Marvin's Time

Shaking hands across the table, I immediately pegged Marvin Shutters as Pennsylvania Amishman. His thick gray beard and high cheekbones were a dead giveaway. It's risky diving into your potential supervisor's culture during a job interview, but it seemed necessary. Although not actually Amish, Marvin was from Pennsylvania Amish country. He and I shared roots of the same Appalachian longitude, and I could see it in him. What I couldn't see was that Marvin would later become my one consistent upland hunting partner, sharing the unusually deep passion for running dogs on the prairie, photographing the hunt, and pondering shotguns.

Over the years, Marvin and I learned a lot about each other and how our dogs worked, reading every aspect of their body language, right down to knowing when they were scenting pheasant versus covey birds. Logging 100 miles or more over wheat stubble and grasslands, we shared some of the best pheasant hunts I've experienced in our corner of Washington.

Marvin was there the morning I tumbled my first pheasant over puppy Zeta. That same morning, I connected on my first Hungarian partridge (Hun) as we both shot into a covey of about 20 birds over my girl Finn. He was along the morning Finn and I bagged our second limit of roosters. The birds were so thick that I swapped Finn out for Zeta to get her more bird exposure.

Marvin had two roosters in the bag, so we ran Zeta and his pup, Felix, for his third. As Zeta dropped out of sight about 100 yards distant, my Garmin tracker beeped "point." Zeta has a fine nose and style, but her glory lies in flushing birds. When the tracker showed her standing longer than three seconds, I urged Marvin to get moving.

"Get over there Marv! Go, go! Zeta is not going to hold long." I yelled.

Marvin hunted on his own time and felt no urgency in the moment. He was halfway to Zeta when several roosters busted in the distance, earning Zeta an electric zap for her blunder. Luckily, young Felix hunted up his first Palouse rooster for Marvin's limit shortly after.

Another time we were high above Marengo hunting Huns behind Yuba, who was catching a fleeting scent as she cast across the ridgetop. A flash-point slowed her pursuit, and she began tracking moving birds – slowly, carefully, methodically. Two more "unproductive" points identified pheasant rather than Huns, and I clued Marvin in that she was working on cutting off a rooster that had snugged up his running shoes.

Dashing left and sky-lining on the ridgetop, Yuba went long before slamming onto point with the confirming intensity of a bird nearby. Again, I yelled to Marvin to get moving.

"Get over there Marv! Go, go! That's a running rooster, and he won't sit long. Circle wide and approach Yuba head-on." I coached.

Marvin made it again on his own time, and the bird miraculously sat in wait. The cackling eruption of the football-sized rooster painted against the bluebird sky befuddled Marvin into a miss, as roosters so famously do. We never found Huns, but Yuba went on to pin several other roosters, with one falling to both Marvin and me by the end of the hunt. The dog work and setting remain etched into frail memory as one of our best days afield.

Unfortunately, no matter how we take time into our own hands, we cannot control it in the grand scheme of life. At just 54 years young, Marvin had grown weary of battling aggressive cancer. His time to hunt the pristine prairies of another life came on September 28th, 2021.

When meeting new acquaintances, hunters share our best stories, and I hear myself telling of hunts with Marvin more often than not. My recollection of yelling for Marvin to "get over there" for the flush suggests it was an every-hunt occurrence. Marvin moved as if hurry would sully the experience, like rushing the maturation of a fine single malt whiskey. Those who knew him well might agree that he was more likely distracted by calculating the odds of various flush trajectories while en route. I wonder now if he approached his new journey with the same contemplative dawdling or a newfound zeal?

It was comforting to know that Marvin was as easily flustered by the rush of wings as I, and he always hunted for the dog and the experience above all else. I like to think that Marvin was there in spirit on this year's pheasant opener, holding Zeta from breaking point, as I flushed and downed her first flawless solo rooster find. I had the parcel and birds to myself – a situation I typically savor. Despite the Zeta's skillful display and working with Yuba to put a limit in the vest, the hunt felt strangely unremarkable.

I suspected as much before his passing, but it is now confirmed. Days afield are incomplete sans Marvin's hyper-analytical discussion of shotguns and quick wit, making a fool of me with adept subtlety. The Palouse will never hunt the same without him.