Transfiguration Sunday and the glory of heaven shines on the hills of golden grass. We ascend the mountains for reasons not quite unlike those of the disciples. Yes, differences there are, but it is our hope too to be witness the glory of God in his creation if not to hear his voice thunder from shimmering clouds. To strengthen our souls and refresh our spirits for the weeks ahead. The last day of Chukar Season will be marked by solemn ritual, the dogs scouring the hills noses to the wind, the incense of cheap cigars wafting in conversation anticipating the joyful song erupting from the swinging pipes of handheld organs. Yes in its own way perhaps, a religious event. If not quite the worship of God found in scripture, it still retains its connotations.
The season started slow, months passing by consumed with office work and conflicting schedules. November came and went with nary a shot fired, a man’s soul grows weary, his spirit anxious. December fell in with weather awry, in-conducive to the hunt, edging out the pastor’s coveted time. But Aquarius smiled on the sportsman’s soul, and the sky cleared a canvass for the wingshooter’s art.
Amidst the limestone cliffs cathedral walls of gray, one could hear nature’s hymn sung, the round of covey choirs calling from balconies above. No worries, the dogs hold them tight suppressing their clucks with nervous anxiety. The tension builds as you push for the flush, cautiously moving, anticipating ambush. Signals of the hand motion for position directing you forward as you step slowly, treading quietly planting firmly each foot, waiting for the eruption of flight. Brush and grass, stone and bush morph to form of partridge silhouettes flying against the sky. Cheek to wood, nature’s hymn finds punctuation as the birds fold in flight, tumbling to the ground.
Four to eight mile hikes broken with intermittent opportunity for sport, sometimes unexpected. The chukar makes a break taking off from the rocks above it howls down the canyon for cover below. The first shot misses, but pulling forward by ten feet the bird begins to fold at thirty five yards where the number fives hit home. Yes life is good, the season a success if you don’t see another bird.
Yes we ascended the mountain for reasons not entirely different than those of the disciples. Perhaps the expectations were not entirely met on this Sunday of the Transfiguration, but what more could a sportsman do with such a beautiful afternoon? The chukar evade detection, but the souls found rest the spirit comfort in the seasons closing ceremony. And we then descend to put the guns up, and pray to enjoy another season next year.
