rsimms
Well-known member
In Memory of My Uncle Harold, who passed away yesterday.
<img src=http://outdoors.chattanooga.net/forumpics/uncle_harold.jpg border="8">
Everybody Needs An Uncle Harold
by Richard Simms
2001
My Mom comes from a big family, a total of eight kids, six sisters and two brothers. I love them all and each is special in his or her own way. But I know they’ll all understand when I say that Uncle Harold holds a special place on my family tree.
Harold Mitts is a hunter. Born and raised on Walden’s Ridge, he knows every nook and cranny of Dayton Mountain… from Brayton to Ogden… from New Harmony to Flat Top… he’s prowled it all. Most of the time his prowling has been done behind a pack of beagles or a pair of well-trained bird dogs.
That is what we did last week. Harold lured me away from the duck blind for day.
“I’ve been finding lots of birds this year,” said Harold. “Probably more than I’ve found in several years.”
By the way, just in case some of the “uninitiated” are reading this column, “birds” are “quail.” And quail are noisy, alarming little speedsters…. game birds that send gallons of adrenaline screaming straight to your heart when they flush in a whir of wings. Every kind of hunting creates some sort of rush, but none quite compares to a covey of quail blowing up at your feet like a hidden string of firecrackers. I needed that kind of a high and Harold was just the man to provide it.
He’s spent a lifetime in the woods. He’d probably admit that there was a time when the game laws didn’t really mean too much. But those days have passed… he’s mellowed with age. And two rounds of heart surgery have slowed him down… a little.
We hunted behind Sis and Joe, two of his seven dogs. Sis is a 4-year old veteran, a Brittany. Joe is a 2-year old Setter still learning the ropes.
As we headed down the highway Harold would point out various fields. “I found a big covey there last week, probably 20 or 25 birds.” Not far down the road he would add, “there is a covey or two in there but they do not want me hunting it until after deer season is over.”
At the first stop Harold headed straight for the overgrown corner between two fields. He’d been there before and was surprised when the birds weren’t exactly where they were supposed to be. He whistled and sent the dogs across to another overgrown corner. Joe worked ahead about 100 yards. I saw him pull up, almost on point, but not sure of himself in a strong wind. He took a half step and quail began to burst from the fencerow and scatter.
One scattered my way crossing hard, right to left. I manage to scrape down the first bird in spite of myself. Harold wasn’t happy with Joe as we went in search of singles.
And so the day went. Joe redeemed himself well. In three hours we found four coveys and several singles. Joe was bad to fake us out every now and then, but Harold always knew the difference. When Sis locked down low to the ground like a rock however, Harold would tell me, “there is birds right there Richard.”
And this time, in spite of it all, I managed to shoot well enough NOT to embarrass myself in front of Uncle Harold.
Once or twice a year Harold shares a hunt with me. Usually it is on a dove field, but this day was different… and it was special.
He didn’t do it on purpose, but Harold taught me a lot about bird dogs… and about birds… but most important of all…. He taught me about myself.
Sometimes as the years begin to take their toll, I wonder how passionate I can continue to be about the outdoors… about hunting and fishing… and about passing along that legacy to those who may come behind.
In his 60’s, with more bypasses than most hearts could withstand, Uncle Harold covered many miles that day… I struggled to remain at his heels… just like one of those young pups in training.
On that very special day almost eight years ago…. I do not know if I saw what I will be someday… , but definitely saw what I can be.
Everybody needs an Uncle Harold.
<img src=http://outdoors.chattanooga.net/forumpics/uncle_harold.jpg border="8">
Everybody Needs An Uncle Harold
by Richard Simms
2001
My Mom comes from a big family, a total of eight kids, six sisters and two brothers. I love them all and each is special in his or her own way. But I know they’ll all understand when I say that Uncle Harold holds a special place on my family tree.
Harold Mitts is a hunter. Born and raised on Walden’s Ridge, he knows every nook and cranny of Dayton Mountain… from Brayton to Ogden… from New Harmony to Flat Top… he’s prowled it all. Most of the time his prowling has been done behind a pack of beagles or a pair of well-trained bird dogs.
That is what we did last week. Harold lured me away from the duck blind for day.
“I’ve been finding lots of birds this year,” said Harold. “Probably more than I’ve found in several years.”
By the way, just in case some of the “uninitiated” are reading this column, “birds” are “quail.” And quail are noisy, alarming little speedsters…. game birds that send gallons of adrenaline screaming straight to your heart when they flush in a whir of wings. Every kind of hunting creates some sort of rush, but none quite compares to a covey of quail blowing up at your feet like a hidden string of firecrackers. I needed that kind of a high and Harold was just the man to provide it.
He’s spent a lifetime in the woods. He’d probably admit that there was a time when the game laws didn’t really mean too much. But those days have passed… he’s mellowed with age. And two rounds of heart surgery have slowed him down… a little.
We hunted behind Sis and Joe, two of his seven dogs. Sis is a 4-year old veteran, a Brittany. Joe is a 2-year old Setter still learning the ropes.
As we headed down the highway Harold would point out various fields. “I found a big covey there last week, probably 20 or 25 birds.” Not far down the road he would add, “there is a covey or two in there but they do not want me hunting it until after deer season is over.”
At the first stop Harold headed straight for the overgrown corner between two fields. He’d been there before and was surprised when the birds weren’t exactly where they were supposed to be. He whistled and sent the dogs across to another overgrown corner. Joe worked ahead about 100 yards. I saw him pull up, almost on point, but not sure of himself in a strong wind. He took a half step and quail began to burst from the fencerow and scatter.
One scattered my way crossing hard, right to left. I manage to scrape down the first bird in spite of myself. Harold wasn’t happy with Joe as we went in search of singles.
And so the day went. Joe redeemed himself well. In three hours we found four coveys and several singles. Joe was bad to fake us out every now and then, but Harold always knew the difference. When Sis locked down low to the ground like a rock however, Harold would tell me, “there is birds right there Richard.”
And this time, in spite of it all, I managed to shoot well enough NOT to embarrass myself in front of Uncle Harold.
Once or twice a year Harold shares a hunt with me. Usually it is on a dove field, but this day was different… and it was special.
He didn’t do it on purpose, but Harold taught me a lot about bird dogs… and about birds… but most important of all…. He taught me about myself.
Sometimes as the years begin to take their toll, I wonder how passionate I can continue to be about the outdoors… about hunting and fishing… and about passing along that legacy to those who may come behind.
In his 60’s, with more bypasses than most hearts could withstand, Uncle Harold covered many miles that day… I struggled to remain at his heels… just like one of those young pups in training.
On that very special day almost eight years ago…. I do not know if I saw what I will be someday… , but definitely saw what I can be.
Everybody needs an Uncle Harold.
