In keeping company with rods and guns, you’ve probably noticed that certain sporting activities attract certain types of people. Turkey hunters, for example, tend to be solitary, but pheasant hunters are inclined to be gregarious. Likewise, deer hunters enjoy “yarding up” in back-of-beyond camps, while bird hunters and duck hunters usually rummage around in pairs.

As for fishing, brook trout fishermen could teach the CIA a thing or two about clandestine operations. Atlantic salmon fishermen, however, stand in line to rotate through pools and bass fishermen are about as secretive as a brass band in organizing tournaments and other competitions.

But allowing that the first shots have been fired in Maine’s 1997 hunting seasons, let’s set our sights on a point that’s peculiar to the autumnal sports at hand: Ever notice that ardent big game hunters often hunt birds, but avid bird hunters seldom hunt big game? Think about it and you’ll probably concur, and no doubt begin wondering about that divergence. But don’t let your conclusions be influenced by the oft-heard pretext that bird hunters, including waterfowlers, are elitists who regard deer, bear, and moose hunters as “meat hunters” or “trophy hunters.”

Personally, I think the term “meat hunter” is a cheap shot. Let’s face it, bird hunters and duck hunters – including me – who enjoy meals of wildfowl are as much meat hunters as those who tag deer. ‘Course the cook in my camp keeps reminding me that a deer hunter gets more meat with one bullet than I get with a dozen boxes of shotgun shells. She also tells me I’m too lazy to drag a deer out of the woods. Sticks and stones…. Having been the purveyor of many a game dinner, including venison, I’ll put it this way: carrying birds in a game pocket or ducks in a pack basket has yet to leave me on the verge of cardiac arrest, a condition not uncommon to dragging out even a small deer.

Having toted both rifles and shotguns afield, I’m not about to say condescending attitudes don’t exist among some people who, come fall, wear brush brown rather than blaze orange. I will say, however, and thankfully, that such disparagements aren’t common to this neck of the woods. Typically, they crop up at exclusive hunting clubs or preserves where graduates of wingshooting schools gather to pull the trigger. I avoid referring to them as hunters.

Nevertheless, it’s true that Sports who prefer guns with beads on the barrels tend not to spend much time squinting through peep- or scope-sighted rifles. Why?

From what I’ve seen of it, I’ll say personality and environment are primary factors. Here, I’m reminded of my friend Stan Studer. Being a Texan, Stan naturally believes biggest is best. Accordingly, he is addicted to hunting Africa’s big game. Back along, he encouraged me to sign up for a safari to the Dark Continent. When I told him I wasn’t a trophy hunter and therefore had no interest in shooting a lion or a Cape buffalo, he was aghast. “Gawd a’mighty, Tom,” he drawled. “Don’t y’all wanna shoot somethin’ big ‘n hairy?” There you are.

In regard to environment, it stands to reason that a boy brought up in a family of deer hunters will, as a man, schedule at least part of his vacation time for November. Conversely, the reason I’m not addicted to deer hunting – although I enjoy the camaraderie of deer camps – is that I grew up with a flock of bird hunters. And bird hunting, naturally, means bird dogs. Over South Brewer way, Carroll Soucie had bird dogs, so did Bob Little and the late Arthur “Pug” York and Foster Ellis; and I had a springer spaniel that knew more about hunting birds back then than I know now.

Bird dogs and water dogs. Right there, kind reader – and here I’m sure I’m on target – are the reasons ardent bird hunters and duck hunters usually aren’t dyed-in-the-wool big game hunters. Granted, all of the aforementioned South Brewer Sports shot their share of deer, but if given a choice, they’d put in their time behind bird dogs. If you’ve had the privilege of owning a hunting partner worth its collar, you’ll understand that.

Yet there’s more to it than watching, say, a setter putting a paw down gingerly – the way you’d test bath water with a toe – before locking up stiff as starch; or a Lab charging through shell ice to churn, shoulders high, after a downed duck. Shooting opportunity? For sure. Generally speaking, bird hunters and waterfowlers warm their barrels a few times during a day afield. Many deer hunters, however, watch the sun set on the last day of the season without having fired a shot.

Aesthetics? Most assuredly: Although bird hunters pray for leaves to fall early, improving visibility, they often pause to admire the infernos of foliage raging through October’s hardwooded hills. Likewise, duck hunters appreciate the surreal effects of dawn-tinted mists rising from marshlands. That isn’t to say deer hunters don’t notice the stark beauty of November’s umber-toned landscapes, especially when highlighted by tracking snows. But it’s no secret that sitting statue-still or moving stealthily, all the while watching and listening intently for a deer, requires much more concentration than brushing through bird covers or scanning skies from duck blinds.

All said and done, being an artist I forever will see hunting and fishing through the eyes of an aesthete. But the reason Oct. 1 means more to me than Nov. 1 is the same as that of other hunters who prefer brush pants and boats painted olive drab – in a word, dogs. And therein lies the reason for another of my spouse’s verbal shots: “If I knew how to point or fetch, my life would be pure bliss.”

Tom Hennessey’s column can be accessed on the BDN internet page at: www.bangornews.com.