At my age, there’s an uncomfortable feeling about the idea of meeting someone online—for Noah Parsons, it’s more palatable. A direct message on Instagram in the hopes of finding more out about Parsons and his dogs is how we met. The conversation began slowly, right up until the first mentioning of dogs like “Ragweed’s Travel, Beiley’s Aguzannis of Fendawood, Nettle Brae Andy, Delfleet Neon”. That took our relationship to the next level, and we settled in like mates over pints at the pub.

What took me 20 years to realize I wanted in a Labrador, I learned in under an hour from this kids’ experience. By the end of the conversation, Parsons and his dogs, progeny of fine British retrievers, had an invite to our camp. They came, we hunted. Stayed up late, woke up early. Waited on ducks that never came, and trailed behind setters with our Labradors at heel. In his words, “this kind of hunt has become a lost art.”

True To His Word

Parsons had on a dirty, sweat-stained baseball cap with “Salt Plains Outfitters” hardly legible across the front. Hats like that say a lot about the men who wear them: Salt of the earth and unafraid to do what they need in order to earn what they’re after. He has a “Top-Gun” mustache and wears an eternal grin that stretches ear to ear. In fact, it’s contagious and I found myself mirroring the expression back. This guy is the posterchild “All-American kid.” From our phone conversation the day before, I knew he pulled an all-nighter, coming off what he thought was a bout with food poisoning. With a long drive ahead of him from his kennel in the Flint Hills of Kansas to what I refer to as “north of the tension line,” Wisconsin, many would have just backed out. But no, not him, not after giving his word.

Getting To Know Noah Parson

Time was limited in the coming days, so we hunted that afternoon. Weather was favorable, with temps in the low 30s when the sun came up, upper 40s overhead. While preparing the sinews of war, the first thing I noticed was his shotgun. I’m no “gun guy,” but I recognized it. I own one myself that’s been beaten, ribs bent, forearm pump cracked, and not once has it been properly cleaned. Unveiling his Browning BPS, checkering filled with dry mud and 28 inches of “blued” barrel, copper hued by surface rust, I nodded and found we were both smiling again.

Noah’s approach to life is not what I call fancy. Quite simple actually. Everything is built on a solid foundation. He hangs an acme 211.5 around his neck by a strand and keeps a makeshift slip lead out of a short piece of paracord in his minimalist leather game vest. His dogs embody what the British intended a Labrador to be. Calm, quiet, patient souls, full of game finding ability and natural retrieve. We both become indignant at the thought of training one with the collar, another reason we meshed from the onset. His dogs and his results, speak for themselves as he’s the only American born competitor to make up a novice field trial winner and a British field trial champion. Late into one evening, I had to pry out the details with a dollop of rum on how he’d qualified for the IGL Championship, and made it all the way to the final day. One cannot make this stuff up, which is why it’s so hard to believe he could see and do that much, all by the age of 27.

He heeled his Lab named Boone, son of the dog he ran in the championship, behind a regal young English setter named William (Willie). They preceded ahead off lead, calm and under control. The dogs managed bird work early when a woodcock, pointed off the tip of Willie’s nose, flushed skyward and Parson’s Browning counted coup. Boone made the first retrieve of that quirky little bird, and we spent ten minutes rehashing every detail. Our breath made a heavy fog out of much ado for what just happened in the cooling shadows of that alder run.

Parsons cherishes his time spent in the uplands, but duck hunting, he worships. An extra oak brick in the woodstove and two fingers of whiskey in a glass masked the declining temps. I tempted him before lights out with the forecast only duck hunters wish for while waiting out an Indian Summer. We recognized the harsh reality of loading decoys into the boat the next morning. Admittedly, I painted a more optimistic vision than what was likely, but he’s young, ambitious, and naive enough to get cold with me on mornings after I spy high mallards riding wind out of Canada. Optimism that “birds may be here in the morning” can be persuasive after enough ice melted in his tumbler. It’s part of the beauty and magic surrounding migration that only a duck hunter will appreciate and understand. On our little lake, waking early to drink coffee, smoke tobacco from a pipe, and watch bobbing wooden blocks in the dark, murky cold will beat the tastes, smells, and sights of sleeping in. A few hours of even fewer ducks flying left plenty of opportunity to learn more about the man I shared the blind with.

Age Is Just A Number

Parson’s told me about the three years he spent living and working with some of the most experienced and respected breeders, trainers, and handlers in the United Kingdom. Preparing for and competing in trials ranging from driven shoots in Wiltshire to Open stakes on the Scottish moors. He lived the most luxurious of lifestyles, eating, drinking, living, training, and shooting with royalty and gamekeepers on some of the finest estates in England, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. He also scooped poop, cleaned kennels, carried game straps, slept in vans, and sweated and bled in the heat of Texas and Kansas building a kennel from the ground up. He literally flew around the world, spent days, weeks, and months living and traveling with some of the most successful and well-bred Labradors on the continent. What I consider to be “great dogs” is all he’s ever known, and that’s what I wanted to know more about. He did things most will never experience or accomplish in a lifetime, and he did it all between the ages of 22 and 26.

Our last hunt had planned to be a short walk but ended as an 11-mile thrust through pool cue sized popple, wilted bracken, and raspberry bramble. We left the setters at camp and let hazel brush swallow the brace of black Labs. It’s a proven, effective way to put autumn birds in the bag. Grouse hunting’s not about arithmetic, but a half dozen woodcock and three partridge made for a notable journal entry. Take someone into partridge cover, you’ll find out quickly. Some paint themselves a woodsman, the likes of Jim Bridger or James Beckwourth, only to find out they will squawk in the first 40 acres and leak their way out to the nearest trail. Hunting grouse is a rite of passage where newcomers are baptized in deet, citronella, permethrin, blood, sweat and, at times, their own tears. I was pleased to find out that Parsons was the kind that never once squealed. He took what we dragged him through that week with grace. Hell, he brought with him whiskey and fresh elk steaks to cook in a cast iron with duck fat over the fire. Disliking a man like that is simply not possible.

We both value the feel, connection, and trust formed slowly. Though we’re similar in our approach and drawn to the same type of dog, there are some differences. He mentioned, “I wish my dogs stayed on their places a little better,” after witnessing the tight ship we run in our small camp. I really didn’t mind unexpectedly sharing my bed with his Boone or the looks he gave me when I wrestled him for the extra covers. For all they give us, I suppose he earned the right to sleep comfortably too. We both agree that dogs today are better than they have ever been and that there aren’t bad dogs, just that some fit better with their humans. Never have I so clearly understood that it’s not just the dogs, but the people behind them that make all the difference.