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.