Hit or Miss

I’ve missed more wood ducks this year than I’d care to admit. I’m not one to keep a tally, or try to quantify a successful hunting experience based on the statistics of my shooting. But when you miss shots on ducks right on top of you, it hurts. And the experience tends to stick you with. It can haunt you. Missing close shots like that is really kind of embarrassing when you think about it. Two shots from my over/under probably puts out how many pellets? 75? Maybe 100? And I couldn’t put one of those on target at 10-20 yards? Its got to be the gun’s fault with those kind of figures. Or better yet, wrong chokes or wrong load. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, in the face of numbers like that. Mind-boggling. I couldn’t put one out of a hundred pellets on targert?!?! One out of a hundred…nope.

My brother is actually a pretty good shot. He claims that your pattern comes out as a cone and the key to successful shooting is to put the leading edge of that cone on your target, so as the bird continues to fly, the full pattern follows the target on its flight path. Makes sense, I guess, if you’re into science and mechanical physics. But after I saw every bird he shot one afternoon expel a spherically uniform poof of feathers, I politely told him, “Well, however your using your “cone“, you can clean all the birds next time, because I’m tired of hamburger.”

Regardless of my shooting, wood duck hunting is hard. And even harder to get them right on top of you. But once you’ve had squealing woodies coming in fast, feet down, and wings cupped, you’ll hold back on the treeline passing shots. Still, at best, it is hit or miss. But decoys do work. And if you know how to use a wood duck call, it helps too.

 

Bartering Chips

I’m not so sure that my dog, Gus, doesn’t save a few birds as bartering chips at the end of the hunt. Maybe he gets wind of a couple birds right off the bat, and thinks to himself “ I’ll save those guys for the end of the trip, so I don’t have to go back in the truck.” But maybe that’s asking a lot. Maybe that “Ting, ting.. Ting..” sound that comes from the bell around his collar is just echoing that one marble rattling around in his head going, “Birds.. Birds, Birds…” Either way, I can always count on a few points from Gus on the way back to the car.

I warned my hunter, Ron, as his friends started towards the edge of the field.

“If Gus thinks we’re headed home, he’ll false point all the way back to truck. He knows how this works. If he’s on point, we have to come to him.”

Tim, Max and Bob were already laughing about the morning’s hunt, recounting the birds that somehow dodged 8 rounds of lead and escaped unharmed, as well as the ones that didn‘t. Gus locked up on a clump of reeds.

A large part of guiding with dogs is learning how to read their behavior, their quirks, and even their faults. Gus gets psyched out by mice hiding under rotted logs. And Dixie likes to parade her down birds in front of each hunter, then drop it a few steps away instead of retrieving it to hand, as if to say, “Let me make it clear: This is my bird. I did all the work. You come pick it up.” At almost 11-years-old, she’s too old and stubborn to argue with.

You learn how to read each point. The slight tilt of the head can indicate how close a bird is. A nose to the wind can tell you if a bird is running. A slow creep into a point more than likely implies, more than one bird. Little variations of behavior that allow you to know your dog. But most of the time, it’s all in the eyes.

Gus’ eyes were fixed in a frozen stare.

“Alright, you ready Ron? We have one last bird in here.” I said.

Ron’s Browning A-5 20 ga. cycled as the bird fell on his first shot.

“Is that an original or re-issue?” I asked.

Ron smiled, “Original.”

 

The "I Only Got Five" White Quail Chili

It happens. The first hunt of the season can be rough, even if you have spent some time shouldering your gun during the off-season. Nerves can get the best of you. The birds never fly the way you expect them to. And it’s easy to psyche yourself out and forget that it’s not all about pulling the trigger. Those are my excuses anyway; I blanked eight times on opening day of Duck season.



So I could sympathize with my long time hunters, Chip and Chet Oehme, after we finished our first trip out at Wintergreen.

“Well Pop, at least we have enough to make a sandwich.”

And unlike me, at least they didn’t go home empty handed.

　

Here is an easy way to make a little go a long way…and a creative way to use game.

5 Quail Breasts

1 can of Great Northern Beans (un-drained)

1 can of Cannellini Beans (un-drained)

Optional: 1 can of Black Beans (drained/washed)

1 packet of McCormick White Chicken Chili Seasoning

2 cups game stock or water

Sour Cream

Cilantro

Avocados/ Guacamole

Serves 4

Grill or Roast Quail Breasts just to the point where you can pick the meat of the bones. Finish them off in a medium to large sauce pot with a little oil and packet of seasoning (cumin, cayenne, paprika, garlic, salt/ pepper, oregano).

Cook until each piece of Quail meat is coated with seasoning. Use water or better yet, game stock to sort of deglaze all that goodness stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Note: I save/freeze all my carcasses from ducks, quail, pheasant, etc. to make stock, as well as keeping my trash can from smelling for a week.

Add Beans, reduce heat and bring to a slow boil. (15- 20min)

Place in bowls and top with cilantro, sour cream, cheese, avocados or guacamole

 

A Slow Walk Back To The Truck

The field in front of us was filled with covey calls, when a lonesome Bobwhite lit through the tall pines and landed 50 yards ahead of us.

I warned Johnny Ferguson and his hunting partner.

“Heads up, guys. We got birds wanting to covey-up just ahead.”

Dixie had been working close and tracking these birds for the past 30 minutes, and the errant bird gave us a goal line on our slow walk back. A few steps later, she froze next to a patch of Sweet Gum saplings and suddenly we were right in the middle of it.

“Alright, be ready for more than one bird to get up” I cautioned.

Johnny’s first step towards Dixie sent a bird sailing towards safety, weaving through the trees. The bird fell on his second shot. Another bird jumped. Johnny anxiously searched his pockets for his next two shells and quickly reloaded his top barrel. Suddenly, a chain reaction of nervousness set bird after bird into the air and a single shot rang out as the birds scattered unscathed.

Dixie still sat frozen.

“We still got more birds in here .” I said.

Johnny laughed, “Well, I’m out of shells.”

In just under 4 hours of hunting, we had already moved close to 50 birds. And the fact of the matter is this: The busier Wintergreen is, the better the hunting is for everybody.

I offered a couple of 20 ga. re-loads from my pockets and we set up on the final bird. The reluctant quail fell 10ft from his panicked covey mate who seemed so anxious to fly.

With singles scattered all the way back to truck, and the wind in the dog’s favor, we couldn’t have asked for a better way to ending the morning.

　

　



　

Gobble, Gobble... Bang!..(Wait.. for it..) Bang!

Two gnarly-looking, blue-ish heads covered in bright bulbous red bumps poked out of the treeline overlooking a field of waist-high wheat. The Old Man and I had been hunting these turkeys for the past four days. Most likely brothers, these two gobblers had been hen-ed up along the thick creek bottom below and wouldn’t budge. Finally hen-less, the scout stepped out into the open 30 yards away and the strutter followed.




“Ok, you take the one on the right and I’ll the one on the left.” the Old Man whispered.
“Ok” I whispered back.
“Ready?”
“Yeah”

The Old Man started to count, “One.. Tw..… “

“Wait!…” I interrupted.,“I don’t have a shot.”.
The strutter momentarily ducked his head behind a clump of grass, then reappeared.
“Ok, got it.” I whispered.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, One… Two…Thr..( BANG!!)


The head and neck of my gobbler disappeared behind the grass and the built up tension and adrenalin gave way to a sudden rush of endorphins. As I lifted my cheek from the stock of my shotgun, I realized I didn’t hear a second gun shot. Something wasn‘t right. My Dad’s gobbler startled and flushed six feet in the air towards the woods. Why didn’t he shoot? I looked over at the Old Man.

“!@##$ IT, SON!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!???” he yelled.

I shrugged my shoulders. Honestly, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. I felt pretty good. I was under the impression that I just shot a turkey. But then, the reality of the situation snapped into focus and put a pit in my stomach.

“You can’t count to three?! You have a @#$#-ing college degree, and you can’t count to @#$%-ing three?” he continued to yell.

I had messed up the Old Man’s count and blown his chance at the second gobbler. We had been waiting and hoping for this situation for the past week. And I literally jumped the gun. We had been over the Old Man’s count system numerous times. I was even reminded 15 minutes before the gobblers showed up.

“One.. Two.. Three, then shoot where Four is supposed to be, that way you have time to whisper wait if you lose your shot.” he explained.
So in my defense; it's actually a “on four” count--not a one, two, three, shoot count--, I had plenty of time to say "wait",  and it goes against everything you learned growing up about doing things as the same time.

“Will you help me lift this?”
“Yeah”
“Ok, on three.. One.. Two..Thhrree.” (The lifting happens on three)

“Wanna race?”
“Ok… Ready.. Set..Go!” (you break on Go!)

"Paper, Rock, Scissors?"
"Yeah..one.. two..three. (you throw on three)

“Ok, let’s jump on three..”
Do you know what happens to the person who waits after three?
They don’t jump.

　
So all the lifting,running,jumping, banging, etc.. happens as soon as you hear three.

The “on four” system is like giving someone a telephone number in the wrong rhythm.
“52-396-9-4”
“What? Did you just give me a social security number? Say that again.”
It’s just confusing.

So pumped up full of adrenalin, it was instinct to shoot “on three”. But the Old Man had reason to be pissed. The same situation happened to him the previous week in South Carolina with another hunter which ended in a blown shot at a double.  I stood up to take the next round of profanity.

“wa. wa.. Wait.” the Old Man interrupted.

In the 5 seconds in between my shot and the subsequent cursing, the second gobbler settled down and stepped back into the open. Probably the result of months of constant fighting and pent-up aggression, the sub-dominant bird moved quickly towards the dead strutter. He paused and craned his neck towards the dead bird giving the impression of, “It’s about time.. I’m gonna come over there and finally whoop up on your…”, but before he could make his move, the Old Man leveled his gun, bang!

The second gobbler flopped in the grass and the Old Man looked back at me. “@#%$#!...You’re the luckiest !@#$%#% alive.  Your  @#$ would have been walking home, if I didn’t get a shot at that bird.” I think the Old Man's natural ability to cuss, comes from a mixture of growing up under an old Southern mother who could cuss up a storm just as well as she could cook, and watching the HBO series Deadwood.  My brother-in-law's father is the only other person I've heard speak so eloquently.
 We both got up to check our birds.

Cookie cutter longbeards. One inch spurs, 10 inch beards.

The family’s first father/son double. After a few fist pounds and sighs of relief, the Old Man’s mood relaxed and I started to pick up my gear.

“Wait a sec..I’m not ready to go yet. I just want to sit here and bask in this glory.” he said.
“And you know, if I didn‘t get a shot at this bird, I probably had it coming. I can‘t count how many times I‘ve shot a gobbler out from underneath your brother. ” he added.

The Signs of a New Season

On my last trip to Wintergreen, my eyes scoured the green fields of winter wheat off the highway. It doesn’t seem long ago that the rust colored browns and fluffed whites of cotton littered the country-side like an exploded bag of popcorn-- the closest thing to snow I’ve seen this season. Carefully checking my speedometer to avoid the authoritative question, “Is there a reason why you were speeding?” and the painfully apparent answer, “ I was being stupid, officer…” I counted four different flocks of turkeys on my morning commute.   

And as my hunter and I chased down our last pair of singles, a wing feather from an old gobbler stuck out from the dead pine needles. Wintergreen has a couple different flocks of turkeys that lurk on the outskirts of the fields during bird season. Wing feathers and footprints aren’t uncommon, but rarely does a hunter see one. Like cryptozoological creatures, they stay hidden in the unexplored corners of the woods. A rumor among the clubhouse surfaced that a hunter’s dog flash pointed a bush only to have a Rodan-sized bird explode from cover.

My dog’s last point produced the usual-sized quail. But with an old worn wing feather tucked in my vest, I couldn’t help but look forward to hunting these fields without blaze orange.



….April 14th

Just like Hunting Woodcock

A pair of quail dodged a volley of gunfire and escaped to the thick, marsh-like bay at the edge of the field.

“Alright, I got ‘em marked.” I said.

Most hunters would look at that kind of cover, and leave it to the birds. But I knew Johnny Ferguson likes to hunt woodcock, so he would be up for the challenge. His partner David Upchurch, probably wasn’t as sure.

Even with the light of day, these kind of woods take on a characteristic from an Evil Dead horror film. Dense networks of twisted vines and briars grab at your arms, legs and torso and try to steal whatever loose items you might be wearing, such as a hat or a pair of glasses. They scrape at your knuckles, face or any other exposed skin.   

And the ground can be just as deceitful, covering stump holes with dead leaves or soft mud that rob you of sure footing. Often times, just as you are negotiating the next set of obstacles, head down and one knee bent on the ground, a bird flushes leaving only the sound of wing beats. At best, the bird only presents itself for a split second before it disappears deeper into the dense cover. And if you’re lucky, you get one shot. Prepared for it or not. A style of hunting more typical of grouse or woodcock, than Bobwhite quail. Quick and unforgiving. But if you manage to knock down a bird, it’s a shot that stays imprinted on your memory. Snap shooting at its best. I, for one, love it.

As we walked up on Gus’s point, Johnny found himself tangled in vines. And the briars grabbed my hands and shook my camera as I knelt down. On cue, the bird flushed and disappeared. None of us got a clear shot.


The next point gave us enough time and room to position ourselves before the bird unexpectedly flushed. Johnny and David both fired with a perfect sense of timing as a plume of feathers framed the bird between a window of two small pines. A second later, the bird would have been gone.

Johnny laughed. “This is just like hunting woodcock.”

Away from the familiar fields, I couldn't help but agree.

Stupid Good Days of Dry Fly Fishing

I'll probably never see this again.....

   But there's always hope...

Behind Every Good Hunt is A Dog

When Dixie came nose to nose with two other Brittanies in the field, she cocked her head to the side giving the appearance of saying, “I don’t think I know you, so you better get out of my face.”  A simple, “Come on...” broke the stand off and reminded everybody that we were supposed to be hunting.  After a quick dozen of downed birds, Ryan Fulcher and I had met up with his hunting partners in the adjacent field with fellow guide, Ray Murphy, and his Brittanies.


“Is this your dog?” Ray asked as we headed towards the front corner of the field.
“I  inherited her from my uncle.” I answered.
“Really?  I sort of fell out of hunting for a while, so I booked a hunt with your uncle years ago on a whim.  I enjoyed the dog work so much that by the time I came home I had three new Brittany puppies.” He said.

As his liver and white Brittany went on point, Dixie and her brace mate respectfully backed.
Three Brittanies frozen in the tall broom grass. Struck by the scene,  Ray pulled out a camera.
“And...as a matter of fact, Dixie was the dog that got me back into hunting.” He continued.

I understood that statement all too well.  I grew up hunting with my uncle’s dogs at Wintergreen.  And if it weren’t for Dixie, neither one of us would have been walking the fields that day.   But my uncle's dogs aren’t perfect.  There are times when they bump birds, ignore commands, and rarely do they retrieve a bird to hand.  But I have never questioned their desire and drive to find birds.  And as hard as I’ve seen them hunt for me,  I’ll gladly  bend down to pick up a retrieved bird.  For better or worse, we are a team. 
It is a partnership tattooed in the evening sky during hunting season.  Each night, Orion the hunter and his dog Sirius silently stalk the eastern horizon in an eternal pursuit of cosmic fish and fur.   A ritual written in the stars and inherent to our human history.   A reminder that there is a certain happiness found in the bond formed from hunting with your dog.

Guns that say more than just a brand

One of my favorite things about taking hunters out is the guns. I am always excited to see what kind of gun my hunters pull from their cases. That being said, I’m not a gun buff. My working knowledge of shotguns is about the same as my knowledge of guitars; I know the classics, how to properly pronounce most brands, proper maintenance and cleaning, and the difference between a Stratocaster and Telecaster. And like shotguns, I can get around half way decent on a guitar. But ask me the specifics on why single coil pick-ups sound different than hum-buckers, and you’ll get a shoulder shrug and a blank face.

A Browning A-5 "Humpback"- Light 12 GA

Last season, I watched an “old-timer” pull out an original Browning A-5, Sweet Sixteen, “Humpback”. It is a horrendously awkward-looking gun. Compared to the sleek and smooth designs of modern Benelli’s, the A-5 with its straight edges and sharp corners looks like it was designed by a Kindergartner with a crayon. But it holds its place in history as the first semi- automatic shotgun. And immortalized in the writings and paintings of the “good old days” of hunting. My hunter went on to tell me that he had hunted with this gun since he was 12-years-old. And that it was passed down to him from an uncle who fought in World War I. He recounted stories of Geese before the days of steel shot, and shooting over countless coveys of wild Quail in the evenings after school. As he loaded the remaining shells in his hand, I realized I was looking a gun with more hunting experience than the both of us combined. “Still cycles 2 ¾ loads like a charm.” he added.

Johnny Ferguson shoulders his Huglu .410 side-by-side

So for me, there are certain guns and gauges that hold a special place in hunting. And I always look forward to the chance to see Johnny Ferguson hunt with his Huglu .410 side-by-side. Though Huglu is a relatively new manufacturer, the .410 has a long history and tradition in hunting.

For many hunters, it is the first gun they are allowed to carry in the field, but after a season or two, outgrown and left in its case. But the .410 holds a certain child-like nostalgia when you carry it as an adult. Its small, toy-like build reminds you of all the excitement you felt as a kid on your first hunts.

Though it can be a difficult gauge to shoot successfully, you can’t help but think, “What a nice little gun,” as you feel the weight of the still warm bird balanced against your gun.


Johnny is the only one of my hunters that shoots this gauge. And he does it well. On our most recent hunting trip together, I watched him and his hunting partner Jim, knock down bird after bird, only allowing three to escape unscathed

The type of gun a hunter carries can say a lot. The reasons for a certain gauge and gun can be just as varied as the hunters’ themselves. I’ve shot the same 20 gauge over/under for most of my life. And I doubt I’ll shoot another one. For me, it just feels good. I shot my first Grouse with that gun. My first Woodcock. My first double on Quail. It has no fancy embroidering on the receiver. No elegant etchings. The wood is weathered and worn from exposure and heavy use. The stock is riddled with scars from thick briar patches. And cured from the resulting blood and sweat of hard hunting. But it has a history. A character. And it was handed down to me from an Uncle.