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.

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.

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.