than dancing and if this is true then I’m going much to form while all the Irish around me keep pressing forward as though their feet are lighter than my own.  Perhaps this is literally true as my boots are unwieldy and rub painfully on my feet, I’d been looking for proper hiking togs but again and again got turned away in shops that didn’t carry clod hoppers in my size.  What I end up with are my Civil Defense issue steel-toes which refuse to give and flex as I pick my way through the rubble of glacial movements from millennia gone by, I can already feel the blisters forming on the backs of my heels and by the time they come off one the size of a Kennedy half dollar will have formed and broken. 

The sticks we brought were for more than just show, every step uphill is aided by a healthy push off of the support and when we finally stop to rest we use them as a brace for our weary and whining bodies, Basil asks what hurts the most and after a moment of consideration I answer ‘my head’.  The truth is that I’m already starting to get a little altitude sick and we’re not even up to the halfway point, my head feels heavy and light all at once, I want to vomit and sleep but then again that’s not unusual for being awake and active at six in the morning.  As we take a breather I reluctantly take up my bottle of lucozade, to the uninitiated this is the Irish equivalent of Gator-ade, it’s a staple of hard partiers on long nights out as it’s absolutely loaded with sugar to keep your energy up.  Typically I loath the stuff as it’s thick and sucrose laden, to me it’s as if someone added maple syrup to orange soda and then claimed it had healthy benefits and it utterly fails to quench a thirst that begs for cold water or at the most some lemonade.  Resentfully I figure I’ll rinse my mouth out with a swig and spit off the side of the hill just to clear the taste of exertion and instant coffee off my tongue, but once I’ve got a mouthful of the tingly yellow liquid I begin absorbing the concoction through my gums and a light goes on in my brain.  “We can use this!”  it exclaims as the short term energy gives some life back to my tired limbs. 

Further up the hill the weather turns for the worse and the rain starts flying sideways across the path, there are the ubiquitous sheep which have free roam of the mountain and much to my surprise there are exactly zero safety measures in place to stop people from falling off the edge of the cliffs.  A bigger concern to me is the possibly of a rockslide, most of what we’re walking on is loose gravel that could easily give way and cause a climber to become a faller really fast.  Mixed in amongst the more manageable stones are jagged rocks about the size of bowling balls, if one of those breaks loose and gets some speed behind it there’s nothing to say it couldn’t snap a leg bone or take an odd hop and crack open a skull.  The prospect of a mini-avalanche doesn’t seem to bother anyone as I start to see people who have brought their dogs with them, will wonders never cease?  Around what I assume is the halfway point we pass a small stone and tarp structure where a few men are taking refuge from the winds selling snacks and sodas, we’re well equipped and press on, Basil tells me it’s going to get easy for a while as the inclines level off and we can practically stroll down the trail for a good stretch, more stone structures sit on either side of the hill some of which have fallen to the passage of time while others stand as restrooms for the more adventurous hikers. 

Speaking of which we run into a group of mountain rescue volunteers who are stopping everyone heading up for a quick word.  They’re telling us that up ahead the winds are quite severe, it’s dangerous to keep going and mass has been canceled, they’re not saying we can’t go up but they’re strongly advising against it.  We nod and move along, in fact, no one seems to be letting the warning stop them from making it up to the summit, the young and the old alike are pressing on having acknowledged the dangers as they’ve already accepted that the walk was going to be unpleasant and the degree to which they’d be uncomfortable was irrelevant.  Big problem, this is going to suck.  Small problem, you might die.  The solution of course is just to keep pressing on, we’re approaching the last leg of the journey and despite what I was told earlier it’s going to be the hairiest section of the entire climb.

Combine every rough bit of the climb thus far and compact it into 400 yards of pain, if the trek was any more vertical it would require serious mountaineering gear, if the wind was any more vicious you’d have to go it at a crawl, if the terrain was any more treacherous it would have simply been undoable.  All of this is compounded by the encroaching fog which isolates you in the 25 yard sphere around your present location depriving you of the opportunity to look back on how far you’ve come but also to look ahead in anticipation at what you’re going to go up against next.  Of course you should be keeping your head down as a misstep could absolutely sprain your ankle or endanger those around you, you have to pick your line well because at this stage lateral movement becomes the enemy.  Not that there’s any ‘easy’ way up and any route you pick is only a tradeoff between the worst of each world, I adopt a two-handed stick method which essentially consists of stretching my twisted bit of Ash three feet uphill and dragging my body behind it until I have a stable point of balance from which I can stab out my stick once more.  We’re still not alone as people keep coming up and going back down having reached the top, if they can do it, so can we and there could be nothing worse than giving up now.

There is finally a crest to the insanity and we’re there, the peak of the mountain and I must say it’s not what I expected.  They told me there’s a church up here but it’s nowhere to be seen, there’s a sign that I can’t read due to mist and something about the size of a coffee table which has been sectioned off by rails with a stone plaque at the far end.  For all of the people who have been making their way up the mountain over the past few hours I can’t see them, for that matter I can’t see anything and that’s probably the strangest aspect of the whole hike, around me there’s nothing but the impermeable clouds which encroach in around you in every direction.  There is an edge to the place where the rocks and dirt fall away but beyond that there is the oppressive white space which robs you of your depth perception and sense of place, it is staring into a gentle abyss just as awe inspiring as the deep ocean or outer space but somehow comforting and reassuring, the emptiness given form.  After a bit of purposeful wandering the church appears, not all at once, first come the edges of the thing, the roofline peeks out and then those long black shapes come into focus as windows, the doors are two black holes and stairs which lead up to the place reveal small clusters of people huddled together in conversation.  The building itself is painted white but it’s a different white to the clouds so there a soft glow coming off the bricks and it’s altogether ghostly.

We make our way to the sheltered side of the church where a line of people are finding reprieve from the wind and reveling in their victory, that may be a stretch to say because the mood isn’t exactly joyous so much as it’s resolutely finished.  Some people are making cell phone calls to tell friends and family that they’ve made it but it’s so matter of fact, ’Yes I’m at the top, yeah no, there’s no view, I’ll be home in a few hours,’ and more confirmations that there won’t be any mass that day.  In fact, this is the first time in living memory that the ceremony has been called off at the top of the mountain and thusly there’s nothing worth waiting around for, but still we mill about and for the first time on the mountain Basil drinks some of his lucozade and eats one of his biscuits, this must be his version of St. Patrick’s fast which he can finally break.  I discover that if you lean up against the building itself you’ll find what little warmth you have in your body being sapped away and so I lean on my stick and wait for the appropriate amount of time to pass before we can head back down again.  When I get the word from Basil that we can head back we reverse our course and find a new way to experience the misery of the mountain.

First thing that happens, my hat flies off, I’m not even off of the flat summit of The Reek and it’s chosen to slap me right in the face for my troubles, I grumble as I go to retrieve it, thankful that it got wedged in a small depression of stones and didn’t go careening into the netherworld off the side of the earth.  Instead of putting it back on and repeating this process over and over again during the descent I stick it in my pocket along with my wallet which was fortunately on the dry side of my pants on the way up but would get absolutely wrecked on the return trip.  I place all of my hopes in my light waterproof hood  yet unsurprisingly it fails absolutely to protect me from the onslaught of angry weather heading my way, the wind whips a bitter spray of cold rain directly into my eyes and for the first time in this whole exercise my body actually whimpers.  The entire way up I was painfully aware that every step up the hill would be one step which I would have to take back down, but those downward steps are vastly different form the upwards ones, for one thing, those blisters forming on the backs of my heels are replaced with ones now forming on my big toes.  The painful slog to make progress is replaced by an earnest effort to resist gravity and not let the head of speed take over, the bigger difficulty is managing to move against the mass of pilgrims working their way up along the same paths you just took, only now they’re an obstacle which has its gaze cast down on its own feet and can’t really do the correct calculations to clear your path.

That’s the true spectacle of the day, the human highway of the mountain which has only gotten more crowded continues on unabated even in the higher reaches of the hill.  Not long into our descent I spy for the first time a barefoot pilgrim, there is a small contingent of climbers who opt to make the journey shoeless for reasons I can’t understand, there is no amount of sinning one can do in a year to justify a penance so severe.  The man I see is absolutely miserable as he leans heavily on his stick, his face is on his bruised and bloodied feet which I hope for his sake are numb from cold, his entire body is wracked with exhaustion but on he presses undeterred by mortal toils.  I think that’s rather the point of the whole exercise, as we all have our problems in life which we must deal with and for the most part they consume our days and nights but for a few hours, on one day of the year you can forget your little problems if only to replace them with the big problem of getting up an absolute monster of a hill.  We stop and chat to people on their way up, Basil’s stick seems to be the talk of the walk as it resembles a shepherd’s hook and he’s painted the tips of it red.  We run into people we know and make polite conversation, I have to laugh when we ask how it’s going and people respond with ‘not so bad’, that’s truly the Irish spirit, nearly 2000 ft. up in the air being rained on and utterly out of breath they’ll still say it’s not so bad. 

The Sound and The Fury

There are some things you have to do just once in your life.  Typically they show up on bucket lists as the fantastic, the outlandish, the expensive, places like Las Vegas and experiences like sky diving come up often as do activities that fall on the more elicit end of the spectrum.  One time, when I was in a mindset more focused on opportunities never to come again, I decided that I had to, just one time, be in Dublin for Saint Patrick’s day.

I wasn’t alone in this, we composed as a group the whole of Duquesne University’s inaugural Galway foreign exchange ensemble and although none of us had seemed to grasped the concept when we landed in Ireland as a whole we saw an opportunity to do something truly memorable and grabbed onto it.  Luckily we had the forethought to book hotels and planned to get in a few days of casual exploration before the big celebration, Dublin doesn’t have the best reputation among the people in the rest of the country, it is a deep seated dispute which began with Dublin having a low opinion of the island outside of its borders.  Despite that I enjoy Dublin as it at least feels in some small and impossible to connect way like my home in Chicago, its width and breath, its hustle, its self important air that doesn’t care for you and thus allows you to dissolve down its back alleys and main thoroughfares are all familiar in their cold callousness.

Through the shops we poked around, amongst the architecture we took pictures, in the pubs we drank pints and had a few good days on our own little adventure, despite what people from the ‘real’ Ireland will tell you Dublin is a nice place and isn’t too big or too up its own hole to enjoy.  If you’re ever in this neck of the woods feel free to have a poke around for a day or two, see a museum, relax in a park, do some touristy things because when you get to the heart of things Ireland markets itself as a nice place to come and visit.  The Irish Brand is what you see on postcards, rainbows over rolling hills, livestock as part of the scenery, quaint pubs full of weathered patrons, castles, ruins, the Guinness brewery, the thousand welcomes are all things that the Irish know bring in visitors-along with their Euros-to see what all the craic is about. 

Saint Patrick’s day is probably the biggest export of the Irish experience, as the day when ‘everyone’s a little Irish’ä it’s instantly recognizable as an opportunity to put on a silly hat, dust off that horrible accent you can’t do, and act the maggot with zero repercussions for your excesses.  In truth, it was the New York and Boston immigrant populations that popularized the celebrations as a way to keep connected with their heritage, cut loose, and be proud of where they came from all in a massive display of ancestral spirit.  So paradoxically, in Dublin, Saint Patrick’s day is when all of the foreigners come over to visit.   

In the couple of days leading up to the big event things had been relatively quiet, we were young so we stayed up late, we explored the nightlife, we satisfied our taste for a different culture and all it could excite us with.  All the while there was an undercurrent of something more sinister looming, the calm before the storm, the tension before the final push of a big battle.  The locals and the working people all knew that the tide would start rising that morning and would not recede for many hours thereafter.  Seven years ago today, we awoke to the spectacle of St. Patrick’s day in the heart of Dublin, and to this day I have never seen anything like it.  There was a parade, somewhere, I am sure of it, but I was not there to witness it for between me and it was a wall of humanity which took onto itself a presence that no addition of its individual parts could account for. 

Were there a million people on the streets of Dublin that day?  Perhaps, easily there were more than anyone could count, could make sense of if they tried to imagine them as a single unit, we’ve all seen crowds in stadiums, at concerts and rallies, we’ve been crammed shoulder to shoulder with busloads of strangers and waited in endless lines at amusement parks but this was something altogether different.  If there was anything which could earn itself a fair comparison would be a religious pilgrimage, the Hajj at Mecca as a swirling fervor of devotion and praise meets to cement their collective faith, Dublin felt that way only drunken, and unruly filled with incomprehensible people who moved as a great river waiting to sweep away all those who fell in under its pull. 

There is an Irish phrase which you’ve probably never come across, it’s not terribly useful and lacks the cheeky fun of Pog mo thoin, but I like it nonetheless.  Rí rá agus a ruaile buaile ( Ree-Raw Awgus a Roo-lah Boo-lah ) translates into something like a great noise and much movement although more liberal definitions of the term can mean a cacophonous catastrophe, a noise of terrible destruction, or a massively great time.  Language is one of the many things that the Irish play fast and loose with, I think they do it just to mess with the foreigners.  It’s how I would describe the scene in Dublin on St. Pat’s without hesitation as every vein of the city was clogged  with sound and color, voices yelling and singing-though the difference was negligible- and a never ending procession of arms and legs working against one another jostling, embracing, expressing, and rollicking to the beat of some intrinsic festival drum.

Dublin on Saint Patrick’s day is a once in a lifetime experience in so far as I feel no need to go through it again, I actually have a problem with big crowds, loud noises, and sensory overload give me something like an anxiety attack and my nerves will quickly fray if I spend too long in the middle of it all.  On that day I took refuge in the many cathedrals of the city which were oddly deserted on that very Catholic holiday, away from the madness my wits returned to me and my sanity was saved by the welcome respite religious sanctuary can offer.  Galway isn’t like that on March 17th, sure people get drunk, there’s a parade, and we all have license to go a bit overboard, but it falls far short of madness, of chaos, of the unbridled exhibition that a big, unfeeling city can get away with once or twice a year.  It’s no rí rá agus a ruaile buaile, and for that I am thankful.

Murder Most Fowl

‘Tis the season once more.  No, not Christmas, not quite yet despite the fairy lights and commercials you may be starting to see with increased frequency.  Not Halloween either even though that one is a perennial favorite among my clique of twenty-something revelers.  The season to which I refer is like both of those holidays combined for me with a healthy dose of thanksgiving thrown in for good measure, I find my anticipation building as I can’t wait to wake up in the early morning hours and climb downstairs as if to open my presents.  I will don my outfit and trek tirelessly though the cold eagerly awaiting my next prize, and after all of that I will sit down with unparalleled satisfaction to a hot meal which fills me with such gratitude for everything I have.

Yes my friends, it is nearly hunting season once more!  Those of you who know me personally know that I a bit nuts about guns and try to take up every opportunity to head to the range or into the field for a shot.  There’s something so relaxing about being out on a hunt, the way your concentration become absolute, your senses heighten, and all of the problems of the world melt away as you wait poised for your quarry to make its presence known.  Hunting to me is meditation and I can’t find anything quite like it for that feeling of pure, uncomplicated oneness with my surroundings.  Plus I get to shoot things, which is fun.
In honor of that most wonderful time of the year I’d like to share with you some of the stories of hunts I’ve had while here in Ireland, the highs and the lows and the funny things that happen when afield.

My very, very first actual hunting experience in Ireland was an interesting one, some years back, knowing that I had a fair appreciation for the finer arts of firearms Regina’s father said we should wander out across the fields behind the house and see if you could scare up a pheasant.  First went on the wader boots, up scaled wellies that reach up to your thighs and are fastened up with a belt, then there was the ammo belt itself, lined with dozens of shotgun shells-enough to hold off a small army- of varying loads, finally there was the gun itself, a well worn and traveled side by side 12 gauge that was probably made around the same time I was.  We let the gun dog, Shadow, out of her pen which may or may not have been a poor decision as her training had gone a bit lax as of late.  Off like a shot she bounded into the field and proceeded to run and root with no sense of restraint.  It was obvious that my experience in Ireland was going to be much different from the States.

When pheasant hunting in the states you could easily wear sneakers if not a sturdy pair of sandals on a good day, the terrain is largely flat and often cultivated into rows for easy navigation, wheat has been planted specifically to give the birds cover and attract them, and since in most places in the Midwest game birds have been hunted until they’ve practically disappeared most of what you actually hunt is farm raised and planted before you set out.  The first obstacle we faced that day was the electric wire used to keep cattle from roaming, placing the butt of his shotgun against it and stepping over Basil warned me that I’d get a mighty shock if I inadvertently touched it.  Not enough to do me permanent damage, hopefully, but certainly enough to put a damper on the day.  After that we had to take a short hop across a water-filled trench and into the marshy, uneven, shrub-filled areas adjacent to the river that we’d be hunting through.  It quickly became apparent that the biggest challenge I was going to face was not in hitting a bird but rather in simply navigating the ruts successfully and not ending up face first in some dirty water.

In retrospect the challenge of hitting any birds was non-existent as Shadow, the gun dog, did her best to run a good 50 or 60 yards ahead of us in a completely unpredictable pattern while ignoring any commands we futilely barked in her direction.  What she did manage to scare up was thus well out of our range and was probably not even aware of our presence as it took wing towards the safety of the far treeline across the river.  We saw no pheasant that day despite the numerous occasions when I’d seen them in local fields, crossing the road, or startled them bursting out of hedges while I walked by, we did, however, kick up snipe during our safari.  Snipe are one of the odder birds I’ve happened across in my travels, although I did not get a very good look at any of them that day I estimate that their bodies are about the size of a baseball and they move like a combination of hummingbirds and electrical currents.  When disturbed they immediately shoot up to shoulder height and dart in an erratic zig-zag pattern away from whatever is perusing them before disappearing back into the bush like Vietcong.  About three quarters of the way through the hunt I decided to take a shot at one of the snipe just to be able to say that I had, I think my chances of hitting it would have been the same as if I’d discharged my shotgun directly into the ground in front of me but at the end of the day taking a walk where you fire a gun beats taking a walk and not firing a gun any day.

I think Basil knew that we weren’t going to actually get any pheasant that day but just wanted to see how I handled myself in the field and for myself it was a good opportunity to try out a new experience even if it was nothing more than a trial run.  This year has been the first one that I’ve been in country for the entirety of bird season and with my entry into the family in a official capacity I’ve been brought out on a couple of hunting excursions that have been a bit more formalized.  I haven’t done much (any) duck hunting in the states but my understanding of it is that the common method is to build a duck blind-a camouflaged shack in the water- set out decoys and use specialized calls to bring the unsuspecting targets in for a landing.  You are welcome to watch some Duck Dynasty for a more elaborate run down.  Duck hunting here involves a Jeep (truck) apparently and I found myself riding in the back seat next to a pair of 12 gauges in the predawn hours one morning. 

The method for duck hunting we employed was based around driving to different locations, ponds, rivers, flooded fields, where ducks could be expected to be resting, getting out of the truck, sneaking up on them, and opening fire at will.  I’m not sure if this is more or less sporting than sitting in a cold metal box employing subterfuge but I will say it was a bit more entertaining, especially as it allows you to see some more exotic sights of the country.  The sun was just coming up as we drove down a back road adjacent to a farmer’s field when we spotted it, a fox, the first fox I had ever seen in the flesh in my whole life.  I had expected a small and somewhat adorable animal, I expected it to have a nice red coat and perky ears and a fluffy tail.  The animal I saw was big, I’ve seen many coyotes in my time and this animal rivaled them, for the first time I understood how one could kill a sheep as I’d been told they do frequently.  It was black as well, or at least predominantly so as it seemed patchy and mottled, a wild animal in every sense of the word it must have sensed our intention as it bolted across the field away from us.  Basil mashed the gas pedal and we lurched forward into pursuit.

Even with the engine at full rev we barely kept pace as the fox had the better line towards cover, we bounded around a corner and it was explained to me that foxes are considered a pest and it is always open season on them.  Pulling to a stop we piled out of the jeep and took up positions on a small stone wall, even though we had the whole of the briar patch covered it was neigh impossible to get a bead on the beast.  At most I would glimpse a set of ears and a second later a swish of the tail could be seen some feet away, it’s cunning and guile was evident as it flitted between hiding spots with the ease of an apparition, we called out to each other to little effect trying to anticipate its movements and designate who would have the best sight should an opportunity present itself.  Evan, my brother in law, had perhaps the best chance but it was gone in the blink of an eye and within the span of 30 seconds our window was passed and we saw the fox bolting back up the field making time in a way we could not hope to match.  It was for the best, Evan said, he wouldn’t have felt right shooting it.  If we had gone out hunting fox that would have been a different story, but we were there for ducks and it seems as though nature itself shared his sentiment.

The fox eluded us that day and if he stayed cagey he may still be out there today in his den or out causing trouble, and if our spirits are up to it we may meet him out lamping one night and we’ll truly test his luck.  That’ll be a story for another time though, as the one I want to finish up on is a story from the end of the season, the story of the last duck of the year.   It was, in fact, the very last day of hunting season and we resigned ourselves to one more attempt at the fowl as it would be many, many months before we’d get another crack at them.  Basil, Evan and myself loaded up into the jeep once more for an evening hunt and motored our way off to an isolated field which was reasonably flooded and in many places impassable.  Somehow I’d drawn the short straw and was suited up in the standard issue, mid-calf wellies while the more senior partners were clad in the two pairs of functional waders we possessed and thus at a reasonably stranded spot out in the swamp I was told I would have to wait there alone while they went ahead across a deep drain and into the more secluded sections of wetland.

Sure, no problem, I perched myself upon a protruding hill of mossy earth and waited for them to start shooting, the plan was for them to locate a flock and start the assault, theoretically the birds would circle somewhere in my vicinity and I’d spring a secondary ambush on them.  It seemed like a solid plan, or at least a solid explanation as to why I shouldn’t feel bad about being left behind.  I heard their first shots some ten minutes later after they’d walked out of my view and waited patiently for my first chance at a kill, in short order I saw a pair of mallards winging my way.  I pride myself on being a crack shot and with confidence I unloaded my barrels in quick succession, but to my dismay the birds kept flying and as I ejected the shells and fumbled for replacements they first two birds broke away and were out of range in seconds.  Birds kept coming sporadically as shots rang out from my hunting companions at odd intervals, yet time and time again my aim was untrue and I managed to miss birds coming at me from all angles and altitudes.  On more than one occasion it seemed as though the drakes knew I only had a double gun and would cut directly towards me as I tried desperately to reload after throwing up ineffectual volleys.  It was a chronic case of “I should have hit that” that played out over the next couple of hours.

Darkness began to settle upon us and the efforts of targeting took on new dimensions, what had been dark silhouettes of game outlined against a grey sky became undefined shapes out the corner of my eyes.  It was thus that as the light faded I relied less on my eyes and more on my ears to track inbound ducks, an exercise which was chaotic at best.  The sound of a large bird in flight is quite distinctive, the whooshing of wings on the beat can be heard at some distance, combine that with the gentle, low quacks they emit regularly and you have a reasonably sure sign of ducks nearby.  What makes tracking them difficult is the fact that they fly two or three at a time in unpredictable arcs and trajectories.  So what you perceive is less “Aha!” and more “Huh?” as your mind figures out: A, If that really is a duck I’m hearing; B, Which way is it heading; C, How fast; and D, Is it worth shooting at?  All of that before trying to aim and shoot passably, which I mentioned before I had been struggling with all day so far.

The light kept fading and I soon found myself thinking that if a duck didn’t make itself obvious in the next five minutes my chances for the season were effectively kaput.  I crossed my fingers and hoped, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, like an air raid marshal during the blitz on London.  Seconds turned to minutes, I willed ducks to come my way, so many had seemed to swoop by almost in arms reach, I was sure a small flock had landed nearby yet across the insurmountable drainage ditch.  If just one more would give me a clean line I would take it and be satisfied that I had tried my all and the odds simply were in the birds’ favor that day.  The five minutes passed, it became impossibly dark and I resigned myself to failure.  Yet I couldn’t head in until Basil and Evan returned and I was sure they had given up hope just as I had.  Five more minutes passed and somewhere off in their general direction I could hear a faint slogging of boots possibly heading my way, it was then that I heard ducks incoming. 

Heading straight for me I did my best to track them without any sight whatsoever, I poised myself to trap them between myself and the only slim hope of light left to me, a weak glow of streetlamps coming from a distant hill.  I could hear they were just a few yards from me, coming in low and oblivious to my presence, putting everything else out of my mind I focused in on my target zone.  In a single instant I saw them, three perfect black outlines of ducks against the hazy orange glow on the horizon, I moved my barrels by inches to mimic their flight pattern and pulled both triggers in quick succession because there is no reward for bringing home the most ammo.  I cannot say today which shot stuck home, I could not say then either for all I cared about was the solid splash of a dead duck hitting the water.  I whooped and hollered and danced on my little dry mound as I reached for my flashlight, the duck had fallen across the way and I could do nothing to reach it but I diligently focused a beam on where I heard it fall so that Basil or Evan would be able to collect it for me. 

They come to me after a time, apparently their eyes are better than mine or they are simply more stubborn in their habits, but they did no shooting after me, and after they picked up my duck presented to me their only success of the evening, a woodcock Basil had shot with great skill and luck.  I suppose our take that night was not so impressive and by rights I should have made half a dozen shots that went wide, but I felt confidant that no hunter out later than us could have made a kill without the aid of night vision goggles, so when that bird was roasted and basted I took extra pleasure in knowing I was eating the last duck of the season.