It’s part of the beauty and magic surrounding migration that only a duck hunter will appreciate and understand. Optimism that “birds may be here in the morning” can be persuasive after enough ice melted in his tumbler. Admittedly, I painted a more optimistic vision than what was likely, but he’s young, ambitious, and naive enough to get cold with me on mornings after I spy high mallards riding wind out of Canada. We recognized the harsh reality of loading decoys into the boat the next morning. I tempted him before lights out with the forecast only duck hunters wish for while waiting out an Indian Summer. An extra oak brick in the woodstove and two fingers of whiskey in a glass masked the declining temps. Parsons cherishes his time spent in the uplands, but duck hunting, he worships. Our breath made a heavy fog out of much ado for what just happened in the cooling shadows of that alder run. Boone made the first retrieve of that quirky little bird, and we spent ten minutes rehashing every detail. The dogs managed bird work early when a woodcock, pointed off the tip of Willie’s nose, flushed skyward and Parson’s Browning counted coup. They preceded ahead off lead, calm and under control. He heeled his Lab named Boone, son of the dog he ran in the championship, behind a regal young English setter named William (Willie). One cannot make this stuff up, which is why it’s so hard to believe he could see and do that much, all by the age of 27. Late into one evening, I had to pry out the details with a dollop of rum on how he’d qualified for the IGL Championship, and made it all the way to the final day. His dogs and his results, speak for themselves as he’s the only American born competitor to make up a novice field trial winner and a British field trial champion. We both become indignant at the thought of training one with the collar, another reason we meshed from the onset. Calm, quiet, patient souls, full of game finding ability and natural retrieve. His dogs embody what the British intended a Labrador to be. He hangs an acme 211.5 around his neck by a strand and keeps a makeshift slip lead out of a short piece of paracord in his minimalist leather game vest. Everything is built on a solid foundation. Noah’s approach to life is not what I call fancy. Unveiling his Browning BPS, checkering filled with dry mud and 28 inches of “blued” barrel, copper hued by surface rust, I nodded and found we were both smiling again. I own one myself that’s been beaten, ribs bent, forearm pump cracked, and not once has it been properly cleaned. While preparing the sinews of war, the first thing I noticed was his shotgun. Weather was favorable, with temps in the low 30s when the sun came up, upper 40s overhead. Time was limited in the coming days, so we hunted that afternoon. But no, not him, not after giving his word. With a long drive ahead of him from his kennel in the Flint Hills of Kansas to what I refer to as “north of the tension line,” Wisconsin, many would have just backed out. This guy is the posterchild “All-American kid.” From our phone conversation the day before, I knew he pulled an all-nighter, coming off what he thought was a bout with food poisoning. In fact, it’s contagious and I found myself mirroring the expression back. He has a “Top-Gun” mustache and wears an eternal grin that stretches ear to ear. Hats like that say a lot about the men who wear them: Salt of the earth and unafraid to do what they need in order to earn what they’re after. Parsons had on a dirty, sweat-stained baseball cap with “Salt Plains Outfitters” hardly legible across the front. (Photo courtesy of Jeremy Moore) True To His Word In his words, “this kind of hunt has become a lost art.” It was a great hunt, shared with good friends and good dogs. Waited on ducks that never came, and trailed behind setters with our Labradors at heel. By the end of the conversation, Parsons and his dogs, progeny of fine British retrievers, had an invite to our camp. What took me 20 years to realize I wanted in a Labrador, I learned in under an hour from this kids’ experience.
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