Meanderings of a Snake Meadow Editor
by
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Sunday, January 27 was a day to long remember. I almost lost my dog to a cold and icy death.
“Hey Paul, my wife and I will be leaving on a cruise for ten days next week. Bill’s watching Katie; can you babysit Molly?” Of course I agreed to his request because Greg is my friend and hunting partner. Molly, his English setter, is a sibling of my Mr. Jing. Both were purchased together as six-week-old puppies from Plainfield, Vermont.
The last time Greg left Molly with me she decided to play hide and seek when I was running the two dogs on my acreage. No problem; she was just “hiding” for awhile and soon rejoined us. During that brief interim of concern, which seemed much longer at the time, I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose a friend’s dog on my watch.
Placing my Dogtra around Molly’s neck, we started out on our every-other-day run on this particular Sunday, a great day to be alive. The shadows were starting to lengthen as we headed through grown-up pasture starting to look more like pole-timber. The dogs were well under control as we passed through the Woodcock Singing Ground and into the cover from which I had cut this year’s supply of mixed hardwoods, a promising grouse cover if I ever saw one. Then the dogs became more anxious for a find as they started to stretch out.
Continuing through the heavy cover, I depended more and more on my whistle to keep the two big-running dogs within occasional eyesight. Crossing through the bar-way where the woods open up to saw-timber, the dogs rushed down the hill, continued along the water-filled woods road and proceeded up over the next rise. “Whoa!” I shouted when the duo disappeared over the ridge to the right leading to Beaver Dam. I forged ahead. After a tap on the transmitter, Molly, followed by Jing, appeared on the main path before the stream crosses over the rip rap-bottomed road. We exited the northern boundary of my property and headed toward the gated blacktop road to Stony Brook Reservoir—open only to infrequently-used service vehicles—belonging to the Norwich Department of Public Utilities and the occasional walker. Their employees know me as the adjacent landowner who is seen frequently walking his dog(s) even though, technically, trespassers are not allowed.
Down, down, down we went toward the earthen dam at the bottom of the access road where the blacktop ends and where walkers cross the eastern boundary of the waterway. The dogs continued coursing back and forth on both sides of the road, keeping in touch perfectly. Just before we reached the bottom of the hill, I heard and then saw the flush of a resident flock of goldeneyes from the reservoir beyond the ice to my left. When I reached the bottom, Molly heeled to my call, and we started across the dam. But where was Jing? My eyes searched the area; I called, I whistled. No Jing. Then I heard a bark. Where? Again, a bark. I tried to focus on the sound that seemed to be coming from out in the reservoir.
Suddenly I heard splashing out on the open water. I located the sound and then, to my horror (Jing was thrashing around in the potable water supply!), saw him desperately trying to get a foothold on the ice about fifty yards from shore. I watched my helpless dog for a few seconds, realized what was happening, and then panicked in fear of his life. Gingerly at first, but with no second thoughts about falling through the ice myself, I gradually worked my way out over the smooth surface, conscious of crackling sounds below and around me, my eyes peeled straight ahead watching Jing’s futile attempts to lift himself up on solid ice.
I could see Jing’s self-rescue wasn’t going to happen, as his struggle began to lessen from exhaustion. When within ten feet, I bellied over the black and thinning ice to lower the center of gravity and to spread my weight, stuck out my arm and met Jing’s desperate outstretched paw in my palm. Would the ice hold our weight? Luckily, it did. Jing whined a little but with a dual effort, my dog was back on the ice and nonchalantly headed toward shore on his own like nothing had happened, I an emotional and physical wreck, looking up, moist-eyed, thanking the Maker. Our reunion would have to wait for solid ground, as I carefully followed Jing to the rip rap base of the dam.
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About the Book
This is a book of essays about upland hunting experiences, bird dogs, noteworthy authors who wrote books about upland hunting, celebrated entrepreneurs in the shotgun-producing industry, favorite upland painters whose subjects were dogs and men in the field, fine double shotguns, a few short stories and several miscellaneous subjects, most related to the upland shooting life. This book also offers historical, environmental, philosophical and aesthetical observations of a long-time rural landowner. A fellow bird hunter, Dick Curriden, of Greenville, Maine also contributed witty and humorous words of a highly respected sportsman in the form of letters written to me over the years.
The title, Meanderings of a Snake Meadow Editor, originates from the well-known 1925-established Snake Meadow Club, Inc., located in the towns of Plainfield and Killingly in eastern Connecticut, of which I have been quarterly newsletter editor for the past twenty-two years. This has afforded me the opportunity to write a column or two in every publication. These rather brief paragraphs in the newsletters have been expanded and, with few exceptions, resulted in the essays that comprise this book.
About the Author
The author is a life-long Connecticut Yankee with family roots tracing back to the Mayflower. A retired bank official, he has lived most of his life on and around acreage farmed by his ancestors since the early 1700s. His life passions are the outdoors, the English setters he trains and loves, the native birds he hunts in New England and eastern Canada, and the scarce and coveted upland books and art that can be found in his extensive library.
He helps us understand his hunting ethic by giving us insight into his heritage and who his heroes are. Through these descriptions, we see the basis for his standards. There was never a question as to why he believes in this sport and how it is to be played.
When he speaks of the land, he recalls an earlier ethic. This ethic, born on early New England hillsides, is still practiced by the author. He talks of the husbandry and devotion to his own land, and what it means for the birds. He decries the loss of open land and begrudgingly accepts the emasculation of it where birds are ever increasingly betrayed by development.