LAST BIRD OF THE SEASON

I don't know if it's true for all of us, but the last bird of the season often holds special memories for me.  It happened again this year.  K-Lee and I were exploring a riverbank area that typically gets birds pushed into it by other hunters.  It's one of our "end of season" destinations.  

After we had walked about a quarter of a mile through the mixed hardwood and brush,  K-Lee started tracking something and went over a rise.  In disappointment, I heard her "game bark" (more of a "yip" really).  I suspected that she had either "bumped" the bird or it took flight before she could point it.   Still, she kept at the hunt, aggressively working the sparse, late-fall cover.  Beyond another small knoll, she went out of sight again.   

Quickly walking about 200 feet, I rounded a bunch of tag alders and saw K-Lee on point.  She had a bird pinned in a brush pile!  Anticipation swelled as I circled around them and walked in from her left front.  Exploding upwards, a rooster made a raucous departure.  The bird cackled angrily as its wings frantically grabbed air.  It rose high above K-Lee and careened sharply to the right. K-Lee did a "spin in-place".  

In all the commotion, my first shot was a miss.  I took a breath, settled myself down, and let the Benelli speak again.  The rooster crashed into a tall maple and fell about 25 feet into the alders.  I marked the spot and sent K-Lee to fetch.  Unfortunately, she thought that the bird had gone off in a straight line and was determinedly looking for "a retrieve" in the wrong place!  After a few moments, I was able to call her into the alders to start a search.

I don't know if "air washed" (of scent) is a true thing, but there seemed to be no discernible scent in the area of the fall...at least none that was a clear indicator for the dog--so I took her in another direction to settle her down. My hope was that the bird would either have time to give off scent from it's "hide", or K-Lee would be settled down enough to pick up the faint scent of its track.   A few minutes later, we re-entered the alders and she quickly found that the pheasant had burrowed itself under a pile of detritus.  The rest was shall we say, "history". Satisfied with one good point and a bird in the bag, we made our way back to the truck.    

On the morrow--at the bird's expense--K-Lee and I shared "the meal of victory".                 
 

MOMENTS REVISITED

A friend of mine recently loaned me a book of essays on Woodcock hunting.  It was good...I mean really good.   It resurrected memories of my first bird hunt with my (soon to be) hunting 'pard'.  He was a family friend that offered to take me hunting.  (Actually, I whined and begged like a teenager and he gave in.)  I had never gone bird hunting before, and wanted to 'try it'.  Though I was an absolute novice, I knew that I should come up with my own location and not ask to see any of his special spots.  Such things are kept secret--even among family friends.

My friend picked me up early one morning and we went to a place that I thought  might hold birds.  He deemed the cover "good enough", and moved me into alders and pole-sized growth.  The chill of the frosty morning pierced my jacket.  My fingers and toes were numb from the silent cold.  I wished for the sun to get higher in the sky.  Except for the "dawn-reveille" of song-birds and the noise of beaver in the water, all was still.   It seemed in the early morning light as if we were alone on planet Earth.

Photo by John Graf

His dog was a "Goliath" of a Brittany--weighing in at almost 60 pounds.  He stood stock-still, quivering in anticipation.  The Brittany's feet were firmly planted on the ground as he stared towards a very small opening in the alders.  There was no question: he was "on" a bird.  Apparently, the gods of bird hunting had favored us with  migrating woodcock.  My "guide" talked me through the process of "walking in and flushing the bird".  The bird got up so fast that I was emotionally unprepared.  "You'll have to be quicker than that." he said.  (I mumbled some lame excuse.)  He said, "Stay alert.  There may be more in here."  My heart rate and breathing increased with excitement.  I thought, "How can such a little bird generate so much excitement?"

Another a few more yards and  the canine "Goliath" was 'on point'.

Again, my "guide" and his dog let me walk in for the shot.  This time I was ready...much too ready.  (I learned that day that I would be better off with one shell in the gun than two or three.)  I was already thinking about the second shot as the first was fired.  (Doing so is a guaranteed miss.)

I fired.  (Miss!)

Trying to stop the little bird from escaping, I racked the slide on the Ithaca and fired again.  (Miss!)  As child development professionals are wont to say, I was "overly stimulated". I acted more like an anti-aircraft gunner than a hunter.  It seemed as if I was trying to put enough pellets in the air  that the bird would run into a few of them!

Again!  (Miss.)

We managed to take a few woodcock that day.  I don't remember who got what, nor do I care. I do however, remember the moments--his Brittany standing like a quivering statue with its fur soaked from  the early morning dew.  The smell of rotting foliage, the wet dog smell and the hot steamy vapors coming from his nose. He almost seemed to be saying, " Are ya ready??"

I remember the surprise of the flush as the bird popped several feet into the air and headed for the tops of the alders. I remember the whistling of the bird's wings and the cordite smell of the gun powder that lingered in the air after the shot--a favorite perfume.  And I remember my friend's calm teaching voice as he corrected me and let me learn from my mistakes.

All that and more flooded back into my consciousness as I read the borrowed book.

At least for me, hunting isn't about the score, it's about the memories.  They last forever.   As the commercial says, "What's in your wallet?"

Thanks to Jeff for taking a chance on me and lending me his very special book!