Train in short segments & train often. Patience.
Wirehaired Pointing Griffon
Kansas, Montana and Baja
Morgan started off a small-town farm boy and was led to a life of adventure and travels after a 14-month deployment to Iraq in 2003. He's worked in the outdoor industry for a number of years as a structure-and-wildland firefigher, a guiding fly fisherman – and most recently a hook-and-bullet editor. He currently works at MeatEater, focusing on conservation and gun dog content.
Bomber. The bond we created helped me tremendously while I was decompressing from Iraq. He was my adventure buddy, we went everywhere together.
Bobwhite quail, back home on the farm in Kansas
One of the last hunts I went on with my dad was late fall in 2018. He’s knees are pretty torn up from the farm and mechanic life, might be the last hunt I get to do with him. We set out on a small plot of land near our farm where we have access.
There are two milo fields with a small creek bottom running diagonally. Cottonwoods and plum thickets run the creek bottom, it’s the perfect habitat for healthy coveys of bobwhites.
Before starting the walk, my dad asks me if I’d like to take his CZ Upland Ultralight. I tell him sure, as I’m looking at getting a new O/U. We traded guns and started hunting. He then says, “Just thought you’d like to experience the gun since you bought one last year and never got to use it.”
The story here is I bought my girlfriend this exact shotgun, she broke up with me shortly after. The sarcasm was laid on thick and he belly laughed about his well thought-out joke. I gave him a few choice words and kept hunting.
The quail didn’t hold well this day as the dogs worked them. We pulled up a single or two here and there, but they moved like a running rooster. After moving through the whole creek bottom, the dogs still acted birdy. I moved up to the perch of a hill and the ground erupted. I was standing directly in the middle of a large covey of quail, about 15 total. The small birds whirled around me like Saturn missile fireworks going off. I pulled off two horribly placed shots, missing completely both times. My father stood at the corner of the section about 100 yards away, belly laughing again. My brother joined in on the laughter too.
We slowly walked up the section towards my father, the dogs were birdy the whole way. We thought there was a couple of quail that didn’t get up. That’s when a rooster got up 15 yards away from my old man. It was a chip shot. He squeezed off three times, unloading the semi Winchester. It was my turn to laugh.
I walked up to him with a few more choice words and we switched our guns back to their rightful owners.
When I was dirt bagging around Colorado I adopted a black lab. My housing situation wasn't exactly excited about this new roommate and not-so-kindly asked me to leave. I spent the rest of that summer camping out of the back of my Durango with my lab Bomber exploring the high country and lots of time on the river together.
I drove from Denver, CO with my black lab Bomber (RIP) down to the tip of Baja Mexico. I spent 4 months surfing, spearfishing and camping along various beaches. Then we drove back to Colorado.
I love surfing, especially river waves.
Drahthaar. They are driven do-it-all work horses in the gun dog realm.
Growing up on a quarter section in Kansas, walking those 166 acres with my old man and brother behind the dogs and chasing coveys of bobwhites around the hedge rows on the property.
Become a recreational pilot, own a plot of land in Montana and hunt birds like Ben O'Williams.