The last Friday of September, after weeks of preparation and packing, the Burb and the late-1960s vintage and timeworn Bell travel trailer known as the Road Abode were ready for a 2 1/2 week upland bird road trip north through Montana into Alberta, Canada, and back. The weather this time of year can always vary from sunny and toohot-to-run-the-dogs, to freeze-off-your-bum cold and snowy. In other words, temps can range from 80 down to 15 degrees. The weather turned out to be sunny, clear Indian summer/early fall days in the 60s dropping to the 40s at night, with the exception of a few cloudy days and some light rain. Regardless—you always have to be prepared.

For this type of trip, the looking-forward-and-planning stage is one-third of the three-part experiential equation comprised of anticipation, participation, and recollection. Planning and preparing (getting needed but also unneeded necessities like another shotgun, brush pants, boots, and the like) are events unto themselves. The packing is a significant part of any trip.

Aside from becoming sagacious, perceptive, patient, and considerably more stiff and achy, another trait of maturation is the accumulation of lots of wonderful gear. As a kid, I went out the door for a full day’s hunt with a vest, one box of 6s, my J. C. Higgins bolt-action 20-gauge, and Spot, our springer/beagle mix that was equally good on birds and rabbits. Nowadays, an afternoon hunt for two fills the Burb (my name for my Chevy Suburban). The Burb’s normal state is that of a rolling wingshooting, hardware, fly-fishing, and canine supply shop so it’s always pretty full. When packed for a 2-week roadie, the Burb is loaded for bear and every available nook and cranny is filled, including under all the seats and up to the sun visors.

At the top of the field, a farmer was baling his final cut of hay for the season. The sweet smell of cut and drying hay filled the hot, humid air, and when the setter’s bell clanged through the alder run I couldn’t help but smile. The cover had been trimmed down about 10 years ago, but now it was so thick the sun’s rays couldn’t penetrate the foliage. The dense canopy kept the soil moist, and I picked through what was now one of my best early season woodcock spots. The vegetation was so thick that after a point my friend Brett and I would have to drop to a knee and shoot quickly. If we swung properly with the gun and shot, the birds would fall, even though we couldn’t see ’em.

My setter Ocracoke cast around and locked up. Her nose pointed to a place just beyond the thick understory, but before I could get into shooting position she broke point and rushed in. Early season jitters, I thought, but a bird didn’t fly away. Then I saw her thrashing in the understory, smacking her face with her paw so much that she fell to the ground. I crashed through the brush to catch up to her and when I did there was blood everywhere. She had a mouth, chest, and forelegs full of porcupine quills.

Ever had a dog that would not retrieve? Let me tell you what a problem that is if you’re hunting quail in the South. Here’s why: a quail is hard to find in the weeds and grasses, especially in broom sedge. You can look right at one and not see it. And in Alabama where I hunt, we have those Auburn University Improved Variety Briers. A trip through one of those patches will leave you needing a transfusion; so if your dog won’t fetch, you will lose half your birds and waste a lot of time and patience finding the other half.

Ole Leukos, my cockeyed setter, would retrieve—only not stylishly and sometimes only with a lot of coaxing. But he would retrieve. His boys, Dan and Freck, two of the best pointing and bird-finding dogs I have ever owned, would not pick up a bird much less fetch it to hand.

I love the word “fetch.” It is wonderful— monosyllabic and means, “Go get and bring back.” It is vocally economic and has no exact synonym. Remember, all commands to dogs should be single words like “whoa” and “heel” and “stay” and “sit.” Compliments, on the other hand, can be two or more words like “good dog,” and “that a boy, sport.” The exception is “Whoa, damnit! Whoa!”—a command that should be shouted just prior to the application of corporal punishment.

Now where was I? Oh yes. The offspring of Leukos would not retrieve; otherwise, they were excellent bird dogs. So what must one do? I shortly came up with a solution; for, after all, I am a doctor.