In praise of hunting and fishing, and male bonding.

Parents pass along treasures to their offspring, the greatest of which are their genes, values and passions. In a family of three children I've never regretted being the one granted the fishing and hunting gene.

Growing up in northern New Brunswick, I puppy-dogged my Dad in almost everything he did, which usually included being on the water, fresh or salt, and in the woods. Fly-fishing and bird hunting were included. Pictures in the family album show me somewhere around the age of two or three years, trying to hold up my end of a line of trout and salmon - some taller than I was.

Those fishing years are vividly carved in my memory. On trout fishing brooks and rivers I was always cautioned to not make a noise: that would scare the fish. Do you know how difficult that is for a youngster? It wasn't until years later that I realized the fish couldn't hear me-my Dad just wanted to fish, not talk!

I did the same with my own children.

The bird hunting passion began a bit later when Dad would take me on canoe trips in the fall. He believed that time in the wilderness was as important a part of my education as the three Rs. For a week or two we would run the river, camping along the way, using the canoe pole, tarp and fir boughs for accommodation.

These were pre-duct tape days; the canoe was patched with pitch from spruce trees.

Meals consisted of stew made over an open fire with the root vegetables we packed. Grouse (or partridge) was a welcome addition to the potatoes, carrots, turnips and onions, so hunting was a part of every day. The rule was that we ate what we shot, and only once did I make the mistake of shooting a spruce partridge!

I know the thought of shooting birds doesn't appeal to everyone-in fact it may make some a bit squeamish. However I have no problem with it as long as the hunter isn't greedy. One or two for the pot is OK.

The things that appeal to me most in upland game bird hunting are the skill of the hunter and his relationship with his dog. I say "his" because I've only ever hunted with men, all superb shots.

My favourite is woodcock hunting. There's music in the moment when the dog flushes the bird, the hunter's gun comes up, and the shot is fired. I get the bubble-in-the-gut feeling of exhilaration every time the bird, gun and dog are in concert. More birds continue their journey than are shot, but if dead on target, the gunner and I express a silent farewell to its spirit.

Having spent a great deal of time as the only female on sport fishing excursions, I've grown to appreciate the sounds and physical expressions of comradeship among men. I've always found the sound of men talking and laughing together especially appealing. More reserved than women, they demonstrate their friendship or praise through body language and facial expressions. Messages are passed silently-a handshake and slap on the shoulder, eyes twinkling in the corners, the genuine smile.

Last November, friends Jamie Armour and Charles Driza allowed me to be party to their pleasure on a bird-hunting jaunt. Charles, who runs an outfitting lodge in Maine, came over to join Jamie in a woodcock hunt. Picture it: a honkin' big black truck pulling up to a huge field of grasses, hillocks, trees and brambles. Out of the truck pour the two hunters in blaze orange attire with guns, a dog, and moi in tow.

In search of pheasants, we headed toward the brambles-suddenly a cock pheasant flushed and Jamie was on the mark. Down it came, retrieved by Molly, his springer spaniel. One was sufficient for the moment-my mind quickly darted to a sauce prepared with morel mushrooms and calvados. As we wended our way back across the grassy area, Molly retrieved a snipe downed by Charles.

Two birds in the bag… dinner was growing! That was when the guys decided to go for the gusto: a Grand Slam! The hunters were in search of a pheasant, grouse, woodcock and snipe. Most Grand Slams take years, so the heat was on-this was to be done in a day! Not an easy objective, especially since grouse were few and most woodcock were on their way south.

The rest of the morning was spent in fruitless search. After a lunch of burgers and liquid refreshment Charles bagged a grouse. (Cream and brandy darted into my mind.)

Now the Grand Slam search was serious-one more to go! For me this was the most exciting. Woodcock, which I think are the tastiest of the game birds, get up to full speed in a few seconds, flying in an erratic pattern that allows them to avoid being shot. They are normally found in moist woodland coverts, usually alder and evergreens, and feed on earthworms.

We hunted covert after covert. In each, Charles hunted in the alders with one of his English pointers; Jamie and I stayed on the perimeter. Communication was "Yo Charles" or "Yo Jamie" to establish position. I was peripheral to the hunt, an interloper enjoying every moment of the dance. My pleasure was in being attuned to their skill, their attention to safety, their relationship with the dogs and friendship with each other.

Then it happened, in the last covert: a woodcock was downed by crackshot Jamie. It was probably the last in the region and had remained, I'm sure, to be part of our Grand Slam Event. It was granted the highest of honours!

All birds were toasted and praised, backs were slapped and high fives conducted. Being a girl, I was allowed a quick congratulatory lips-to-lips touch-I'm sure this is not a part of their usual field ceremony!

Someday I'm going to create a new salmon fishing fly with the feathers ?of the four birds. I'll call it the Grand Slam Hooker.
It's been said that to fully appreciate life we should have a limited portfolio of interests. Age teaches us to whittle them down from the far too many garnered in youth. I've reached an age where I recognize that if the essential passion isn't in your heart and soul, don't bother.

Fishing and hunting are my passions - they provide adventure that enriches the soul and are great therapy. They keep like-minded people sane, out of trouble and usually sober, and give us solace and contentment.

I'm forever grateful to my Dad for passing his passions and genes on to me and mine. Can you see your parental influences in the next generations? Some of my grandchildren are demonstrating the genetic bug - Kate was born with a fire for fishing, Cindy has bagged her first grouse and is taking a gunsmithing course, and Kelly is coming east to fly-fish this year.

That's what roots are all about!