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.