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186 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S to chef Doug Booker describing the menu items at the start of each meal. All of these things made our experience truly special. As a passionate "foodie" with a number of game-related cookbooks to my name, it was gratifying to see harvested birds used to fine advantage in dishes such as curry pheasant, coconut chukar, and chukar picotta; to enjoy eggs over a small ladling of heavy cream and topped with cheese baked to perfection in ramekins; and to have my sweet tooth coddled with the likes of crème brûlée French toast, white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, and flourless chocolate cake. Our hosts, Mindy and Dennis McNab, made sure conversation and camaraderie at the communal table matched the thrice- daily measure of culinary pleasure. The couple and their ever-attentive staff managed to convey a consistent level of warmth and hospitality, which made everyone feel special. It was almost as if you had become part of a newly found family. Delightfully welcome though they were, all these touches amounted to, in effect, little more than an impressive assemblage of extras. They would have been more than sufficient to lessen disappointment or somewhat offset vexation with indifferent success afield, but as is the case with any outing of this sort, the essence of the experience must focus on what happens while hunting. Fortunately, there were no worries whatsoever in that regard. We hunted in groups of three with a guide and stellar canine support in the mixed form of flushing and pointing dogs. The first half-day saw each of our trio taking at least one bird of all four species in something outside of anyone's control: Throughout the trip the area experienced unusually warm weather for the end of September, with afternoon temperatures rising into the low 80s. That presented obvious problems related to scent and potential dehydration for the dogs, not to mention sapping the stamina of a fellow who is a bit long of tooth and rotund of figure. Wisely, though, Highland Hills had big tubs filled with water scattered strategically across the sprawling 3,000-acre terrain where we hunted. Frequent stops for the dogs to wallow in the water and drink their fill, while humans rested and rehydrated, made things manageable. I certainly needed those breaks, because the 15,000-plus steps my Fitbit recorded each day, with a goodly portion of them being in terrain that was anything but level, far exceeded my normal daily quota of exercise. A n initial half-day of warm-up shooting let us get to know the other hunters (Linda, her Mossberg colleague Dave Miles, Steve Comus from Safari Club publications, freelance writer Wayne van Zwoll, and John Parker from the NRA), become accustomed to the guns, and establish a relationship with the staff. The early going also gave us a taste of the overall Highland Hills experience. Little touches like cold towels handed to you upon arrival after each session afield to a perfectly chilled beer to accompany the day's-end gun cleaning, meals at a massive table where each guest presented a capsule autobiography to the assembled group, and delectable hors d'oeuvres served alongside an impressively stocked "serve yourself" bar A s someone fortunate enough to have come of age in the latter years of the bobwhite's golden era, not to mention having been blessed by growing up in a family where hunting was an integral and important part of life, flying feathers and staunch dog work have always held a corner of my sporting soul. Accordingly, when Mossberg's Linda Powell extended an invitation to join her and a few others at Oregon's Highland Hills Ranch, I accepted with the same sort of excitement associated with an adolescent's first gun. Moreover, there were other considerations that put me in a sort of "Christmas in September" frame of mind. One was the fact that our group of hunters would be putting two newly introduced Mossberg scatterguns—the 20-gauge SA-20 All-Purpose Field autoloader and 12-gauge Model 930 Pro-Series Sporting shotgun— through their paces. Similarly, Linda noted that each day we would have the opportunity to pursue a wingshooting grand slam— chukar, pheasant, quail, and Hungarian partridge. Throw in a section of the country where I'd never hunted, an operation that featured superlatives aplenty, including twice being recognized as the Orvis-endorsed "Wingshooting Lodge of the Year," and a much-needed break from a stressful situation in my personal life connected with a family member's health—the picture should begin to emerge with some clarity. This would prove to be a cross-country pilgrimage bearing every promise of being the cherry atop a bird hunter's sundae. That promise and my expectations were fulfilled in a fashion taking me straight back to a phrase often uttered by adults during my childhood. Their words came from the "mountain talk" used in the heart of the Appalachians where I grew up. Whenever someone wanted to describe an event, outing, or special occasion that went wonderfully well and produced ample joy, they described it as having had a "high old time." Based on a bit of background research and knowing from past experience that Linda Powell excelled in arranging outings such as the one that lay before me, I fully anticipated having a high old time at Highland Hills. Virtually every aspect of my "I can't wait to be there" suspense would be fulfilled in glorious fashion. The sole exception was photograph by terry allen