Losing the game

Like many of my hunts, the start of this one was inauspicious at best. I knew there were roosters in the cattail swamp. It had been their refuge whenever they were pressured. The swamp is generally not passable by man or dog until it freezes. Well, temps have been below freezing at night and hovering around the freezing point during the day for the better part of a week. I thought I might give it a try today. Things started off well enough. There was still frost on the ground, and a sprinkling of snow, like powdered sugar applied by baker trying to save a dime. The edges of the swamp didn't seem bad. I headed in. As I crossed a depression, my right boot started to sink in the mud. I quickly swung my left boot forward onto what looked like terra firma. I was wrong. It was like stepping on a trap door. My left leg sunk to just above my knee faster than you can say quicksand. Of course, I had some forward momentum yet, and forward I went. I somehow managed to keep my gun barrels pointed in the air with my right hand while I braced my fall with my left arm. I know, I know, you're supposed to tuck and roll. You try that with one leg sunk in the muck. With a bit of effort, I extracted myself from the cold mud. The left side of my body looked like it was auditioning for the Swamp Thing. Thankfully, my clothes remained water proof, and other than some moisture that had gotten up my pant leg to the top of my socks, I stayed mostly dry. Being dry is important when it's only about 24 degrees out. I gave up. The moat around the pheasant kingdom would keep me out for another day.

We headed to high and dry ground. I knew there was another area the birds liked to congregate when it was cold. We hiked around for quite a while and saw no sign of birds. After working what I thought were the most likely places, Whit decided to explore a section chest-high grass. Within moments it was clear that she was on a bird, but it was also clear that bird was trying to give her the slip. Scenting conditions were less than ideal on this clear, cold day so pinning the bird down might be challenge. As she finally eased into a point, a rooster pheasant erupted at about my 9 o'clock position. From the route Whit took, it was clear that this bird was trying to elude using the old end-around strategy, a late-season rooster favorite trick. It was not a particularly big bird, nor was it's tail particularly grand, but any rooster you find in December is a trophy. By this time, they've been eluding hunters for a good 6 weeks. Never mind the coyotes, foxes, hawks, owls just about every other predator that calls Wisconsin home.

I fired on the bird as it swung out to about my 12 o'clock position, hitting him squarely in the right chest. Feathers flew, and for the briefest time, there seemed to be a delay in his flight plan. Just as I let fly with second barrel, he righted himself and clawed for altitude. I'm pretty sure I shot under him, missing him cleanly the second time. He flew towards the edge of the woods. Just before he got there, he began to cant with the right wing down. He slowed and looked like he might drop into the edge of the woods, hopefully dead for the dog to retrieve. The adrenaline must have kicked in at that point. He beat his wings and powered up to the top of what must be the steepest, tallest hill between the Appalachians and the Rockies. I think the bird landed on the opposite side of a large pine at that the crest of the hill, but I couldn't be sure. I exhaled slowly, hung my head and resolved to find that bird.

I unloaded my gun and began to scramble up the hill. Most of the time, I was bent forward with one hand on the slope, the other cradling my gun. Whit had an easier time of it than I did. I hoped when I got to the top, I'd see her waiting for me with bird in mouth. Instead, I found her intensely tracking a scent-trail. My hopes were lifted. Then she did what she does when she can't quite make out the trail: make a large loop, return to where she had definite scent and cast out again. While she tracked down scent, I scanned the tree tops. Sometimes wounded birds will roost in trees, making it all but impossible for the dog to find.

We searched for over half an hour. I would have searched longer, but it was clear to me that Whit could not make out the trail. The bird was gone. Losing wounded game is one of the unpleasant realities of hunting, and one I think most hunters would like to keep private. Yet it happens to all of us sooner than later. A dog may be a great tool for conserving game, but no dog is perfect. I was so frustrated I nearly wept. I know the bird was having a worse day than I was. I suspect it bled to death internally after running off a good ways. The only solace I find in losing game is knowing that it will likely feed a coyote that night. Pheasants live a tough life as it is, most of them not making it beyond two or three years. Still, no hunter with an ounce of ethics likes to leave wounded game in the field.

I broke open my gun, pocketed the shells and began the cold walk back down the hill.

Anatomy of a slump

I am in a slump. A slump of grand porportions. I haven't seen a wild game bird in over two weeks. Worse yet, it is November 13th and I have yet to shoot a wild bird. My bird hunting journal tells me I've been 12 times this season to hunt wild birds and have nothing to show for it. I stand to lose what little credibility I have as a dedicated upland bird hunter.

The season started out well enough. We chased woodcock in late September and early October. We never got into the flights like we did last season, but put them up in one's and two's. Not all of them presented shots, and the ones that did were cleanly missed. I spent an absolutely lovely day in grouse country, but only put up one woodcock that my parnter missed. Pheasant season opened in mid-October. Conditions were far from ideal with many warm, dry days. Nonetheless, at first we were getting into birds, but never more than two on a given day. I can recall exactly three birds that were put up over solids points that offered reasonable shots. Missed them all. Now, we can't seem find birds anywhere, despite a record number of boots-on-the-ground hours.

I think part of the slump is the natural ebb and flow of bird season. In October, the birds are relatively naive and sometimes offer easier shooting. By November, the dumb ones are gone and the hard scrabble survivors are the only ones left. The weather has been mild, so the cover is still in excellent shape. Whit has pointed many a bird that has just run from us through acres of unbroken cover. When winter comes, the birds will concnetrate in the thicker cover and perhaps offer us better opportunities. Now, the odds are clearly tipped in their favor.

I've now been a serious upland hunter for about the past 6 years. I recognize there are plenty of guys (and gals) out there with way more experience than me. Regardless, I've been doing this long enough to learn a thing or two. I spent a lot of time at the gun club this past summer working on my shooting technique. By August, I was shooting much more consistently. My dog is 8 years old and true professional. I don't need to tell her what to do, I just let her loose and follow. I understand the habits of game birds, am knowledgeable of their habitat and understand how to use cover and wind to my advantage. Doesn't seem to be helping me out of the slump.

I told my wife I was going to sell all my guns and pick up a new hobby. She knew I was not serious. The affliction still burns. We'll be out again in two days. Maybe day number 13 will be the lucky one.

Whit and how she got here

A guy could stand to do a lot worse with his first birddog. The upland bird hunting bug bit me hard in my final year of specialty training. Shortly thereafter, we moved to Milwaukee. We had a very nice, 1920's era home, but it was under 1400 sq. feet and had a yard like a postage stamp. We also had a brand new baby and 70 pound lab-mix from the humane society. And I was just starting my career, needed to pass my boards and figure out the academic aspect of my career. My initial pleas to bring home a birddog fell on deaf ears.

After a while, my wife relented. She gave me some criteria, which if met, would mean I could get another dog. First, she was only interested in a Weimaraner. I had wanted a German Shorthair Pointer given their good looks and "out the box" hunting abilities. My wife was not keen on the breed. Noted author Tom Davis referred to Weimaraners as that are credible hunters as "kind of like bigfoot; I've heard of them but never seen one". She only wanted a female. She found the marking behavior of males annoying. Additionally, the dog needed to be at least two years old and professionally trained. Perhaps this part was wise. I didn't know the first thing about training a birddog and certainly didn't have an abundance of time to learn how.

I set about my search. This was in 2004. Many breeders did not have websites at that point. In fact, there are still some prominent breeders without websites. Googling "hunting weimaraners" didn't yield much useful information. I browsed the back of hunting magazines, and found small add for a breeder of Weimaraners from hunting stock. I emailed the breeder and told him what I was looking for: a two-year old or older, started female Weimaraner. Predictably, he emailed back something to the effect of "sorry, we have nothing of the sort". And then, the improbable happened. He emailed me back less than an hour later. The email was brief; "call me. I might have a dog for you".

That afternoon, one of his clients returned a two-year old female Weimaraner that had quite a bit of professional training. Seems he had to move out of state unexpectedly and could not accommodate a dog. The price was fair, and the dog checked all the boxes. My wife admitted that she thought she sent me on an impossible mission, but conceded that I had met the challenge. Now, I just needed to figure out how to make time to drive the 7 hours to the breeder in order to evaluate the dog. I sent a deposit and started looking for dates to make the drive.

Things then got even better. The breeder was driving to Madison, Wisconsin to buy some goats. Seems dogs were not the only animals he was breeding on his farm. He offered to let me look at the dog in Madison, which was only 90 minutes away. Deal.

We set out on snowy night in February to meet to the breeder and the dog. We walked into their hotel room and were greeter by an energetic, friendly Weim, not the "aloof" attitude they are often said to possess. My wife set down the car seat with our infant daughter snuggled inside. Whit gently sniffed her and then curled up beside the carrier. Sold.

I brought Whit out to the parking lot and opened the back glass on our small SUV. Whit leaped in, easily clearing the tail gate which was still in the upright position. Not everything went smoothly at first. Whit was very dominant with other dogs. She would mount our 6 year-old lab mix daily, just to show him who is the boss. She would not start fights with other dogs, but she was for damn sure not going to back down. I tried taking her on runs with me, but they did little to tire her. The only thing that seemed calm her was off-leash running.

In March, I had my first opportunity to take her hunting. The wild bird season had been closed since December, so my only choice was a game farm. I had no idea what she would do. I let her loose for the first time, not knowing if she would run off, hunt, point or do anything that a birddog is supposed to do. I was overwhelmed with joy when she went on point a few minutes later. I flushed the pheasant and shot it cleanly. She was on it moments and retrieved it to hand. Before I could tuck it in my game pouch, she was off hunting again. I couldn't believe my luck.

Whit and I have been partners now for over 6 years. She's an old pro now. She's not perfect, but we have a good working relationship. I forgive her her faults, and she mostly forgives me mine (I do get protests if I my shooting gets too poor). Given the circumstances under which I found her, I can't ask for much more.

The spot

It's embarrassing, really. I have a pretty good hunting spot for pheasants. It's a short drive from my home. Unlike a lot places where you hunt pheasants, it's pretty to look at. And it holds a lot of birds. This place, however, gets pounded. It is hunted hard. I'll pull in the turn off at 10 AM on Wednesday and there will often be two or three other trucks there. I think to myself "who gets to go bird hunting at 10 AM on a Wednesday?", then I remind myself that I am one of those people.

Anyway, most of the hunters leave the lot and walk on the trail into the fields. To the left of the trail, there is a vast expanse of grasses and mixed cover. Most guys focus their efforts there. To the right of the trail, there is a swamp. Nobody goes to the swamp. Except me. And the roosters. In fact, nearly every time we've hunted the swamp, we've put up a rooster. It's no more than 100 yards from the parking area and 15 or 20 yards from the main trail. It is uncanny how often this area produces birds. They are almost always in the same spot, a thick patch of "cover within the cover". Now here's the real embarrassing part: I've never hit one of these swamp roosters. It's almost like I don't believe there will actually be one there, again. The scenario that unfolds reminds of the movie "Groundhog's Day": Whit gets birdy and then goes on point. I start to move in, doubting there could actually be another rooster there, that a bunch of other guys and dogs walked by, only a few yards from the trail. Then the thing flushes, startles me and I miss like a rank amateur. For all I know, it could be the same rooster every time, a mythic swamp rooster, capable of dodging a hot load of #6 shot. On the other hand, I could just be a mediocre wingshooter. The score so far this season is swamp rooster 2, Mike zero. Last season I think I went 0-4 against the swamp rooster. If this keeps up, I might start rooting for the bird.

My wife mentioned to one of her girlfriends that I was out bird hunting on a recent morning. Her friend responded, "Oh, my ex-husband used to do that from time to time. I never understood why he would want to get up at the crack of dawn and then go lay in a field, hoping for some birds to fly by". My wife responded, "that's not how Mike does it. The way he hunts birds is more like practicing an art form". I'll keep her.

Reunion

I've known Matt for a pretty long time. We first met in kindergarten and became fast friends. My family moved to the other side of town the following year. Imagine my surprise, when as a newly minted second grader the following year, the new kid in the class was my old friend Matt. His parents had moved within bicycling distance of our new neighborhood. From that point on, we were just about inseparable. We did a lot of typical kid stuff, but one of our favorite activities was "playing guns". There was an empty woodlot near his house where we built bunkers, machine gun nests and staged juvenille military campaigns.

Matt will be the first one to tell you that things did not go well during his adolescence. At first, I tried to be the supportive best friend, but as his troubles grew deeper, we grew further apart. By our early 20's we had lost touch with each other entirely.

Nearly a decade and a half later, we were re-connected by the social networking phenomenon. At first, I was just relieved to learned that after many troubled years, Matt had landed on his feet. Turns out he got pretty good at landing on his feet. In the depth of his troubles, Matt enlisted in the Army. He served in the airborne infantry, and after several years, left honorably, a changed man. He married a young woman that first caught his eye in high school. He held down a respectable job and was close to finishing his college degree.

Improbably, our paths crossed again. Matt took a new job, hoping to relocate closer to family. He ended up in Madison, Wisconsin, less than thirty minutes from me. We met for coffee a couple times after he moved. After so long, I think we both wanted to test the waters and approached things cautiously. Perhaps we needn't have. After all that time, hurt on both sides, we picked we up where we left off.

Matt and I both shared a love of the outdoors as kids, and in the pre-political correctness era, a boyish fascination with guns. Turns out guns would end up playing a substantial role in our lives, Matt as a serviceman and now sport shooter, and me as broken birdhunting addict.

I invited Matt to come with me pheasant hunting. I knew he wouldn't be all that interested in hunting, but thought he might enjoy the hike. I took him to one of my favorite spots. Unlike most terrain that holds pheasants, it is hilly an pleasant to look at. This time of year, much of the ground cover turns a golden hue, framed by the tree-lined hills, which were nearing their peak colors. If anything, we'd have a nice hike on a gorgeous fall day.

After busting cover for over an hour with nothing to show for it, I decided to take a little break and actually walk along an established trail. I was pleased with the way my dog Whit was quatering, covering the edges of the trail. Regardless, I think even the most dedicated birddogger starts to lose a little faith in the pup if you aren't finding any birds. It was about that time that Whit found religion and got on a bird. There was a small game trail off the main thoroughfare that caught her interest. She pointed briefly, and then began a low, cat-like crawl. Each footstep seemed to fall more deliberately than the last, until she finally froze into a point. It was clear that the bird was on the move, as this sequence repeated itself several times. We made our way down the game trail, a jaunt of about 75 yards. The trail then came to a small clearing. Several things tend to happen at clearings like this. Sometimes, the bird will loose its nerve and flush. That didn't happend. Other times, they will hunker down at the end of the cover, which can make for some nice shooting. Often, they just keep running. Thankfuly, this bird took the second best option: it ran across the clearing and into the closest patch of thick cover, where it sat. It wasn't fooling Whit. She made right for the tangle and went on point. The bird had had enough and flushed, offering a relatively easy quatering-to-the-right shot. I missed cleanly with both barrels. We watched it fly, Matt at a slightly better vantage point than I. We both lost track of the bird as it dipped below a small rise. We followed it and were greeted by acres upon acres of unbroken, chest high cover. I knew the bird was as good as gone, but we tried anyway. We never found any sign of the bird.

After many years, Matt and I were forging a new bond, with similar constituents to when we were kids: guns and the outdoors. I'm glad to have my oldest friend back.

The old and new

The thing about hunting is that you are almost always looking for new places to do it. Today, I hunted the "home covert", my woodcock hot spot from last year. We put up two birds, only one of which had to worry about dodging my shot string, which it did nicely. Coverts that are golden one year my be barren the next. That's why most the time I drive anywhere I am also scouting for land to hunt.

After picking the through the home covert, I went on to explore an area I scouted last spring. After high-stepping through marsh grass, loosing a boot in a sink a hole and taking a tumble in a mud wallow, I once again began to question why I do this sort of thing. There were no birds to speak of and just a lot of misery for me and the dog.

Yesterday, I hunted an entirely new area with a new friend. After about 3 hours of boots on the ground, we put up exactly one woodcock. At least I don't have to take credit for the miss. We still drove home happy. I spent the day feeling like I was walking through one of those paintings that idealizes hunting in the fall. It was ideal, except for the no birds in the bag part.

Timing is everything

September 29th. The date had been on my calendar for a while. It would be the first day I would try to hunt woodcock this year and the official start of my upland hunting season.

It was about 42 degrees out when I woke up, with a light frost and fog heavy in the air. Just about perfect weather for hunting. Well, then I helped get the kids off to school and loaded the gear to go. I hit the woods at about 8:30 AM. The frost was gone, the sun was up and the fog burned off. It was a hell of nice morning, but far from ideal hunting conditions. The window of really excellent weather only lasted about 90 minutes.

I was hunting the home covert today, where I had quite a bit of luck during the flights last year and moved some resident birds outside of the peak times. Being September, the undergrowth was still quite thick. More than once the dog and I just about bounced off impossibly thick tangles that seemed to say "you shall not pass!".

Whit had one solid point, but it was a non-productive. I don't doubt there was bird there, was being the appropriate form of the verb. I think my eagerness to get the season going we hunted less-than-ideal cover too early in the season under too warm conditions. We'll let it rest for a couple weeks and try again.

Michael McIntosh passed away on August 14th. Michael was an English professor, with an expertise in Shakespeare, who became a noted gun writer. He published over a dozen books and has been a regular contributor to major sporting magazines. He has the reputation of a true gentleman and took a genuine interest in his fans.

I never knew "Mac", but like many of his fans, I felt like I did from his writings. I know he liked fine guns, not-so-fine but classic guns. He liked fine drinks as well, and was often seen smoking his pipe. He gave his readers that he lived life on his own terms, and apparently, he died that way, too.

According to fellow writer Gary Capelletti, McIntosh was suffering from pneomonia and was not doing well. He decided to remove his oxygen mask so he could enjoy his pipe. He died after that.

In one of his books, McIntosh remarks that "God the Father shoots a Purdey hammergun". Well, Michael, I hope you find out for certain.

Godspeed, Michael McIntosh.

The impressions we make

It wasn't exactly an auspicious start to our hunt. My wife's uncle Steve was visiting town, and I had told him I would take him pheasant hunting. Now, Steve is from Kansas, which is one of the premier pheasant hunting states in the union. I live in Wisconsin. On average, hunters harvest about on third as many pheasants in Wisconsin as they do in Kansas. Kansas is usually is ranked somewhere in the top 3 in pheasant hunting destinations, whereas Wisconsin doesn't make the list. Steve also grew up hunting pheasant and quail, and I was a relative newcomer. I tried to set the expectations low.

I was taking him to one of my "hot spots". It never held a ton of birds, but I could usually count on getting a couple up. We didn't have a lot of time to hunt, but this spot was only about 35 minutes from my home. We pulled into the gravel parking lot accompanied by the staccato whines of Whit, my Weimaraner. Gravel roads mean one thing to her and one thing only: bird hunting, and she was ready to go. We went around to the back of the truck to unload when I realized I left both hunting vests, loaded with shells, on the floor of my garage. We didn't have a single shell between us. The nearest place to buy shells was about 20 minutes away, and the clock on our hunting time was ticking away. We raced to the store, bought two boxes of shells (one 12 gauge, one 20 gauge) and a cheap vest to carry them in. Finally, we were back at the hunting spot and ready to have at it.

We worked a wide feel with a thick cover of trees on one side. This section usually held a bird or two. When I hunt, I usually alternate watching the dog and looking out ahead, either for birds blowing out of the cover or our next objective. Well, about 100 yards down the field, I saw a rooster pheasant and his lady run out of the cover and into the next the big field. My dog never seemed to get wind of them and we never figured out where they went.

Near the apex of our hunt, the turn around point where the swamp becomes impassable, Whit finally pinned a bird in a clump of small trees. Steve posted on Whit's right, while I worked around from the left, hoping to flush the bird in Steve's direction and give him a fair shot. Whit stayed steady and the bird flushed, yet somehow managed a near vertical take off. It was a bit like a woodcock flushing, except about 6 times the size. The flush gave Steve and I both a safe shot, and we both took it, and missed. Things were not shaping up well.

We headed back to the truck. I wasn't counting on seeing any more birds that day. There is a long, linear row of brush and small trees towards the parking lot. When we first approached this stretch of cover, Whit got very birdy. She made a quick point, then stealthily crawled forward. Another quick point and then she was stalking again, like a lioness trying to get within pouncing distance of an antelope. Generally, this means one thing: there is a rooster pheasant in the cover, and it is on the move. The brush patch was rather long. There was a chance the bird would turn on the afterburners and run out the other end. It could also make it to the far end and flush out of range. I reckoned the odds were a least as good the it would get to the end of the row and then hunker down, hoping we would pass by, rather than risk exposing itself. If the bird cooperated, chances were good for another point for the dog and the opportunity to redeem ourselves from our poor shooting.

About that time, a woman walked around the far end the line of brush. She was decked out in North Face gear and walking a leashed golden retriever. I broke open my shotgun, cradled it in my left arm, and smiled and waved. I called Whit back to me and turned towards the parking lot.

That hunt was nearly two years ago. I got to thinking about it again after reading Mark Parman's excellent new book " A grouse hunter's almanac". In it he describes some less-than-ideal encounters with both hunters and non-hunters in the field. I thought about how my encounter with this woman could have gone differently. We were there first. The land is public and open to hunter and non-hunter alike. I could have shouted for her to get the hell out of our way. Chances are she would have listened to two armed men. Sadly, I'm afraid that is how some my hunting brethren may have responded. Finding others in our favorite spots does not always bring out the best in us. Yet when I'm in the field, I always think of myself as the public face of hunting. Percentage wise, the number of hunters in the U.S. is pretty small, even though the hunting industry has a pretty big economic impact. Dedicated bird hunters like myself are fewer still in number. We need to do our best to stay in the public's good graces.

I may not have achieved anything by showing deference to the dog walker. She may have still been intimidated and scared by the two of us. Non-hunters and people who don't shoot don't always react well to the sight of people openly carrying guns, even it if it on well-marked public hunting land. My hope would be that she would at least remember us as courteous. I don't suspect she'll spread the word about the two polite hunters she met, but could you imagine the conversations she would have with girlfriends if we were not? Public relations wise, it would have been far worse.

These reflections also got me thinking about the false-machismo portrayed on may hunting TV shows and some magazines. It seems to be all about the tough guy with gun, bagging the biggest buck, showing up other hunters. I find these yahoos hard to take. Let's face it, that's not what being a man is really about. Hunting has helped me understand what it means to be a man, and it certainly doesn't look much like the Bone Collector or Buckmaster.

Upland hunting continues to interest me because it requires the acquisition of so many skills: training and understanding a birddog, recognizing likely habitat for game birds, figuring out game bird behavior under a variety of conditions, and lastly, but not least, safely and effectively handling a firearm. Then there is the individual code of ethics that many upland hunters follow: no shooting birds on the ground or out of trees, shooting less than your limit on certain birds (woodcock in particularly), not over hunting your best spots, and sharing your sport with others. In the process, I have developed a deep appreciation for the land, the game, the seasons and the pursuit of excellence. I'd like to think these things have made me a better man, not the knock-down power of the gun I shoot, the size of the truck I drive to the woods nor how many head of game I kill.

At the heart of true hunter/sportsman, there is a gentleness that is hard to explain. We care greatly about our dogs. We marvel at their skill, not just how cute they looked dressed for the holidays. Our bond with them is intense because we work as a team. We deeply love the game we pursue. There is a sweet sadness to holding a wild game bird, recently killed, in your hands. I can't tell you how many times I've read about hunters stroking the bird's feathers, marveling at their beauty and giving thanks to the game. We appreciate the gift of life and the reality of death. We love the land and care to conserve it. These are our best characteristics as hunters, and the ones that should be our face to the public, not the silly braggart with the biggest gun.

These boots

I'm retiring my boots. Hardly seems a thing worthy enough to waste ink or cyberspace on, but these boots and I have a history. I bought them 1997 or 1998, not sure which. They are a pair of Zamberlan all-leather hiking boots, hand-crafted in Italy. I got them for a song as they were clearing out the current year's models at the time. Frankly, all-leather hiking boots don't change all that much year to year. Since that time, they have hiked on trails in Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan. They have been on day hikes with my kids and extended backpacking trips in two different states. They have carried me up 14,000 foot peaks in Colorado and scrambled over the scree of foothills in Idaho. They have braved slippery rocks caving in Kentucky.

They have been fastened to snowshoes, gaiters and crampons. With a little care, they remained quite water resistant for more than 10 years (waterproof most that time). Once I started to get seriously into upland hunting, they endured even more mileage and worse terrain. Cattail swamps, a variety of bogs, gnarly, clothes-ripping cover, creek crossings, lake retrieving, nothing seemed to be too much for these boots. I replaced them last fall. They are still comfortable and still have held up well, but have lost all pretense of being the least bit waterproof.

Actually, they won't retire entirely. They will still do service in the summer and dry days in the fall. I don't tend to get very sentimental about my possesions anymore, excpet those that are finely crafted or have served me particularly well. I guess that is why I am writing a post about boots.

My buddy JC

My buddy JC shares the affliction of birds, dogs and guns. We met went he was doing his residency in orthopedic surgery at my former hospital. We got to talking about birddogs and hit it off immediately. While JC we was still in residency, we hunted together as much as our schedules would allow. We also spent a lot of summer evenings "running the dogs", which is basically where we walk along and talk and the dogs run, mostly just burning off their crazed energy, but hopefully once in a while pointing something interesting.

There are some notable differences between JC and I. As I've mentioned, I like old guns. I don't much care to shoot a gun that doesn't appeal to the eye. For a while there, I was buying and selling guns like a used car dealer, but without the profits. JC shot one gun for as long as we hunted together. It is an old pump gun that is as ugly as sin on Sunday. It has one of the those composite stocks, rather than wood, so the whole thing is a faded black color. It has all the grace of a farm implement. It weighs in about two pounds heavier than the guns I shoot. To top it off, it is fitted with a sling and one of those sleeves on the stock that holds a few extra shells. I mean, it is just plain unsigthly. But man, can he shoot that thing. It probably helps that he grew up in rural Canada and then moved to South Dakota. Shooting is a birth right in that neck of the woods. He's one of those guys that makes shots you can't believe, and he can't begin to tell you how he did it. It's enough to make a guy feel inadequate.

His dog is another story. He runs a German shorthair pointer named Maya. That dog loves to hunt. I'm not sure if she even likes JC, but man, does she hunt for him. JC bought her from a guy that is basically a back-yard breeder. She has had no formal training other than running with JC's father's more experienced birddogs. She has a drive that would make an honors student blush. She has a remarkable nose and bird sense to spare. About the only place my dog betters her is in retrieving, which I think is by choice. Maya can retrieve just fine, she'd just rather move on and find the next bird. My dog, on the other hand, retrieves like she is possessed. She'll bring back a wing-tipped cripple that ran off into the next county. And Maya will let her.

So, shooting with JC can get interesting. His dog has a slight edge in bird finding over mine. He's also a better shot than I am. Factor in that my dog would just assume retrieve his birds rather go find me one, and you could see how things could get a little one sided. Yet, they never do. JC and I enjoy an easy company that is hard to come by. Besides, the sight of one of our dogs pointing a bird and the other honoring the point makes you forget about the little things.

JC was exiled to New Jersey last year to complete his specialty training. I just found he's returning to Wisconsin this summer to begin practice. We spoke today, and after not talking for about a year, we picked up where we left off. I look forward to a reunion in the fields of fall.

Hearts and heads

We make decisions in life with both our hearts and our heads. Sometimes we use our hearts when we should have used our heads. The opposite is also true. When we use the right apparatus to make to these decisions, I've noticed things have a tendency to work out well. There is a rightness to these decisions that is hard to explain.

An example: Marrying my wife was certainly one of the best decisions I ever made. It was definitely a heart decision. I had been more or less infatuated with her since we first rode the bus together in eighth grade. We started dating our freshman year in college. I fell hard and fast. I knew on our first date that she was the woman I wanted to marry. We got engaged at the end of our junior year in college. During our senior year , she broke off the relationship. I was devastated. It took a long time and a lot of soul searching to recover. Four and half years later, our paths crossed again. She wanted to give things another try. There was small voice in my head that said "you are just setting yourself to have your heart broken again, and possibly even worse". Overwhelmingly, my heart said "yes!". We were engaged within a couple months, and married six months after that. We've now been married nearly ten years. To borrow a phrase, I didn't marry the woman I could live with, I married the woman I couldn't live without.

As my devotion to upland hunting grows and matures, I have had to make several heart and head decisions. Seems odd to talk about hunting in this manner, but when birds, dogs and guns get into your blood, this kind of thinking comes naturally.

Gear: I admit I like the look of some of the classic gear: waxed cotton jackets, canvas briar pants, funny hats. I sheepishly admit I even like the tweeds worn by English sportsmen. But here, heads prevail. Modern fabrics keep me warm and dry, even in the most adverse hunting conditions. I can cherish the hunt more when I am not constantly thinking about how wet or cold I am, or how good it would feel to get inside. Head wins.

Guns: The "head choice" would be a modern autoloader or over/under, without a doubt. Modern guns can shoot about any kind of ammunition, and do so without fail, for many years. But in this category, the heart wins. My 80+ year-old side by side speaks to me in a way a modern, machine-made gun just can't. Lovingly hand-crafted, it is a joy to carry, even if I don't shoot it. Sure, I have to order shells by case from a special maker, because you can't feed these things your off-the-shelf modern ammunition, but that seems a small price to pay for the delight of hunting with a piece of history.

Rigs: I really want an old Land Rover, preferably green with a white top, or perhaps the entire thing could be desert khaki. Sixties-era would be nice. Manual transmission, manual locking differential, jump seats in the back. I can see it now, trundling down a two-track, with a brace of steaming birddogs in the back, panting after a hard hunt. The heater probably wouldn't work all that well, but I hunt prepared for the elements. I could live without a radio or power windows. But let's be realistic. Even though most of my hunting takes place within an hour drive of my home, modern vehicles cannot be beat for reliability and safety. Your hunting rig tends lose some if it's romance when it is broken down by the side of the road. And if I'm going to get plowed into by a drunk driver, him on his way home from a bender, me out early to greet the sunrise, I'd rather be in an airbag festooned, crumple zone enriched contemporary ride than a fine vintage vehicle. Head wins here. But, if I am ever so fortunate to acquire some acreage of my own that I can groom for hunting, you can be sure there will be a tattered lorry parked in the barn.

Dogs: My Weimaraner, Whit is 7. I won't say she is past her hunting prime (she is not), but her the twilight of her career could be coming. She is still athletic in a way that belies her age. She continues to refine her bird handling with each passing season. Sooner or later, though, I'll need to start grooming an a new recruit. My head tells me a I should get another versatile dog, like a German Shorthair Pointer. In my opinion, they are most naturally talented of the pointing breeds. If you want an out-of-the box, forget the instruction manual type of birddog, buy a GSP. They are also well suited to the type of hunting I do: pheasants, woodcock and grouse in a variety of different types of covers. Some GSPs even make passable duck dogs, which would be nice as I do like to chase ducks once or twice a season. But my heart says otherwise. I want an old style English setter, blue or orange belton coat, blocky head, soulful eyes and calm temperament. I don't have much interest in the spritely, small field trial-type setters. They are fine birddogs, indeed, but not my cup of tea. Give me a dog that looks just as much at home in sprawled out in front of a hearth as it does in the coverts of fall, or in a turn-of-the-last century painting. These dogs come with character and charm in spades. Much of hunting for me has become about aesthetics: the beauty of the season the crafted by the hand of God, the lovely lines of an old gun, and the gracefulness of the dog covering ground in front of me. These are the things that stir my heart, etch themselves in my soul. These are the memories I hope to page through like worn, well-loved book when my body is too aged for the woods. Here, heart wins again.

I like old guns

I like old guns. There’s just something about them. They’re charming. They have character. There’s just something about knowing they were made by hand, with the utmost care, by men that are likely long dead. Their longevity is a testament to their workmanship and the skill of the craftsmen.

Presently, I have two vintage guns and another one on the way. One is a an 80+ year old English boxlock made by Westley Richards. It has lovely engraving that you won’t find on modern guns unless your gun fund looks like other people’s car funds. The beauty of the wood still gives me pause. It handles wonderfully and shoots where it is pointed. After 80-some years of hard use, the ejectors still work perfectly, launching spent shells in a parallel arc, always landing next to each other. It has been my go-to gun for the last two seasons, and will be for the foreseeable future.

The second is a one hundred plus year-old English hammergun. It is so old, it basically choked "no" and "YES!". It is not a particularly fancy gun, but it is lovely to hold and behold. I have handled few guns as graceful, regardless of price point.

The funny thing is that many hunters have no appreciation for these old treasures. I have shown some hard-core hunters pictures of my guns, and often get bewildered looks. Sometimes they are not sure what they are looking at. They are often surprised that I actually shoot something so old. Many hunters believe these old guns cannot be shot safely. I beg to differ.

Contemporary hunters may not understand why guys like me like to hunt with these old guns so much. Modern semi-automatic guns are very reliable, relatively light weight and offer the option of a third (or fourth) shot. I look at this way: I hunt for the experience. For pleasure. Sure, the end results taste good, but I won't starve without them. So, if I were going to buy a car to drive to and from work every day, I'd buy a Honda Accord. It is incredibly reliable, comfortable and efficeint. But what if I wanted to buy a car to drive with my wife, on summer weekends, through the rolling hills of Western Wisconsin? It wouldn't be a Honda Accord, as good of car as it is. It would be a Jaguar E-type, or Ferrari 330 GTS (not that I could afford either one). Something with class and grace. Something that puts a big smile on your face when you drive it, or even when you just look at it. Where the car-gun comparison falls short is in practicality. There are some sacrifices you make when you shoot and older gun, but they are far from impractical.

I have also found an unanticipated consequence of shooting older guns: approval from non-hunters. Right or wrong, there is a perception among non-hunters that we pursuers of game do so with high-tech, high-powered weaponry. Non-hunters have told me that is admirable that I hunt with these old classics. It may be small, but our sport can use all the good press it can get.

the stuff of dreams

Had a dream last night that I shot a woodcock. With a hammergun. In front of the White House. I have no idea what that means.

fair chase

Whit and I set out to find some new hunting grounds two days ago. I had covered part of this patch of public hunting land during pheasant season. It looked promising: grain fields bordered by thick grassy cover and willows. There was a small patch of woods and a good sized marsh making up the other borders.

During the season, we had hunted the grassy cover on three separate occasions. We never found a single bird. On this day, we were going to scout the marshy area. There was still quite a bit of snow on the ground, despite temps in the mid 30's. Most of the marsh would still be frozen. With the ground frozen and the cover thinned by months of winter, the cover would be more passable than it was in the fall.

We walked through a good part of the marsh with no signs of wildlife, other than a deer carcass. I was proud that Whit left it alone Just as I was about to turn us around, Whit got birdy. I headed in her direction. Sure enough, rooster tracks! Whit and I gave chase. The bird weaved through the cover. We followed, Whit by scent, and me, further behind, by track.

After a couple hundred yards, the bird turned out of the cover and sprinted in the open. There, its tracks were joined by what appeared to be another rooster and a hen. A some point, a turkey crossed their tracks. Eventually, they turned back into the cover, where we lost their track.

We never saw a single bird. They never flew. They just ran. They doubled back on us twice. These birds are survivors. Their home will likely be impassable for most of the hunting season. I'm looking forward to the rematch.

People are often surprised to learn that I am an avid
hunter. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I am perceived as
well-educated (I would argue more like well-trained).Perhaps because I don't wear camouflage to dinner. I'm not sure.

People are usually even more surprised when they learn that
I didn't grow up hunting. My parents divorced when I was
quite young. Both my father and step-father took care of me
in their own ways, but neither one was a hunter or outdoorsman. None of my friends or their fathers hunted. In fact, in my circle of grade school friends, there was exactly one BB gun among
us. It was kept at my friend's family cabin, and the opportunity to shoot it approached nirvana for a certain 12 year-old boy.

I loved the outdoors from an early age. We were not
exactly a "camping family". As such, I will always be
grateful to the Boy Scouts of America for giving a kid with
a yearning for the outdoors the opportunity to experience
them in a way you really can't in a suburban park.

Typical kid stuff. Then, puberty hit and the relevant
obsessions changed.

Fast forward a decade and a half. I am now married, doing
my specialty training in Emergency Medicine. My wife has put grad
school on hold and is working at a title company to help
support us (I had a fancy degree at that point, but was
making less than $10/hour). My wife made fast friends with a
woman at work. In typical conspiring female fashion, they
thought they should get their significant others together,
too. If they knew what that friendship would foster, they
may have considered otherwise.

Rich and I hit it off immediately. We both appreciated a
finely crafted beer, but were not above drinking the cheap
stuff. We both loved all things automotive, and had similar
tastes in cars. Rich is quick-witted, but I'm still funnier. Just
ask me. Then, Rich offered to take me shooting. I found my
new best friend.

Rich is the kind of guy most other men want to be. He's self-confident without being cocky. He's tough when he needs to be, but isn't afraid to be gentle. He can
build/fix/fabricate most anything he puts his mind to.

You'd never mistake him for a bodybuilder, but I'm pretty sure he could hogtie a hippo
without breaking a sweat. Turns out he is a patient teacher, too.

Rich took me to a state-run gun range near his home. He
didn't realize just how inexperienced I was as a shooter. At
that point, I don't know if I had ever even shot a real gun.
He decided to start me out with his 12 gauge pump shotgun,
deer barrel affixed, shooting slugs with open sights. I
didn't do well. Rich quickly realized his mistake and set me
up with his .22 magnum with a telescopic sight. It was
soft-shooting and tack-driver accurate. I went from zero to
hero and was instantly hooked.

Rich developed a rare eye tumor in his twenties. A couple of
surgeries later, he had very little vision left in his right
eye. That's a problem for a right-handed shooter. Rich then
taught himself to shoot left-handed. Yet, all of his guns
are right handed. I can count exactly one day when I have
out-shot Rich, despite him learning to shoot with his
non-dominant hand later in life. Every other time we've been
out shooting or hunting together he makes me look like a
rank amateur.

With my residency training near complete, I knew I would be
moving out of Michigan to take a job in Wisconsin. As a
thank-you to Rich, I booked a pheasant hunt at a game farm
that spring. It wasn't exactly a dream hunt. The weather was
way too warm. Our guide was the owner's 10 year-old son,
whom had yet to complete his customer service training. Some
the birds apparently lacked anything resembling survival
instincts. Nevertheless, the owner's German shorthair
pointers impressed me. The few birds that flew well provided
great sport. Something inside me awoke. Ever since
then, from an admittedly inauspicious start, I have been
completely immersed in the world of guns, dogs and upland
birds. And I owe it all to Rich.

We could certainly use a few more men like Rich Dase. Rich
lost his manufacturing job a couple years ago as the
Michigan auto industry crumbled. He now has nearly completed
nursing school. He's at the top of his class, despite not
having been in school for more years than he probably cares to
admit. He is a mentor to new students in the program. And he still takes calls with the local volunteer fire department. I think we'll see him working in the ER or ICU sometime soon. If the nursing thing doesn’t work out, I think the hunting and shooting community could use him as an
ambassador. He’s certainly one hell of a mentor.

"Why do I do this?". That wasn't the first time I had that thought while hunting. I've thought the same just before wading into a semi-frozen cattail swamp to chase pheasants. I had a similar thought before plunging into a muddy lake to retrieve a duck because my ace birddog can't swim. I sunk to my sternum in mud.

This time it wasn't that bad. I was standing on a hill, overlooking a hundred-some acres of cover. The height of the cover varied from knee to chest high. It was just me and the dog after the pheasants. A hundred-some acres doesn't sound like a lot of land, but there's a lot a room to hide for a bird that is about the size of chicken. And the hens are safe. Not legal game. Add to that the fact the pheasants and can out run a birddog despite having legs only about as long as my thumbs. Doesn't help that they are as jumpy as a crack addict in between fixes. Oh, and these are late season pheasants. We are not the first hunter/dog crew they've encountered. The advantage clearly goes to the birds. I wonder why I don't take up golf. The golf ball isn't using every trick in the book to evade you. It just sits there. Then again, no one is trying to shoot the golf ball.

I decide to take a long walk along the perimeter of the cover. The idea was to drive the birds towards the center of the plot of land where it will be easier for the dog to work them. We had just about completed our loop when we came upon some thicker cover, about chest high. The place was full of pheasant tracks. Unfortunately, it was also close to the road. There's not much traffic on the rural byway, but the locals drive it like moonshiners during prohibition. I cradled my shotgun in my right arm and held the remote for the dog's electronic collar in my left. I'd have to call her off if she got much closer to the road, bird or no bird.

I could tell Whit hit scent in the thick of the cover. We worked our way towards the end, when Whit suddenly flash froze into a point. I angled towards her on the right. The rooster wasn't having it. It burst out of the cover, full cackle, full noisy flush of wings. I dropped it with the right barrel of my 80-plus year old side by side. The dog made a quick retrieve.

Most days, I'm happy taking one pheasant. The limit in our state is two. If we see more than two on any given hunt, I'm bordering on ecstatic. There was one other patch cover on this property that I wanted to work. We took a rooster out of it the month before, and had seen plenty of tracks from other birds. We weren't in the thick stuff long when Whit went on point again. This time, she froze with her head turned 90 degrees to her left. I angled in on the left side, hoping to pin the bird between Whit and I. Whit then began to turn her head, slowly, fluidly, without moving a single other muscle, until she was facing straight ahead. The bird was running. I released Whit right about the time she decided she wasn't waiting around for me. She ran about 15 yards and pointed again. Next, she relocated on her own, pointing again. The bird had run in a giant U, and was apparently trying to loop around behind us. They do that sort of thing.

The bird had finally had enough. It flushed. Rooster! I had to pass on the shot for a significant portion of its flight plan. I didn't want to shoot over the road, even though there were no cars in sight. Some habits you just don't want to break. I took a shot at it once it cleared the road. The bird went down into the thick patch of cover that produced the first bird. It didn't look hit, but that wasn't going to stop us from following it up. Whit and I both worked the cover and found nothing. No blood, no bird. When I got to the opposite end, I noticed fresh tracks on the thing that sort of resembled a trail. Darn bird had run out of the cover while we were fumbling around. I whistled the dog. She came running to me, only to notice the fresh trail. We were in hot pursuit!

Turns out these birds are pretty smart. This one ran 500+ yards on an open trail, into the woods and onto private property. It would live to outsmart another hunter. That's OK with me. Mike 1, Pheasants 1 is a pretty good score in my book.

Woodcock

I had it all set. October and November were carefully planned. I had a long stretch of time off at the end of October and early November. Prime time for pheasant and grouse hunting in Wisconsin and perhaps a road trip west. Never mind that I'd be working my tail off for the remainder of the four months in the schedule block. Then it happened. That heart to heart discussion with my wife, THE love of my life. My current job was not working for our family. Too much time away. Too much of my mental energy displaced to academic projects, meetings and duties, never mind the shifts in the emergency department. Something had to change.

I called one of my former partners who left academics to take a community job in Madison, Wisconsin. Turns out they were hiring, and they needed somebody yesterday. Making the decision to leave a stable job in this economy was not an easy one, but I had to do what was best for my family. My hunting season was scratched. Time would be scratched out around family life and working full time in the emergency department. The move date was October 1st, and after a few days off to settle in to the new place, I would start my new job. This year would not be the upland odyssey I had hoped for.

Yet, there is redemption.

I found a patch of public hunting land about 5 minutes from my new house. It didn't look real promising from the road, maybe the kind of place that state dumps a few pheasants to keep the locals happy, but really not much else. We worked some open fields on the front half of the property, curious about the possibility of pheasants. The season didn't open for another week and a half, but scouting never hurts. We found none. However, when we got over a small rise, I saw the glimmering yellow/green flutter of aspen leaves in a thick patch. I had decided to carry my 20g Franchi over and under that day. I knew there were some streams on the property and thought we might find a woodcock or two along the waterways. I had several boxes of steel #7 that I bought on clearance and wanted to use up. I thought they might make a nice load for woodcock. Within a minute of hitting the aspens, Whit, my six year old Weimaraner, got very birdy. I lost her in the thick stuff. All was silent for moment and then I saw the tan/brown flutter break through the trees. I took a desperate poke, and much to my surprise, Whit returned moments later with our first woodcock of the season in her mouth. Over the next half an hour, Whit moved fluidly from point to point. It was the kind of hunting I'd read about, but never experienced. The type of hunting pointing dog guys dream about. We flushed a total of 6 woodcock, five over points. The unpointed bird flushed to my right when whit was pointing one on my left. I had shots a four and brought home two. After shooting the second, I decided to leave. It is a pretty small covert, and I definitely didn't want to shoot it up. I also thought it would be pretty hard to improve upon from there.

I should mention that we were hunting in the rain. Not a sprinkle, but a deluge. And a Biblical one at that. Didn't matter. It was some of the most glorious, most sublime upland hunting I've ever experienced. All is well. Family life is again a priority, and it turns out the hunting season might not be so bad.