The day dawns crisp, with the eternal promise that wags the tails of dogs and stirs the hearts of hunters. A breath from the skies touches the shimmering stalks, and they sway as a choir: gently, softly. Our congregation silently offers up prayers to gods adorned in fine feathers.

For on every seventh day we return to this place wearing our Saturday vests to find calm, brutal truth, and acceptance in the field—a walking meditation guided by the pure and eager spirits of dogs.

We gather in the parking lot narthex with smiles and a few words, leaning in to combat the chill and entice the hour that will mark our first steps into the hunt. As we wait for the sermon of the brace to begin, we prepare the instruments of ritual meticulously and with familiar rhythm. One of us pours water into a bucket and places it in the shade beneath the truck. The stoup is checked and blessed by the dogs with a sniff as they wordlessly promise to return to it so that it may wash the feathers from their gums and grant saving laps. Shotguns are prepared and compared, ammunition stood and counted, and weather forecasts shared with studious care. We lock the trucks, clock the wind direction and speed one final time, load our shotguns, and release the hounds on furry wings.

With the launch of silent, pawed runners into the wind, our quietly giddy congregation sorts itself between the aisles created by sagebrush and willows, sharing fellowship and peace as we settle into a pace and pattern developed for observing dogs, noting cover, and exchanging expectant looks and gentle chatter.

We move through the fields together, hearts and feet aligned. The soft tug of sagebrush on pant legs draws our eyes downward briefly to check the next step, then we lift their eyes and voices together again to encourage dogs and share thoughts on our path, then we bow our heads back down to avoid a misstep on iced-over mud. Our party takes the occasional pause, calling dogs back in answer to a lifted paw or a long tongue. We alternate kneeling on the sacred ground to meet our hunting companions eye-to-eye as we pour water or pull a cactus spine from the soft skin between tough pads. Each time a hunter takes a knee, we then smile upon standing to witness the dogs fly off once more on their wholly focused crusade.

Blessed be those who point in the direction of coveys. Their spirits are pure, their tails ever truthful. We acknowledge the dogs’ request for attention and collectively turn our faces and our hopes forward. We approach in silent, faith-ful steps. In a rush—in one sacred, shared moment, the fowl lift themselves from the Earth, and the entire assemblage also lifts its eyes to the skies. In synchrony, we hoist our Kembers, our Mirkels, our CZs to shoulders and marry them with our gaze in the direction of the blood of flight and glory. As we raise our eyes and arms skyward, we fire, our steadfast conviction now heaven-bound.

The smell of gunpowder wafts through the party as we celebrate and praise, incense solidifying the service in hearts and memories. And when our chief companions return with warm, feathered gifts, we genuflect to receive them and to give thanks. Good Dog, Good, Dog, Good Dog.

Our flock gathers here these days for this moment of revelation, yes, and each has their own reason beneath the surface. To commune, to conquer, to observe, to provide presence and to find delight, to gather lessons we can carry forth, to celebrate, to explore, to find familiarity, to simplify or simply to try. Peace rests in the sound of frozen grasses against boots, the smile of a panting dog, the camaraderie of walking shoulder to shoulder, the sharp punctuation between death and life.

Some of our rituals and beliefs reveal themselves to be antiquated, others are rooted in tradition, and still others have proven to be not only just, but also of sound science. And a few are more harmless superstitions than faith.

1 One simple dogma guides us to honour the pointers’ noses, even when our eyes are tempted to false draws and hollers.

²Another dictates that we only take a few birds from any covey in a single day.

³ We never cross ourselves on lines of fire, though they may be conservative, and we trust in the calls of our row.

⁴ Some of us carry their guns with barrels empty, others with pre-selected shells for close and long shots, still others with trust in the blindly selected shells from the pocket; we all agree that everything has an order and every primer has its season.

⁵ We give sincere thanks at the table, as well as afield, for the creatures aloft who gave their lives for our comfort and joy.

⁶ We look to the dog trackers in our hands too frequently rather than focusing up ahead and we waste as little of the harvest as possible, so that nothing—neither dog nor sustenance—be lost.

Regardless of what each seeks or how we practice, our souls and hearts mend a bit each time we faithfully congregate at the tailgate to commemorate a concluded hunt. With tired, content angels at our feet, the blessed water now host to floating feathers and the foam of canine slobber, we gently place our quarry along the tailgate, tidying colorful feathers while reflecting on death, beauty, and purpose. Empty shotguns frame the birds laid to rest, creating an altar to the hunt and their lives. Crackers and refreshments are passed between the members, and we naturally come to stand shoulder to shoulder before the tailgate. As we face this makeshift altar, the sun sends down heat to warm our dressed-up shoulders. We bask in the warm glow of the company and of the shared experience. Here, we share lessons, give thanks to the feathered and furred, grant praise to one another, and bestow upon the dogs the holy rite of finishing off cold breakfast burritos. We speak over one another in familiar verse: “God, that point she had over by the willow … your shot on that rooster … what a retrieve he had … I still don’t know how I missed that first bird…!” as we adore what we long sought, give thanks, and admit errors.

Some days, we are forced to ask ourselves what wrongs we committed to drive the birds out of the Eden before we arrived. On those days, we confess our sins to the dogs, sorrowful and contrite. Though some may secretly give thanks for the forgiven task of cleaning and packaging the body of the bird, we all reflect solemnly. And we will remain repentant until we return the following Saturday morning, hopeful to become worthy of the redemption already granted by those higher, furrier beings.

As the sermon and conversation fade, we approach our respective driver-side doors, almost reluctant to reach for the handles. We will gather here again soon—joyful hearts, cold noses, and clear eyes from a brief pilgrimage into the wild—to worship at the altar of the tailgate in rugged communion.