Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/787068
bottomland clay. It seemed a damn-fool way to count grouse numbers, and the wisdom of such was widely jawed and adjudicated whenever bird hunters gathered in barroom or café, where the intemperate suggested a porcupine pellet count instead. But it worked. That year it was 1.4 thumps per stop, if memory serves. And that was good enough for us. Deuce had four birds and I had three, and we knew we would pick up one more on the walk to the pickup, back where the road played out a mile or more away. Oh, what country that was, and what times we had in it. And it came to pass in those days, an ancient Norse custom was practiced upon the Winter Solstice, the almost-virgins prowling the land looking for men with big woodpiles, as they had since the days of Ragnar the Unwashed, the great Viking king. Perilous times for single men of sufficient means and negotiable leisure— Hey, baby, you got any rolling papers? There was an opposite and equal reaction upon the melting of the ice and the greening of the grass, after long months cooped with a less-than-perfect match. The Spring Run-Off, we called it. Lord knows Deuce loved Lena, but sometimes loving till it hurts just hurts worse. Fine-boned, blonde, blue-eyed, and freckled, she was a jaw-dropping Nordic beauty, but there was something broken way down deep inside. Lena had a twin sister who took to running with a rough crowd and died in an auto accident that maybe wasn't an accident at all. Lena would visit the grave on the anniversary of her sister's death, and then there would be hell to pay. Popping pills, slugging whiskey, falling down stairs, several pickups smashed, steaming and gurgling upside down in ditches and sloughs, and Deuce following up the trail, not knowing at each curve if his beloved was alive or dead. Lena got the house and the dogs. Deuce got the shotguns, the bills, and the Supreme Court. Lena was his favorite hunting companion, and I don't think he ever shot grouse after that. Deuce never took another wife, but he found new sport in trailing bobcats in deep snow with long- legged Walker hounds. If you don't know Walker dogs, you should. Sprung from English foxhounds imported into Kentucky in the 1850s, the Walker is an heirloom American breed. 35 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S