Full Circle

This week, I stood in a firehouse classroom in Croydon, New Hampshire, volunteering as a Hunter Education instructor for the very first time. I wasn’t leading the lessons yet—mostly observing—but it felt like an important step. Outside the firehouse, within walking distance, was Spectacle Pond. It was there, several years ago, that I attended an Introduction to Ice Fishing course through New Hampshire Fish & Game. That free class had sparked something in me and, without my realizing it, had planted the seed for a new way of life.

As I drove home from the Hunter Ed class, the weight of the moment hit me. Seven years earlier, this journey had begun in the most unexpected way: with my American bulldog, Rosie, chasing down a rabbit in my yard. Standing over that rabbit, I was struck by its beauty and knew I didn’t want it to go to waste. I had no background in hunting, no clue what to do. So I turned to Google, learned how to clean and prepare it, and made a rabbit stew. That simple, spontaneous decision became the first thread in a story I could never have imagined for myself.

Curious and uncertain of where to begin, I sought out local hunting organizations. In February of that year, I attended a Backcountry Hunters & Anglers event in Dover, New Hampshire, where I watched Steve Rinella’s documentary Stars in the Sky. Two months later, on April 27, 2019—4/27, my grandfather’s favorite lottery number—I bought my first hunting license. I signed up for a mentored grouse and woodcock program through Fish & Game, having never even heard of either bird. Over four Saturdays, I learned about their habitat, shot clays for the first time, and finally joined my mentor, Wes Reed of Rise and Shine Retrievers, for a hunt with his dogs.

That October day was warm, the leaves just beginning to thin. When the first bird flushed—a woodcock—the world seemed to shift. I missed the shot entirely, but the spark was undeniable. Later, a grouse flushed and perched in a tree, and I stood there, captivated. The rhythm of the woods, the dogs working, the sudden burst of wings—it was mesmerizing. I knew then: I wanted to be a bird hunter.

The season that followed shaped me as much as the hunts themselves. A rainy, fruitless deer hunt taught me patience. A canceled turkey mentor class during Covid pushed me into the woods on my own, where I scouted, listened, and learned. That spring, I stumbled into a marsh alive with herons and wood ducks, a scene that felt pulled from Wendell Berry’s The Peace of Wild Things. I saw moose and bear for the first time. In the fall of 2020, I finally harvested squirrels and began to feel like a real hunter.

By 2021, the experience deepened. I helped a friend haul out his first deer, an emotional and exhausting task that underscored the weight of taking an animal’s life. That same fall, Rosie and I made the long drive north to Pittsburg, New Hampshire. Alone, using everything I had learned, I sought out grouse habitat. Every flush startled me, my heart racing with each burst of wings. On the last evening, as the light faded, I finally raised my gun, took the safety off and swung the barrel toward the bird—only to watch it disappear behind trees. Still, the moment confirmed what I already knew: this pursuit had become a part of me.

But Rosie was aging. I sensed my time with her was short, and I also knew that someday I would need a bird dog. Rosie passed away on October 25, 2022, just three days before my second trip to Pittsburg. On that trip, I crossed paths with a hunter and his beagle, Hatchet. When he explained they were rabbit hunting, I broke down in tears. The irony was almost too much to bear: meeting rabbit hunters after losing the dog whose chase of a rabbit had set my life on this path.

Over the next year, I researched dog breeds obsessively. One breed kept resurfacing: the Bracco Italiano. By chance—or fate—my friend attended a pheasant hunt where the guide’s dog was a Bracco. He returned with photos and the breeder’s contact information. After months of emailing breeders across the country, I discovered that this one, Bob, lived nearby. Bob became my mentor and, eventually, one of my close friends.

That spring, I brought home Pipp. Raising her—my first puppy, my first bird dog—was intimidating. Bob guided me through every step, making sure I understood what it meant to train and care for a true hunting companion.

Last season, I brought Rosie’s ashes back with me to the North Country and spread them there in her honor. She may not have been a bird dog, but in her own way she was my first hunting companion. That weekend, Pipp caught scent of something and took off with a drive I knew wasn’t for a bird. Moments later, a snowshoe hare darted across the trail with Pipp close behind. I didn’t have a safe shot, and that didn’t matter. I stood in the trail with tears in my eyes, watching the rabbit run, knowing that Rosie’s spirit was with us again.

I hope to hunt with Rob and Hatchet at some point this year. Since that day in Pittsburg, Rob and I have stayed connected. He now has two Brittanys, and each fall we bird hunt together. Those friendships, like the hunts themselves, feel like another thread in the larger circle of this story.

I look back on that first rabbit, those early classes, the failures and the lessons, and I see the arc of a story I didn’t know I was writing. Hunting has become part of my identity, woven into the fabric of who I am. It is more than a pursuit—it is a spiritual practice, a grounding force, a way of belonging in the world.

Driving home from Hunter Ed this week, I felt the weight of that circle closing, and opening again. Bird hunting—and now fly fishing—bring me a peace that feels deep and lasting. “How lucky am I”, I thought, “to lead such a life!”.