The forest is a tapestry of seemingly endless emerald mountains in the dew-laden stillness of western Oregon's wilds. This place I call home is a church of sorts, one I visit more now that I am a father than when I was simply a man. The day starts early, sunrise illuminating the cold morning’s mist. I hunt without dogs, not because I oppose it but because I haven’t yet been bested enough to appreciate it fully. Still, many of these morning walks for grouse and quail are seasoned with frustration and self-doubt.
The road I walk is expired, the soft crunch of leaves yielding beneath my boots as dawn’s wraithlike glow weaves through the trees. Each step is a plea to the forest to rouse its birds from their hidden roosts. Cradled in my arms, my over-under, feels like a weighted extension of my hopes. It is anticipation, tense and tight, coiled like a spring in a clock and ready to unleash at the slightest flutter in the foliage.
The forest's silence is a canvas; each potential shot a stroke of intent to harvest what the land might grant. These birds, much like the blacktail deer that share this wilderness, are wily spirits who dance just beyond reach, slipping like shadows through barriers of leaves and vision. Each empty-handed return is a testament to their savviness, the cunning with which they dress themselves in layers of near invisibility bringing equal measures of admiration and exasperation, something only hunters know.
As the morning light matures to richer hues of green and gold, the air is thick with the scent of wet earth and fir. I scrutinize each shuddering leaf, ears tuned for the subtlest beat of wings, craving only a brief chance. The murmurs of the trees sound like voices of derision. But then, a heart-stopping moment–a sudden burst of movement, a shadow against the sunlit canopy–and my over-under seems to leap to my shoulder unbidden, instinct and skill guiding my swing. #6 shot fulfills its purpose and puts a bird in my bag. Then, the silence returns like a wave washing over me. There is a raw beauty to this game of flush and pull this chase that is so much more than a harvest. There is the pursuit, the smile on my daughters' faces when they help me cook; those I love savoring food to which they are intimately connected.
The forest is a masterful teacher, generous and withholding all at once. It invites us to live in the moment, to embrace patience. This is the unspoken covenant between the hunter and the hunted, an age-old ritual that unfolds in nature's cathedral. Intent and humility are etched in every pursuit. The earth does not yield her treasures lightly; she demands respect, persistence, and the purest form of reverence for the lives that flutter on the precipice of the seen and unseen.
As the morning wanes and the day claims its full glory, I am left with a brace of quail and a full heart. The silence is not defeat. It is the powerful, echoing proclamation of life’s continuation, the beat of wings against the sky, the surety that the upland bird will rise tomorrow, and so will I.
About the Author
John Warren is an outdoor writer and photographer. He grew up hunting and fishing on the tribal lands and waters of Oregon. An adventurer at heart, his passion for storytelling has taken him across the globe to capture the essence of the wild. As a devoted father to three remarkable daughters and a proud veteran, John's rich life experiences infuse his work with authenticity and depth. For inquiries, collaborations, or to connect with John, please visit Outsidewriter.com
