Where the sun hits the ground greasy mud squishes
under my feet. The dogs don’t even notice it, but bound into the woods. Under the trees mounds of snow blanket the
ground, so the trail makes for much easier walking.
We’re hunting. The dogs know it, plowing through
the brush, ever searching, even though there are no guns. Friends have found
woodcock in that same area during the last few days, so we are searching.
The young shorthair, Juno, is covering the most
ground and I wonder if she’ll point or bump the birds. The younger wirehair is more
methodical, tending to business, tail wagging and happy to be out. A week ago deep
snow made covering this same country impossible. Chara, searching for birds in
her fourteenth spring, doesn’t wander far from the old roads, but stops often
and sniffs the air. It wouldn’t surprise me if she found a woodcock first.
The howling north wind has a bite, so the collar
is turned up and earflaps are pulled down. Bright blue sky stretches across the
sky, but the sun lacks warmth. Where matted grass covers the ground, the earth
feels like cement from the lingering frost. The air smells clean, almost
metallic, free of pollen and the soon to come scents of green things.
A series of left turns brings us in a circle. The
dogs hunt with determination. Wherever the woodcock are, it isn’t in those old brushy
fields or along the edges of the woods. In the shade of ancient white pines an
old tote road takes us back to the truck.
The dogs will dream of woodcock tonight, and so
will I.
