The kathomp, kathomp, kathomp of my heartbeat in the headphones is getting annoying.
They call them ear defenders in Spain. One wears them on a driven shoot instead of the foam throw-away earplugs I typically use. My peg, at the end of a slippery red clay road, washed out by last night’s rain, is the last of the line of guns and at the bottom of a tall hill. I look up the sides of the steep, oak-lined hills directly to my front. The birds will be coming from the tops and maybe the sides of the hills. Driven by flag-carrying beaters and their dogs, they will be smallish and hauling ass like red-legged partridges do.
The oaks look a lot like the squat and bushy North Carolina or Texas live oaks, their leaves green and thick on the hillsides. I look to make sure that there are no beaters down range, then harder at the hill crest for the first birds. Will they be fifty yards up and curving like the last drive? I hope not. The owner, a Spanish woman named Paxtie, is joining us for this drive. I better tee it up right this time. My loader is sitting on a stool next to me with my second side by side and a lap full of shotgun ammo. My Secretario, who keeps track of my shells and birds, stands behind me on the other side. Both look like they could be partisans straight out of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Very little English is spoken except with Paxtie.
Again with the kathomp, kathomp, kathomp. Louder in my ears now and more annoying as the stress and excitement increases. This is only my fourth day of driven shooting ever and I want to do it well. I pivot for a quick look at my wife, Ava, sitting next to Patxie in a wooden folding chair, kitted out in traditional driven shooting attire- tweed jacket, tall leather boots, and a leather peg bag. Patxie wears Khaki pants and a green long-sleeve cotton shirt, safari style but worn in. She is sitting on the ground. Her father was friends with the King of Spain and she is locally revered for her ability to hunt wild boar on horseback. I had taken a quick look at her Andalusian horses already - incredibly glamourous horse flesh in her mind-blower of a tack room with the greater kudu head on the wall. A distinct Pop, pop in the headphones. There are a couple of shots down the line to the left.
At least I won’t have to take the first bird of the drive. Here they come now, dark shapes darting through the trees and now one into blue sky and over my right shoulder, a safe shot but dodging and swooping, a difficult bird for sure. The gun comes up and the barrels seem to swing themselves in front of the partridge and keep moving. Bang. There’s the serious recoil from the straight grip 12 gauge. The barrels jump and I momentarily lose sight of the bird.
“Bravo!” says Paxtie.
The bird carves out a long arc, thumping down near where a young man is standing with a vizsla on a leash. He is part of the pick-up team. Most of them are up on the hill out of the way but several are scattered about along the line.
“Senor.”
The loader wants my shotgun. I hand it back behind my left side without looking. He takes it and places the second gun in my hand perfectly on the grip just below the safety. “Thank you,” I say in English. I’ll try to say it in Spanish next time.
“Senor, the right.”
I hear urgency. My eyes quickly go back to the hills and the birds. They are coming on strong now, groups of five or six strung out and incoming crossers to both sides. I am too late for several, a mistake to watch the shot bird to the ground. The barrels follow my eyes to a high bird crossing over my left. Bang.
“Bravo!” says Paxtie.
Another to the right with the rear trigger. Bang. Nope, either high or behind or both. I hand the gun back and keep looking. There are more and they keep coming. The high ones you can see in time. But there are plenty of the ones that pop up seemingly from nowhere, needing the quick swing and intuitive, over the shoulder shot. Intense focus while the game is on, constantly thinking about my footing, not shooting under the horizon, and putting the gun back on safe before I hand it back to Carlos. The drive quickly becomes short, fast-moving vignettes- birds on birds jetting by at different angles, swinging side-by-side barrels going in front of the target, the hard bite of the trigger guard smashing backward against my middle knuckle. There is a continuing chorus of “Bravos!”. It is positively raining birds at one point and I am ten for ten. Not necessarily the norm for me but I’ll take it when it happens. The smooth transaction of exchanging guns with Carlos builds confidence and I seemingly can’t miss until, expecting to see a hit bird, I stop the gun and look over the barrel on the shot.
“You stopped the gun,” Paxtie says.
A hit, a miss, and another hit with the beaters now close and in plain view on the hillside. The horn sounds. No mas. I turn and thank Carlos. What a pageant for a wing shooter. Paxtie propels herself up and off the ground like Marianela Nunez on stage. Or maybe Bo Jackson. She is clearly pleased. Ava is smiling. She gives me a high five. I shake hands with Carlos and the Secretario and then Ava and I follow Paxtie back to the washed-out road up the hill where we’ll have the Spanish version of Elevenses- usually some warm consumee, Iberian ham, and some sausages on toast. A bit of Champagne or Rioja. The Iberian ham is not to be missed.
My buddy Vic Venters, best of friends since the second grade, stands two pegs up the hill with his wife, Leigh. His team is busy tallying up his birds with the dog handlers. We are walking by and slow a few steps while they fall in with us. “Well, Mr. Trask, how did you do.” It is a statement, for me to acknowledge what a privilege it is to be here, rather than a question. Nonetheless, it does require a response. “Pretty decent place to be,” I say.
Most American shooters are a little skeptical. The formal attire and the need for good manners and some degree of structure can be a little off-putting for those with a rebellious streak. For me, I enjoyed participating in another country’s shooting cultures. I like the kit worn in a formal British shoot and truly enjoyed the less dressy attire required for Spain. It wouldn’t work for flooded timber in Arkansas and it would get shredded by Red Hills briars, but it makes historical sense for the task at hand and respects the universal passions shared by sports folk worldwide.
About the Author
Raiford Trask III is president of Trask Land Company, Inc. where he is responsible for financial, strategic, and long-range planning. He's a sportsman and writer with credits in Salt Water Sportsman and Marlin Magazine amongst others.
