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!