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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Losing the game
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.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Anatomy of a slump
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.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Whit and how she got here
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.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The spot
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Reunion
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.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The old and new
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Timing is everything
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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
Saturday, July 31, 2010
These boots
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.
Monday, April 26, 2010
My buddy JC
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Hearts and heads
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I like old guns
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
the stuff of dreams
Monday, March 1, 2010
fair chase
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.
Friday, February 5, 2010
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
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
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.
Friday, January 22, 2010
"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.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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.