The Road Op

[FIELD ETHOS]

The Road Op | Field Ethos

By Edgar Castillo I was used to getting up at zero-dark-thirty, but it usually involved mayhem and orders…

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By Edgar Castillo

I was used to getting up at zero-dark-thirty, but it usually involved mayhem and orders being shouted. I was a newly meritorious-promoted corporal—the backbone and first level of non-commission officers (NCOs) in America’s premier crisis and fighting force … the Marines. I got dressed quickly and grabbed my weapon for the day. It stood in the corner. It felt unorthodox.

An armed, dark figure walked by my door and shouted a muffled, “Let’s go.” There’s always someone that outranks you, I thought to myself. Walking towards the front door, I was illuminated by a set of headlights that blazoned into the structure from an idling transport carrier. “Grab all that gear.” “Yes, sir,” I said. We scurried outside and loaded into the vehicle’s rear doors. I quickly took a seat in the middle of the cargo area, careful not to trip over its rolls of content. I found a spot and leaned against the metal paneling and got comfortable for the two-hour ride. There were five occupants, including myself.

“Buenos dias. Los Marines? Que bueno.” It was my Tio Carlos. He sat in the front passenger seat. “He can’t stop talking about you,” said my uncle as he pointed towards the back, opposite of me. He was referring to my father. Almost three years had gone by, and I was home from an advanced training school. It was late November and less than 30 days until 1992 made its debut. I was riding in the back of a dingy white, stretched panel van. Its other passengers were Victor, my uncle’s brother, and Dick, Carlos’ brother-in-law, who was driving. It was a motley crew of hardworking gents, who had legally come from Guatemala (except gringo Dick) with nothing. Needing to feed families, while chasing the American dream, they all found jobs as carpet layers. In fact, we sat on two giant carpet rolls. You couldn’t tell, but all four men were very strong, evident from their iron-gripped handshakes when I had entered the van.

Roadside Roosters​

They were all bird hunters but had their own way of going about it. Dick had secured access to private land, and their roadways for hunting. But they weren’t keen on long walks for roosters. Instead, they slowly cruised the backroads, looking for ditch chickens or exposed birds along the agricultural edges. Maybe the occasional quail covey that scurried across the van’s path. It was far different to how my father and I hunted, but who was I to judge. The men were dressed casually. Stained blue jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy boots. I was the only one wearing brush pants and a bird vest. I felt out of place.

Dick and Carlos worked in tandem as spotters. Once a target was observed, they would slowly come to a stop and engage. Dick had a sweet setup on his driver’s door. He had built a frame out of wood and attached it to the inner door panel and molded carpet around it, creating a cradle for his loaded over-under. He would stealthily open the door, quietly snap close his scattergun, and start his approach and fire. More often than not, long-tails never saw him coming. My father was the only other hunter carrying a double, his Ruger Red Label. Everyone else had Remington 1100 repeaters. Nothing but 12 gauges.

While driving around, Dick and Carlos would bang on their doors to signal pheasants. The back door would open, hunters would load a shell, and creep out. Protruding arms from the cab’s windows directed us where to look and walk towards unsuspecting birds. Everyone took turns getting out. Sometimes two at a time. On occasion, we would all get out and walk, but it never lasted long. I figured all of them worked hard enough in their jobs that they didn’t want to work at hunting birds with brains slightly larger than a pea. Fair enough.

Prodigal Son​

The day had been successful thus far. The van’s floorboards were littered with about seven dead ringnecks and a few bobwhites, amongst scraps of fabric, floor glueing, and carpet tack strips. While driving around, we ate refried frijole negros sandwiches and huevos duros (hardboiled eggs). A cooler sat in the middle of the front console held the libations … cervezas and cokes.

“Edgar Estuardo! Alli hay uno!” Carlos was yelling at me that he had seen a bird. The van slowed down, and my father and I got out. I found myself carrying the semi-auto like an M16A2, and quickly readjusted to a port-arms carry. Habit. We tiptoed across the gravel road and climbed over a barbwire fence. I looked back and could see Carlos’ outstretched arm in the direction we needed to go. I looked at my father and whispered, “It’s good to be back.” A raucous cackle followed with wind-blown feathers that sailed the breeze shortly thereafter.

It’d been eight years since I had bird hunted with my father. During middle and high school, I had other priorities—friends, cars, and girls. Not necessarily in that order. Therefore, I dismissed his invitations for many years. That day was a turning point for me. Although it was in the back of a van, riding around, laughing, and talking with a bunch of carpet layers in search of roadside roosters, it reignited my love for wingshooting … albeit skimming the legal and ethical lines of road hunting.