It
always starts with much anticipation, maybe even more so than Christmas. The
leaves are still on and a few trees are still quite green. Temperatures might be up
into the mid-sixties or higher, much too hot for the dogs and the hunters too,
but off into the woods we will go.
With
luck, family broods of ruffed grouse will be found. Some of those young birds
might even be dumb enough to fly into a load of number eight shot that is tearing
through the air. A naive young bird will sit in a tree, not knowing how lucky he is
that we choose not to shoot birds off limbs. We often taste a wild apple and
probably toss it away as too bitter.
The
foliage usually is spectacular, from reds to yellows to oranges and green. We
get hot and tired too soon. Up in our country the dogs can usually find a brook
to stretch out in. A woodcock might tweeter away or a grouse thunders away. We’ll
seek a shady spot up on a hill where a breeze might find us.
Sometimes
a bird comes home with us and sometimes none do, but it’s always a hell of a
good time.
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