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.

DECEMBER 2014

A "clay" that got away

In the last post, I wrote about the "new" (to me) shotgun.  It's still feeling "sweet", so I guess there's no "buyer's remorse" from that trade.  The shotgun and I went "over" to Maine and visited with Brad Varney.  Brad is a shotgun shooting instructor in mid-Maine.

Besides being left-eye dominant (I'm right-handed.) He saw that I was trying to aim my shotgun.  Somewhere along the line, I became overly concerned about missing targets and unconsciously started aiming the shotgun like a rifle.

After verifying that the "dot" on the left lens of my shooting glasses  was in the correct position --blocking my left eye's vision and forcing the right eye to take over-- he put electrician's tape over the shotgun bead.  That ended the aiming!  After a few boxes of shells, I was back in business.  I left feeling better and mindful of "drills" that I would be practicing all winter.

Taped bead

After my trip to Maine, the weather turned messy.  Between work,snow, sleet, wind, rain and freezing temps, we didn't get much hunting done.  K-Lee and I finally made it to a couple of pheasant "sites".  We like to go after the "mobs" have gone through.  We usually pick up a "survivor" here and there, but this year the fields were scrubbed pretty clean.  Not far from home, we were able to "get out" before the weather gave us real trouble.  Later, while snow was on the ground, we went to one of our favorite places.  There was only six to eight inches of snow, but the crust on top was tough for both K-Lee and myself.  We checked out some familiar apple trees and alders, but finally threw in the towel.  We were both sore.

An apple tree amongst others

What was that?

The fireplace is ablaze, sending heat into our living room.  The trees (yes, trees) and candles are lit.  "Charlie Brown's Christmas" theme song is playing in the background.  The season is fully upon us. 

With Christmas but a few days away,  I feel to say as did "Tiny Tim":  "God bless us everyone!"  Here's wishing each of you a very merry Christmas and  I hope your Christmas holiday is not as difficult for you as it is for this fellow!

A little help here?

I THINK THE STARS ARE BEGINNING TO ALIGN.

Sometimes you just get lucky.  Last month I walked into a local gun shop  and did my "fly-by" routine.  I checked out all the used shotguns--that's my market.  As I was leaving the store, I saw it.  It  yelled "Grouse Gun!" to me from across the room and my heart heard it.  There, on consignment, was a Model 200E 20 guage Ithaca SKB double-barreled shotgun.  Lust burned within me.  I asked to see it.  The  shotgun was used, but still in very good condition--less a slight blemish on the stock.  I figured that in one season, I'd add a several more.

(My shooting had been off this year, and I knew that buying it wouldn't be the solution--but if I were going to get back on track, this is the gun I would use to do it.)

I "mounted" the gun a few times.  It was sweet.  I found myself thinking about that part in the Bible where a pearl merchant found a 'pearl of great price' and "went and sold all that he had, and bought it."  Using the clerks tape measure, I measured the barrel length, the pull, and checked everything I could. Then I went home and got on the computer.  The measurements indicated that the gun was "stock" and hadn't been altered.  The lust continued to grow. My mouth went dry.  I had it bad.


I once owned a Model 100 Ithaca SKB in 12 guage.  I liked it a lot, but it was too heavy.  After several miles it wore me down. This little shotgun was like a dream date for the junior prom.

I had a 20 guage CZ Ringneck that I wanted very much to trade--it felt like cordwood to me.  I also had an old pistol that would have made a better hammer.  I thought to myself, "I wonder if I can get 'close enough' to trade?"  (You see, my wife and I have an agreement that anything over $100, we discuss before I buy--a seemingly foolish agreement on my part, but I'm "locked in".)

Similar Model with 28" barrels

Bright and early the next morning, I walked into the store.  The Ithaca was still there.  I presented my two objects for scrutiny.  The owner evaluated both of them and--after an eternity of calculating and re-calculating-- said that they would trade and give me $5.  I grabbed the deal.   One man's trash.... Grinning,  I called my wife while on the way home.

Next, I needed to get back in the game.

If I'd been "stimulated" with a "training collar" every time I "missed" this season,  I'd be stuttering now.  It was time to act.  I was making excuses for my poor performance and this had to stop.   (See previous post on September 13:  Busting Clays--Or Not!)

Here's the transcript of the actual email I sent to a shooting instructor in Maine:

Dear Mr. Varney,
I'm finally facing the fact that I've developed some bad habits and probably never learned good ones for wing shooting.  It's gotten so bad that my dog sent me away for shooting "therapy".  I need your help to get my game improved.  Perhaps spring?
Den

Here's the transcript of the actual response:

Dennis, if your dog could talk he would tell you to take a lesson with me so you could hold up your end.  I do lessons by appointment till we get plowable snow.  At that point I wait till the snow melts.
I suggest you call me ... to discuss your needs and my schedule.
Brad
PS:  Please tell your dog that help is just around the corner.



I turned in my chair and  told  K-Lee what Brad had written.  She left me and returned with the phone.
I think the stars are beginning to align.

"DEAD LEAF"

Down

The Pudelpointer people call K-Lee's color "dead leaf".  It's not really liver, and certainly not golden.  It's not red enough to be called red and not brown enough to be called brown.  "Dead leaf" is a good fit.

It took personal "reprogramming"  to learn to look for certain things when hunting with K-Lee.  Solid patches of her color amongst the trees, and  flashes of movement became  two "triggers" for my eye. Even with those clues, I sometimes lose track of her.  Suffering from hearing loss from exposure to loud noises doesn't help either.

Sometimes I need to "ping" her beeper.  Sort of like "The Hunt For Red October"--"Give me a ping Vasili. ... One ping only."  It's usually then that I realize she did the "ninja thing" and had sneaked up on me from behind.  I think she enjoys doing that.

It's right there boss!

October 20 has come and gone.  Per doctor's orders, we held off hunting until then, and have since been slowly building her stamina.  The other day, we jumped two ducks, pointed three snipe and two woodcock.  Needless to say, it was good to have "Team K-Lee" back in the field.

Tomorrow, we head for the Great North Woods for a few days.  We'll close our camp and visit with friends.  Of course, the daylight hours will be spent searching for grouse and woodcock.

Since being taken off the "sick list", we brought home a couple pheasant , but I've taken to not shooting at an upland bird that wasn't pointed--especially since she has discovered that if she runs through the tall grass, she can put up a running bird!  Being cooped up in a cage for 8 weeks and under house arrest for another 8 weeks has left us both re-learning many things.  That said, while she was in her last weeks of recuperation, we had a chance to practice our yard work.

Hunting with K-Lee these past several days I've been grateful for that.  She walked at heel (off lead) as we sneaked on ducks,  She lies down and takes a break when I do.  Her "nose" is better than ever and things are improving overall..  I'm glad that we spent time doing those things when we were under "house arrest".  Now let's see what the Great North Woods will bring.  Perhaps just a little snow will make "dead leaf" be easier to see!

So uh, What's new?

A FAMILY AFFAIR

This morning, I spent a few hours at a local "pheasant site". ( Yep, that's right.  New Hampshire does a stocking for hunters and it's a "put and take" affair--sort of like most of the trout fishing here in the Northeast.) Since K-Lee is still "benched" from her surgery, I took my camera.  We saw a few birds in the air and my friend, who brought his (English) pointer, found some on the ground.  What pleased me the most was seeing boys and girls enjoying the sport with their adults.


My hunting partner and I met a "father and son" team.  If I were to guess, the son was about 9-11, and the Dad near "middle age".   His son was "tagging along"' soaking up information like a sponge.  It was obvious that soon, the lad would gain enough wisdom and understanding to have his own fowling piece.  They were  enjoying themselves and carefully observing safety in their hunt.  I was very impressed with the young man's ability and independence.  We need more young boys like that.

Further down the road, was a dad with his two daughters and two german shorthaired pointers.  The girls were handling the dogs, and dad was just giving 'guidance'.  I loved it!  I  asked the youngest girl, "Are you having fun?"  Her entire face lit up with a huge grin and she said, "Oh YES!!" ...then she wrangled her young shorthair into position.  I said, "Hello old timer" to the other shorthair and the eldest daughter corrected me saying, "Old girl".  I thanked her for the correction.  She was very obviously going to grow up to be a "dog woman".  



Another pleasing site was a group of young men  enjoying the sport.  Hearing the name of a dog that I had met at a NAVHDA event, I went over and said "Hi". A group of young men were working  "Wheland".   Gentlemen every one.

These are just a few of the things that reminded me that there is much, much more to our sport.  True, birds and dogs are at the heart of it, but (for me at least) there is great pleasure in seeing that family members of all ages can participate in such "celebrations" of the fall.

Perhaps its because of where you find ruffed grouse that hunting them tends to deal more with solitude. In contrast to that, the stocked--almost social-- pheasant fields have their purpose too.  They are a place where a daughter or son can be with dad or mom (or some other adult) and share unique experiences.  Here, in these "put and take" locations, families can take a moment--away from jobs, videos, soccer, housework, football and fund-raiser car washes .-- and connect on a very unique and fundamental level.

Seeing these young people and their adults did more for my heart than anything in years.  Let's keep it up America! Let those young folks into the game!