Produce a new shotgun and it’s the first question you hear: “What are the chokes?”
Shotgunners today are obsessed—there is no other word—with muzzle constriction. So it may come as a shock when I say that choke really doesn’t matter. Of all the thoughts that run through your mind when you pick up a shotgun, choke is no better than fifth down the list, and some believe it should be dismissed almost entirely.

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There are few things in life, Dale Spartas tells us, that remain as unforgettable as a traditional Southern plantation quail hunt on horseback, accompanied by a mule-drawn wagon and a brace of English pointers, coursing and flashing white through the Georgia pines, before slamming into stylish points on a sunny February morning.

If I close my eyes, and listen carefully, I will hear them baying, Mr. Herman’s bear hounds at full cry, back in the honest days before radio collars, when a bear hunt was just that, a hunt. At stake was a full larder for the cold months ahead, a warm blanket or soft rug.

In 1972 the world’s best wingshooting venue was discovered, and I was in on the development of that destination. This was Colombia, South America, and the Cauca Valley soon became the Mecca for dedicated wingshooters. The flat valley floor was home to small grains of all varieties.