An unusual bird hunt: on U.S. 29 median

I once went bird hunting in the median strip on U.S. 29. It was one of many amazing adventures in my 43 years as a Virginia outdoorsman. Here's how it happened.

In the late 1970s, there were lots of quail in Virginia and bird hunting was my passion. At the time I had a young setter named Hunter -- the best dog I've ever had. Hunter never, ever busted a quail. He would hold a point for hours and would hunt until every fiber of his being was exhausted. This dog was intense, to say the least. When I opened the door of my car to let him out of the back seat, I had to move quickly or I would be bowled over by a simulated buffalo stampede.

But every bird hunter needs a truck, not a car door to open, and I finally bought one. It was a '68 Chevy with a good bit of rust, but it was a truck and it was mine.

At the time my neighbor, Donald Ramirez, was my regular bird-hunting companion and was delighted that I bought a truck. That is, until he had to ride with Hunter perched in his lap on the way to and from bird hunts. The "riding to" wasn't nearly so bad as the "riding from" part, when Hunter was usually wet, dirty, full of briars and sometimes had the remains of rotten animal parts embedded in his fur. Hunter liked to roll on dead things, for some reason.

When that happened, Donald complained bitterly.

"Can't you put the dog in the back?" Donald pleaded.

Well, I could, but I didn't have a camper shell or a dog box and Hunter, as intense as he was, would have bounded from the truck at the first opportunity.

One day I had an idea, which Donald always said was a dangerous thing. My plan was to tie a cord from one side of the truck bed to the other, then run the cord through Hunter's collar.

Brilliant!

Now my dog would be unable to escape the back of the truck, but could move from side to side, and I allowed a little slack so he could lay down. Best of all, I wouldn't have to listen to Donald griping about the last dead possum Hunter rolled in.

On a chilly December morning, we secured Hunter to the cord in the back of the truck and shoved off.

"Much better," we both agreed, until we came to the highway, Route 29 to be exact, and had to drive up to a crossover in order to head back south. At the crossover, we had to wait for traffic to pass, then eased out on the highway and took off. I had just shifted into second gear when I glanced in my side mirror and saw Hunter running along beside the truck on his hind legs, with his neck still secured to the rope in the back of the truck. He was doing about 25 mph -- not bad for two feet. Hunter had jumped out of the back of the truck at the crossover, thinking it was time to go hunting.

"Holy #*&@!" I said and quickly pulled as far off the highway as I could in an effort to get Hunter back in the vehicle. When I stopped, and with trucks and cars blowing their horns and barreling past, Hunter pulled free from his collar and began checking out the median strip, looking for quail.

On my first two attempts, Hunter dodged my capturing efforts and was starting to cross the highway when I did a Flying Wallenda leap, pinned him down, picked him up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him in the front seat with Donald -- just as a Greyhound bus whizzed by at 60 mph.

We had a good hunt in Nelson County that day -- 10 birds between us.

But the ride home was unusually quiet, as we had all the windows down after Hunter had rolled on a dead cow he found in a sinkhole.

The next week I bought a used camper shell. Next to my .410 Remington 1100, it was the best purchase I've ever made.

In hindsight, Route 29 is a very scenic and historic highway, but not such a great place to bird hunt.