NOTHING TO SHOOT AT...

All day long, the sky had been partly cloudy, but now it looked like God himself had overlaid the blue western sky with celestial brush strokes of pastels--pink, orange and hints of green.  The temperature was 19 degrees and falling.  Everywhere still water was frozen solid and the wet places in the woods were "hard" and easy to cross.  Frozen leaves crinkled nearly as much as they did in late October.  Glad to be back inside, the teenage kid and his dog were drawn to the wood stove.  Both of them were silent as the warmth seeped into their bones.

Earlier--perhaps a little before noon-- the kid thought that he should go out one more time.  Though it was about 23 degrees, it was the last day of "pa'tridge" (ruffed grouse) season.  He had little hope of seeing a bird, but he didn't want to give up until it was officially over.  Dressed in just enough layers to keep warm while walking, he reached for his old shotgun.  The dog immediately took the cue and went to the door.  The kid spoke in calm, low tones to the dog.  "Easy boy, gotta get my boots on."  The dog sat and watched him lace up, put on his jacket and grab his gloves and hat.  Then, the two of them went out the door.

A short walk across the family's field brought the pair to the edge of the woods.  The kid said, "Okay boy, hunt 'em up."  With the joyful abandon of a two year old pup, the dog worked in and out amongst the trees.  It continued all afternoon-as if it sensed that it was the last hunt of the season.

They crossed through the old horse pasture--long gone fallow--and followed an old tote road through the woods.  The dog worked the left, then the right, then the left again.  Back and forth it searched for the "last pa'tridge".  Through stands of small trees and downhill through stands of larger ones, their path wound its way.  At the bottom of the hill, a small stream tumbled through the rocks and brush.  It never held much water in the warmer months, but this New Year's Eve it was a small torrent.  They found a narrow spot and jumped to the other bank.  Another fity yards brought them to an old "Class VI" dirt road-- long abandoned and desolate--where loggers, farmers and the like of Daniel Webster once strode.  The kid imagined Daniel Webster with his two imported Gordon Setters.  He wondered how well they hunted--if at all. Then he decided he was creating his own history on the very same road. 

They headed left and took the road up Tay Hill.  The dog was still energetic in its search, but the kid's "edge" was was wearing off.  He realized that he wasn't as "focused" as he was a half mile ago.  The road rose to the top of the hill.  There, he rested on an old beech log.  The dog came over to check with him--there was food perhaps?  Once the dog realized there was was nothing of value, he bit into a pile of snow and satisfied his thirst--a trick he learned as a pup.

After a brief rest, they turned south--into the evergreens.  Hemlocks and white pines mostly filled the hillside, with young maples, birches and poplars taking up the rest of the "space".  The kid found an old "skidder" trail that was used in a previous logging operation, and started to follow it--back towards home.  The light was beginning to fade in the winter sky, and as the kid crested a knoll, he could see to colors in the west.  The beauty of the sky and clouds were a bold contrast to the fallen trees to his right.  Feeling the chill of winter's breath, he shivered.

Suddenly, the dog was quiet.  The kid forgot about everything except "the moment".  A nearby deadfall must have held a bird.  He spied the dog about thirty feet away--nose pointed directly at the broken, fallen tree, his back straight and rigid with his tail arcing into the air.  It was as if he had been majically transformed into a furry statue.  The kid brout up his shotgun to the ready position and moved towards the fallen tree.

With staccato wingbeats and a frantic flurry through the saplings, a ruffed grouse departed for a different county.  The flight was into the open,  from right to left--one of the kid's favorite "passing shots".  He brought up the gun, swung on the bird, and at the correct moment,...he shouted "BANG!"

 In the final moment--when all his instincts said to pull the trigger, he decided to let the bird live.  After the pa'tridge was gone, he said aloud,  "Not today"

He looked at the dog.  The dog looked at him.  The dog seemed to understand.  The kid simply said, "Gone away boy, gone away" and started back for the house with the dog in tow.  Somehow, he felt fulfilled.  He felt as if he had done the world a good deed.  He thought to himself, "If the pa'tridge didn't get killed by a raptor, predator or the winter itself, perhaps there would be chicks in the spring and ...well, one could only imagine."

As the two of them entered the kitchen of the old house, his mother turned her gaze from the sink and said, "Did you see anything?"  He responded simply. "Nothing to shoot at." 

Such an action wasn't to be explained.  It was personal.  He had taken his fair share of birds this fall, but tonight, after this small investment in conservation, he felt more like a man than ever before.  Once  his empty shotgun was set aside, the warmth of the wood stove drew him nigh.