Tuesday, August 17, 2010

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.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

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.