What’s It to You ?

Speed on the water.

     I once lived amongst the world of diehard sailors. Some raced two or more times a week and had to be the first to everywhere. Every piece of gear on their boats was of cutting edge technology. Other sailors just wanted to be out on the water, headed for a quiet cove to spend the day. Some had to cross an entire ocean to be happy. A few never went anywhere, but instead used their boat mostly for entertaining or just a platform from which to read a book. Many of my friends worked on boats, lived aboard boats, and went sailing on their days off. Every one of those sailors enjoyed their boat and who’s to say who enjoyed theirs the most.

Which fly today?

     Fly fishing is sometimes like that. One angler has to match whatever insect is hatching, while another is quite content to throw the same fly that he threw the day before and the day before that. Some fish as if their life depended on it, while another may find a sunny spot on the shore to stretch out and take a nap. Who’s having the most fun?

     Bird hunting can be the same way. Some hunt until their legs are ready to fall off, with anything less than a limit an impossible thought. Others may mosey along, content to watch the dogs work while they chat with a buddy. Many love their old shotguns and bird hunting is an excuse to get them out. Bird dogs are the passion of a huge number of bird hunters, and many wouldn’t bother to walk into the woods without one. To some, it is an excuse to be out in the woods watching song birds, looking for deer tracks, and possibly shooting a bird along the way. Who is having the most fun?

     When I was younger killing birds seemed very important, much more so than it does now. My dog was steady to wing and shot and, by the time a day was over, my legs would have felt better if they had fallen off. I have to admit, I always slept soundly after a day in the woods.

Georgia pinning a ruffed grouse.

     I sleep just as well now, but during a day afield I notice a lot more. Around here there are old stone foundations and long lost apple trees. A beaver pond might harbor a wood duck or a half dozen black ducks. A woodcock or two might hide among the alders in valley around the other side of the hill…or is it the hill beyond that? Sometimes I just follow an old logging road to see where it goes.

     Every day is an adventure. My dogs no longer are steady to wing and shot. Hunting alone that was difficult to enforce and caused a lot of frustration, both for me and my dogs. They still hunt hard and point with intensity, but more like cowboys than mechanical soldiers. If dog safety is an issue on low flying shots, I just let the bird go. One bird in the game bag feels great, and after that anything more is a bonus.

     Don’t get me wrong, I love to watch dogs preform flawlessly and to see birds drop in front of gunners that never miss. You have to admire the determination and discipline that brings such results. If it makes them happy, and I certainly hope it does, it makes me happy.   

     Instead, my dogs are my buddies, under foot both in my shop and in our home. I still try to rule the roost and make sure their manners are impeccable, and we do get out in the woods often, probably much more than most. Experience and birds in front of the dog’s nose are the best teachers, so we try to get out a lot..

     But I’m willing to cut them some slack, as long as they are willing to return the favor.

Worm Soup

Alders

      The rain had finally stopped. It was time to get the dogs out hunting again. With the youngster in the house, Maggie, that meant looking for woodcock, because no finer bird was there ever for training a young pointing dog.

      The woods was soaked after three or four inches of rain in only a matter of hours. Winds had approached hurricane force and the power was out back at the house. Hundreds of trees were down everywhere. Logging roads would be impassible, unless one hacked their way in with a chainsaw. I opted for easier going and picked a covert next to a state road.

      Soft wet ground, like runny chocolate pudding, oozed down the hillsides. We pushed through raspberries and then blackberries into a stand of young alders. Maggie and Colby were in hyper mode, hunting hard, oblivious to the mud. Down the slope we sloshed. Then, where water puddled among alders, a bumped woodcock flew back over my head.

A rock pile left by a farmer.

      Clumps of young firs, growing on a series of hummocks the size of overturned bushel baskets, divided the alders from more poplars. We skirted an enormous pile of moss-covered rocks, left by a long gone farmer, and another thicket of blackberries. More fencepost-size poplars stood above bent and brown ferns, then into another cluster of alders we waded. Where were the woodcock?

      Far ahead, Maggie’s bell screamed silence. Colby’s still rattled off to my right. Then Colby’s fell silent too. Silence. Two dogs were pointing, what to do? How long would the young dog wait? I quickly stepped in front of closer Colby, knowing that if a bird flushed a gunshot would send Maggie into overdrive.

      No bird, I breathed relief, then hurried toward Maggie, while saying to Colby, “There’s no bird Colby. Where is Maggie? Let’s go find Maggie. This way girl, come on, this way.”

      Colby zigzagged through where she thought the bird was, but, finding nothing, she galloped ahead, disappearing into the alders. Ducking under and stepping over limbs and leaning trunks, I first saw the unmoving white of Colby’s coat and then Maggie’s brown silhouette, like a statue a dozen feet ahead of her. My heart pounded.

Soggy ground. How many dogs in the picture?

      Trying to approach through the tangle was frustratingly slow. And I needed to be able to stand to shoot, but the world was a jumble of limbs and trunks. As I stepped over a roadblock of tilting alders, the bird tweetered toward the sky. A shot is pointless, but tried anyway. The bird disappeared into the swamp.

      The dogs went into overdrive, fueled by bird scent and gunfire. We worked downhill to where thick grasses grew between the alders. Water was everywhere and the ground felt like stepping on a soggy pillows. Turning to the right, we followed where the saturated bare ground met the soaked grasses.

      In a spot wetter than most, puddles and pools dictated detours. Maggie pointed thirty yards ahead. As I tried to find a route towards her, Colby pointed to my right. White splashes covered the ground. A step toward Colby sent another woodcock aloft, but a shot was impossible. I hurried toward Maggie and a second one launched, offering an easy going away shot.

      After that the dogs were wound tight, with bird scent is in their nostrils and the taste in their mouths. Hunting hard and fast, they covered a lot of country, while I struggled to keep up. The scenario repeated three more times in the swampiest of places. Only one more bird fell to the gun.

      What were these birds eating? Drowned earth worms? Marinated in rainwater? How did the woodcock stay dry? Ducks would have swum happily between the trees.

     After we turned back toward the truck, I attempt to steer the dogs toward an old apple tree where ruffed grouse like to loiter. To my left, Maggie was up the hill further than I wanted and out of sight. Then her bell fell silent. I coaxed Colby in that direction, hoping she would find her for me.

      But Colby went on point where a small stream created an expansive quagmire in a flat spot. That woodcock flushed well ahead of me and disappeared into a cluster of firs. Colby dashed off toward the apple tree. Mumbling to myself, I headed toward Maggie and called Colby back.

      The young dog’s bell jangled again, then a woodcock weaved through the trees toward me, passed overhead, and disappeared down the hill. Impatient Maggie charged along in hot pursuit.

Wild apples and an abandoned field.

      The three of us followed the bird’s path into intertwined alders. Maggie’s bell went silent, then Colby’s too. I followed to the edge of a gully, where I could barely see both dogs locked on point not forty feet ahead of me. Stepping, twisting, crawling, and cursing, I pushed in. The woodcock tweetered upward and then down the hill, dropping like a stone beside a lone fir tree.

      We followed. The dogs hunted hard, tearing up the turf with water splashing. The bird seemed to have disappeared, but then took off next to my right foot. I never lifted my gun and neither of the dogs noticed it go.

      Hunting again toward the truck, both Maggie and Colby each found another woodcock where another tiny trickle wound down the hill, but in the tangled jungle both flew off without a shot being fired.

      Later that day we hunted across the street among ancient apple trees that the grouse love. We found no grouse, but, about to turn around and head home, I coaxed the dogs into a tiny patch of alders next to a small field. Colby instantly snapped into a point, then Maggie too. I marched into the alders and a woodcock twisted skyward through the branches. When it reached the treetops I fired.

Colby looking good.

      Colby made the retrieve and the dogs tussled harmlessly for a moment over ownership. 

      With wet feet and very happy dogs it was time to go home.