Do You Ever Wonder…?

Do you see him in there among the mango leaves

I wonder about woodcock. Ten thousand years ago, during the last ice age, when they migrated north, did they stop in what is now Maryland? They must have. Further north was a frozen wasteland. But maybe Maryland was much like northern Labrador is today, so possibly they summered and raised their young in Georgia. Perhaps we can convince our government to spend a big chunk of money to figure this out.

And what about the woodcock’s favorite food, the earth worms? I’ve read authorities that stated they weren’t indigenous to North America, but were brought over by the Europeans. If that is true, what did woodcock eat? Just grubs? The woodcock would have followed the Europeans around to uproot up their newly introduced apple trees and such to get at those new “imported” tasty morsels.

And I’ve read other experts that stated the worms were here all along and died when the ice sheet covered over them. One writer even said the worms had returned north at something like eighteen inches a year. I’m not sure how that was measured or if our tax dollars paid for the research. Did someone actually put radio telemetry collars on earth worms? I’m happy the answers they found weren’t in metric.

Ruffed grouse in a mahogany tree?

If we could travel back through time to the last ice age, would it be possible to shoot ruffed grouse in the Florida Keys? It’s fun to imagine, skipping from island to island, the sand sticking to our waxed cotton brush pants. Woodcock probably flew right across the Straits of Florida to winter in Cuba and the Bahamas. I guess there wasn’t any rum then, but it still would have made a spectacular winter vacation, assuming the seasons lasted into January and February.

What I am glad of is that we don’t know all the answers. Can you imagine if we could google everything?

Are those holes in the sand from a woodcock's probing bill or clams...?

Where are the Woodcock?

It is that time of the year again, when the snow has retreated to hide in the deepest shadows. The ground finally feels soft and is spongy, like a mattress beneath the feet. A sweet mustiness hangs in the air and soon, we hope, will be replaced with the smells of things newly green.

I walk the dogs hoping to find woodcock. The little wanderers should be here, passing through on their migration north. There are never many on our island, but we usually find a few. Last year they arrived in mid-February, but this winter has been one of the nastiest in a long time.

It is easy to imagine the woodcock’s preposterous proboscis (love saying that) pushing down into the recently thawed ground, which feels only slightly firmer than pudding. The dogs race about on the newly bared ground, plowing through the underbrush. Robins and doves flee ahead of the youngest. None of my three girls find any game birds, but the blue sky stretches between the horizons. Life doesn’t get much better. We’ll look again tomorrow.

So home we go, where I’ll wipe down my guns that have been sitting in my safe through the winter. It’s time to start counting the days until fall.

Chara pointing a March woodcock a few years ago.

Picking a Shotgun

Some decisions are agonized over....

    Picking a shotgun is perhaps a more difficult decision than choosing a spouse.  It is best to try several different types before settling down with any one in particular.  Do you prefer a wide shooting plane, or perhaps a slender one?  Do you shoot better with a little weight forward, or maybe butt heavy suits you better?  Most seem to enjoy a balance somewhere in between.

    For many, the first experience is with a pump action, but later they discover the beauty and smooth handling of doubles.  Some enjoying side by side, while others like one on top of the other.

    A stock of high figure often brings a higher cost, but many find the expense worthwhile.  High-priced guns often have lots of glitter and even gold trimmings, and, although pleasing to the eye, don’t necessarily perform any better than unadorned ones. 

Older ones may be missing a screw.

    Older ones are often appealing, particularly if they have not been abused.  Nothing detracts from their appearance more than dings and bulges, and nothing is worse than one that just sat somewhere and became rusty.  Many enjoy wondering about the storied history of the older ones while using them.  You must remember though that the dimensions preferred years ago are quite different than those of today, and some may feel awkward when mounted.

A wide plane catches the eye. 

    Older models in pristine condition are often expensive, and you may not even want to use them.  They are sometimes referred to as “safe queens”, but I’m not sure what they are safe from.  It is best to admire them with as little handling as possible, to wipe off with a soft cloth any fingerprints that you may have left behind, and then to leave them where you found them.

    Perhaps you have friends with different types, and you could ask them how they like them.  Maybe they will even let you try theirs, but that is not common.  Some may not want you to take theirs out into the woods, but most will at least let you look at them.  Be sure to ask their opinions, whether they prefer side by side or over and under, ejectors, wide or narrow fore end, and straight grip.

    Large bores are becoming less popular in the upland woods, with the slender twenties becoming quite common.  As many men get older, they look for a twenty-eight with a properly proportioned frame, which they feel makes for a more appealing look. 

   Their light weight feels nimble in the hands and is a delight to experience, but a proper mount must be practiced, or the motion is too jerky and may cause a miss.  Practice mounting is the key, and can even be done in almost any room at home.

    Remember, practice safe shooting.    

A favorite, leaning against a tree.

  

Waiting For Woodcock

      Doesn’t that sound like a movie—Waiting For Woodcock? It would probably be about an odd older guy living in a rural area, who frequented swampy areas and whose only understanding friend was a dog.

     The middle of this past week the weather felt like spring, and, on a morning walk out back with the dogs, I wondered when the first woodcock might show up. February is the only month I have never seen a woodcock in New England.

     Snow fell that night, about three inches of fluffy white stuff, and, when I walked the next morning, I decided that it would be a while before the woodcock showed up.

     The day turned out warm with the temperatures in the forties and by the middle of the afternoon most of the new snow had disappeared. A friend, Tom Flaherty, called to tell that he had run his Brittany pup in the next town over and she found three woodcock in some poplar near a gravel pit. 

Do you see him in there?

     Imagine that, woodcock in February. 

Between Seasons

Photo by Dennis Swett

     It’s raining up north. I watch the weather forecasts for up there as closely as where we live, maybe more so. At least the young grouse and woodcock of the year should be big enough to generate their own body heat and have honest-to-goodness feathers, rather than just down. Hopefully, almost all of them will survive.

     Often, I find myself looking at USGS Aerial images on my Android phone, and none of them are of where we live, but rather the country I’ll hunt come fall. I’d love to be up there right now trout fishing, so I could listen for the drumming birds, but my work has me trapped down here in the flat lands.  Life could be much worse though, there are two bird dogs sleeping in the den with me, both dreaming with their legs twitching. I wish they could tell me about their dreams later.

     Periodically, I open the gun safe and take out my favorite double, shoulder it a few times, remind myself to go shooting more often, and then put it away. I dig out the list of things to bring hunting, just to double check it, maybe add or subtract something, and then put it away. The new little trout and bird knife that I got for Christmas will get a few strokes on an Arkansas stone. It’s always good to be ready ahead of time.

Drumming grouse,
photo by Dennis Swett

     Daily I walk the dogs. I find it easier to stay in shape than to get in shape. The dogs enjoy it as much as I do, and I love to watch them work the fields and woods. Every once in a while they point a turkey, which always creates a good story and usually a laugh. Maybe once or twice a year they’ll find a woodcock out back, but sadly there are no ruffed grouse here.

     How many days did you say it was until bird season?

Wandering Walter Woodcock

     The young woodcock, Walter, looked around and tried to catch his breath.  Everything looked just as he hoped and dinner should be easy to find.  A short while before, as he flew down the valley with the wind backing around to the southwest, he started to look for a place to wait out a fair breeze.  Off to the east he noticed alders and young poplars on a gentle south-facing slope.  The place certainly looked inviting.

     Waddling along the hillside, heading neither uphill nor down, he took in the new surroundings.  The same varieties of fern grew there as in his home turf back in Canada, and the moss covering the rocks looked familiar.  The gray alders were pretty much bare, but the golden leaves on the young poplars glowed in the morning sun.  A lone apple tree, crowded on all sides by alders and poplar, defiantly remained green.

    Cocking his head he listened.  Sure enough, the worms weren’t particularly deep and pickings would be easy.  Plunging his bill into the soil the tip felt the soft flesh of Lumbricus terrestris, his favorite meal and a welcome treat.  Extracting the worm from the soil he held it aloft, admired the tasty morsel, then swallowed the protesting critter.  Life certainly couldn’t get much better.

    Foraging along the hillside, he came to a thicket of twisted thorny vines, which he didn’t recognize without their black raspberries.  They certainly would provide protection from overhead, but if he ever had to escape up through them it might prove impossible.  Deciding to not take a chance, he detoured slightly up the hill toward a second old apple tree.

    The slightly damper ground beneath the ancient twisted tree proved rich with worms and he fed with abandon, until an apple dropped to the ground and startled him.  Looking up he noticed a ruffed grouse sitting among the branches.

     The grouse pecked at the soft flesh of another apple, oblivious to Walter’s presence. 

     What snotty birds those grouse are, thought Walter.  They think they are the king of game birds.  Where do they get off with that idea?

     Walter hated the way those ostentatious showoffs took flight, with wings thundering and making such a raucous.  Why couldn’t they learn a little class, creating music as they took to the air, like a civilized woodcock does?

     Walter took two steps to the side, in case the second apple fell, and then yelled, “Hey!  Don’t you see me down here?”

     The grouse glanced his way and then went back to picking at the apple.

     Snob, thought Walter, and he waddled on.  I hope some goshawk makes dinner of that snot.

     After passing under a cluster of ferns Walter stepped out into an open area beneath poplar trees about the same diameter as he.

    “Wow!” he said.  And immediately wished he hadn’t vocalized the thought. 

     There, in the middle of the opening, sat a large female woodcock.

     “Excuse me,” he apologized.  “I didn’t expect to find anyone here.”

     He admired her big round body, and the way her bill stuck way out in front.  And that sexy eye, only one faced in his direction.  And her colors…such beautiful colors that blended perfectly with the surrounding soil.  She was certainly something.

     She looked his way, but didn’t smile.

     “My name is Walter.  Are you new around here?”

     The female woodcock turn away, jammed her bill into the soil, and yanked a white grub out of the ground, which she promptly swallowed.

     After giving her head a little shake, she said, “No, just passing through.”

Her aloof attitude put Walter off a bit, but he wasn’t about to give up.  “Me too,” he said.  He scuffed a foot on the ground and summoned his courage.  “Maybe we could travel together.”

     “No.  We’re doing a girls-night-out sort of thing tonight, or whenever the wind changes direction.”

     If Walter had shoulders they would have sagged.  “Okay, well nice to meet you.”

     As he wandered on he realized she never even offered her name.  Oh well, the next best thing to a new girlfriend was going hunting.  Oh heck, he thought, hunting is a lot more fun than some of the aggravating girls he had met.

     Where might there be more worms?