Sometimes the author (left) likes to let friends do the shooting.

A strange transformation happened to me on November 20, 2008. Until that day, I had never followed one of my dogs during the hunting season without carrying a gun. But that day I changed, unexpectedly and without explanation, from a man who almost needed to gun birds, into a man who had to be coaxed into shooting. Only time will tell if the change is permanent, or just a passing phase.

Four friends from Kentucky had called to say they were coming to Iowa to hunt pheasants, and we arranged to meet for an early breakfast. Dad would come down, too, and we would all hunt together--six men and two dogs. Without really thinking about it, I woke up that morning and just decided to handle the dog and not carry a gun.

"Where's your gun?" Dad asked while I put my dog and camera into his truck.

"I decided not to bring one," I said. It sounded weird, even to me, when I said it out loud.

We met the Kentuckians at the old converted schoolhouse where they bunk every November, about 50 miles west of my house. A cold wind was blowing out of the northwest, about 20 miles an hour, adding even more bite to the sub-freezing temperature.

Inside the old schoolhouse, though, the air was warm enough to redden your face, and heavy with the smells of sausage, biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs and coffee. I brought in a dozen fresh donuts, not because anybody needed them but because I don't like to meet good people empty-handed. That goes double for good people who have permission to hunt good land. Maybe I should've brought two dozen.

After breakfast, we drove half a mile up the road to the first rippling hills of brome and switchgrass between fields of late-standing corn. When I came out unarmed, there were some quizzical looks and then some questions.

I said I didn't bring a gun because that's the only way I can be sure not to embarrass myself. It was a lame excuse, the kind you make when you feel awkward about what you're doing and worried that others won't understand, because you're not sure that you understand it yourself.

We had two dogs on the ground. My Lab, Woody, was thrashing the heavy stuff inside 25 yards. My father's English setter, Jack, was running the edges, far enough away to look small. Both dogs were doing what they were made to do, and I was glad to be watching them.

Maybe 10 minutes out of the truck, Woody put up a rooster directly in front of me. The bird flared out like a great dancing Chinese kite with his chest toward me, so close that I could see his gray feet tucked against his black flanks and tell the difference between his wattles and his eyes. It would have been an easy shot. Then the bird peeled downwind, straight away from me, and the man to my right missed him three times.

We trudged on. I was enjoying the freedom of two empty hands, warm inside my jacket pockets. With no vest full of ammo, I felt totally unencumbered by dead weight. Just a plastic whistle in my teeth and a water bottle in a belt pouch were all that I carried, besides myself inside my clothes.