The beauty of champion bird dogs
By Tom Bryant
My cellphone rang just as I was crossing the bridge over the Pungo River, leaving Hyde County. I had spent the last four days at Lake Mattamuskeet in pursuit of waterfowl, and I could feel every one of my
advanced years. As my good friend and hunting buddy John Vernon says, “Tom, how many more times do you think we’ll be able to do this?”
I saw that the caller was Rich Warters, another friend and outdoor enthusiast.
“Tom, you ready to shoot some birds?” Rich trains bird dogs, and a time or two I’ve shot pen-raised quail over his trainees.
“Rich, old buddy, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last week. I’m on the way home from Mattamuskeet.”
“That’s right, I remember now. How was the hunt?”
“We had a grand time. The ducks were kind of sporadic, but we did get enough for a meal or two. I’ll get you and Penny over for a duck dinner after a while.”
“Great,” Rich said. “But right now, I need you to shoot some birds for me. Robert Ecker is here training dogs before a trial coming up in February and we need a shooter.” Ecker is a professional bird dog trainer and is well-known in the sport as one of the best. He has two of Rich’s pointers in his training regimen, and he and Rich work closely honing the dogs’ natural ability. Rich had asked me a few weeks before if I could help out, and I enthusiastically agreed. Hunting pen-raised quail is not like hunting wild birds; but with the serious shortage of the wild variety, bird hunters shoot on preserves where quail are raised for this purpose. It’s not the same, but it’s the next best thing.
“Rich, I’d love to help you, but I injured a back muscle hunting this week, and I’m probably going to have to see the doc when I get home. This thing’s giving me a fit. I have to stop the vehicle every hour or so to stretch.” Many years ago, I had torn a muscle in my back while white-water canoeing. Every now and then, the injury will reappear just to let me know who’s boss.
“OK, Tom. Drive safely and call me after you see the doctor. If nothing else, we want you out here just to see the dogs. Bo and Bud are here, and I want you to watch ’em work.” Bo and Bud are Rich’s pointer bird dogs. I’d heard a lot about them but had not watched them in action. We rang off and I continued driving west toward Southern Pines.
A few days after I got home from the Mattamuskeet hunt, my back was making a slow recovery. Rich called again. “Bryant, how’s the back?”
“A little better, but I’m not going to be able to shoot for you. I don’t believe I’d be able to swing a shotgun.”
“That’s all right. We’re just going to make some photos, and I’ll bring a 20- gauge Remington for you to just shoot one bird. That way we’ll be able to get some pictures. How about Friday around one o’clock out at the kennel?” The kennel is located in west central Moore County on about 800 acres. Mills Hodge, another bird dog aficionado, actually owns the kennel, and he and Rich work closely training the dogs. The big difference in the two is that Rich owns and works English pointers, and his good friend Mills owns and works English setters. There is a lot of friendly competition going on all the time.
When I arrived that Friday, Rich and Robert were already there getting things ready for the afternoon training session. I hadn’t seen Robert since Rich and I ventured up to Michigan to hunt grouse. At that time, we again used Robert’s expertise and his dogs to locate wild birds.
Robert hadn’t changed a bit. A young ball of fire, he still has the enthusiasm and skill required to turn young dogs into champions. There are 42 dogs in his training camp; but on this outing, he would only take four: Rich’s two pointers, an Irish setter, and an English setter. Robert is from Quakake, a small town in Pennsylvania where he has his kennel. He has been a professional bird dog trainer since 1994; and in that time, he has won about 80 field trials. When I expressed my amazement, he modestly replied, “Tom, those are in the past; it’s the trials and the dogs in the future that count.”
When I drove up, Rich walked over to the car. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but Rich never changes. An amazing individual at 82, he seems half his age and can outdo many people much younger. Rich and his lovely bride, Penny, retired to Pinehurst in 1995 after he served as assistant school superintendent in Horseheads, New York. An avid golfer, Rich plays three or four times a week and is a member of the renowned Tin Whistles, founded in1904 and the oldest golfing fraternity in the country. He has won several tournaments with that esteemed organization. When he’s not playing golf, he’s out working his dogs. I met Rich shortly after he retired, and I consider myself a better man for it.
“Bryant, limp on over here. In a minute we’re gonna put you in this four-wheeler and show you some pretty dog work.” Robert loaded the dogs in their crates in the back of the vehicle and left to put out birds for the dogs to find during the work session.
“Here’s the shotgun.” Rich handed me a 20-gauge Remington 1100 and a handful of shells. “Now don’t get upset,” he said as I started to protest. “You only have to shoot one time. We just want to take some pictures. You don’t even have to hit the bird.”
It didn’t take Robert long to finish his chores, and we crammed into the vehicle and headed out through the pines. A little way into the longleaf pine forest, Robert pulled over and got Bud, Rich’s champion pointer, out of the carrier. Bud was runner-up national champion last year, and this year has a real opportunity to take first place. We drove a bit farther down the sand path with Bud hunting in front. All of a sudden, he locked up on point like a statue. If there is anything prettier than a bird dog on point, I don’t know what it is. We piled out of the vehicle and Rich said, “Tom, here’s your chance. Don’t miss.” Chuckling all the time.
Robert eased up to me and quietly said, “I’ll jump the bird. Be ready.”
I loaded the 20-gauge and watched as Robert slowly edged into the undergrowth. Then it happened; a bird the size of a chicken burst from the cover, cackling like a demented pterodactyl. It was a great big cock pheasant. I almost dropped the gun. I was expecting a little quail, and this monster flew out of the brush right over my head. I did have the wherewithal to swing the shotgun and get the bird as he was going away.
Rich and Robert almost doubled over, they were laughing so hard. I was set up. Rich said, “Tom, I remembered that you had never shot a pheasant, and I had the good luck to acquire this one for you. He’s going to be great on the dinner table with your ducks.”
The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and I got to watch some superior dogs at work. On the drive home, I thought back to John’s question of how much longer we’d be able to do this. If Rich Warters is an example, it’s gonna be a long time. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.
