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.

Shout Out To SportDog™

Last weekend, my SportDog Beeper 400 started emitting crackles, squeeks, sometimes a beep, but more often than not, silence. I tried running three new batteries through it. Same result. I rummaged through all my product information- tucked away in two or three different locations- and found their warranty/customer service line.

Customer service: Do you have your warranty or receipt?

Me: No, but I have this yellow piece of paper that says to call this number?

Customer service: How long have you had your Beeper 400?

Me: Maybe a year? Got last fall/winter?

Customer service: Ok, can you find a serial number on your beeper?

Me: Hmm.. It is worn off, DS is all I got.

Customer service: Ok, why don’t you just give me your contact information, and we’ll send you a new one. Just send the old one back, in our pre-paid postage box, and this is fulfill your warranty. Your order should arrive sometime this week.


Done and done.

 

Good Shootin'

Out of 30 birds "foundt", my hunters knocked down 27. One of the few times I can remember each bird that got away. And luckily for me, I got a few good shots of my own in there:

The Bird clutched a piece of grass with its foot as it flushed

Two months left of Bird Season....

Some Nice Dog Work

It doesn’t take long for my dogs to get restless from a few days stuck in the house. And after a busy holiday season, hunting every couple of days had become routine. Then all of a sudden, only hunting once a week seemed too much to bear. The past few weeks, Dixie took her frustration out by eating my fly tying materials. I lost a bag of Grouse feathers, a bag of wet, matted, half-chewed, unidentifiable feathers (there were only three left, they may have once belonged to a pheasant), a Hare’s mask, two and a half Calf tails, half of a Pheasant tail, and some dubbing. Thank you, I appreciated that. It’s the thought that counts, really. Needless to say, I was relieved to meet Bill Blair and David Honeycutt of Wilmington up at Wintergreen for a morning Quail hunt.

At the clubhouse, I shook Bill’s hand and he answered my introduction with a humble, but jovial, “Sorry boy, you must have messed up with Boyce because you’re stuck with us this morning. Neither one of us can shoot worth a sh@#.”

I politely laughed, but silently hoped that wasn’t the case.

Dressed in blaze orange and with guns broken over their shoulders, Bill and David leisurely walked behind Gus as he quickly quartered the field. David and I were reminiscing about our previous year’s hunt and how much his son enjoyed coming to Wintergreen, when Gus locked up. Bill and David took their positions walking in on the dog and the bird unexpectedly flushed. Bill promptly swung on the unpredicted flight path and knocked the bird down with one clean shot. So far, the morning’s introductory comment was turning out just as I had hoped.

Moments later, Gus provided another attempt for Bill to prove his sense of humor. Bill walked up behind Gus into seemingly open cover.

“Can you see the bird?” he asked.

“It looks like Gus is staring right at it,” I answered.


Bobwhite Quail are perfectly designed to disappear amongst the dead pine needles and rust colored brush that litters the ground beneath the canopy of longleafs and loblollies. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my dog’s eyes almost as much as his nose. Sure enough, four feet away from Gus’ nose, a Quail sat contently nestled in the sparse cover, camouflaged by light browns, faded greens and withered yellows


Flight won over fight and the bird exploded from its hidden position in a blur of feathers.

The panicked sound of wing beats can create a sympathetic response that causes an increased blood flow to your brain and the sharpening of your senses. Time seems to slow as you pick up your target and shoulder the gun. The sudden rush of adrenalin creates a tunneled vision, focusing you in on your target, blurring the background, and developing a sight picture at the end of your barrel.
A course of heart-pounding events that unnerves some of the best bird hunters, but Bill calmly followed the bird’s flight path and pulled the trigger. With another spectacular shot, the bird fell.

“Nice Shot!” I congratulated him.

“Thanks, I’ll probably miss every bird after this one,” he laughed.


After our first sweep and a baker‘s dozen of birds in my vest, I started towards the tall broom grass at the edge of the field. Gus suddenly stopped 20 feet behind me. I turned back. He sat frozen, staring ahead, tongue hanging out. It had the appearance of a point, but I knew better. I stepped forward calling his bluff and Gus bolted back out into the middle of the field

“What was that all about?” David curiously asked, as he and Bill stood confused over what had just taken place.

“That was the, ‘Oh sh@#, were headed back to the car’ look.” I answered.

They both laughed.

“Well, the dog might not need a break, but this
50-year-old a#$ does.” Bill joked.

Back at the car, Bill begrudgingly answered his voicemail.

“Here’s some advice,” he said, “Don’t ever own rentals.”
I smiled, “I don’t doubt you. I cringe when I think of what my landlords in college thought of our living habits.   I had one ask if anyone in the house worked as a grease monkey because there was so much dirt and grime in the carpets.  I didn‘t have the courage to say it was due to the rain on Mardi Gras.”

After another sweep of the field,  we ended up with some more great shots and some nice dog work.  With our morning’s inventory laid out on the back of the truck, David and Bill were both pleasantly surprised.
“I really didn’t expect us to shoot that well,” Bill commented.
“Well, at least you did,” David jabbed.
I laughed, “Thanks, guys. I enjoyed it.”

Swamp and Surf

This recipe comes from one of my hunters from Louisiana. I had a hard time understanding the accent without subtitles, but besides the rice and few other accoutrements, this version is about as local as you can get; The shrimp came from Stump Sound. The Wood Duck from a nearby swamp. And the brussel sprouts, green peppers, and okra came from the Old Man’s garden.

*Even if you can’t get all these ingredients locally, or can’t find Wood Duck at your local grocery store, or understand the cajun accent, it still tastes good as gumbo over rice with just shrimp.



Ingredients:

2-4 grilled wood duck breasts(brined, wet rubbed)

*check teal taco recipe for brining and wet rub

1 pound of shrimp(peeled, de-veined, marinated in whatever you can find in the frig, Italian dressing, steak marinate, etc.., and grilled)

Rice( read the box to see how many servings you need)

A handful of Brussel Sprouts

1 green pepper

1 Vidalia onion

3 stocks of Celery

1 can of chicken broth

2 cups chopped Okra

¼ cup melted butter


Salt and pepper to taste.



Finely dice onion, celery and green pepper and add to pot with olive oil. Let it cook down, and add chicken broth.

Read the back of your box o’ rice and start your rice in a separate pot or microwave.

Tear off brussel sprout leaves, coat in butter(or olive oil) and salt and roast in oven at 400 degrees.

Cook until they get all burnt on the edges and crispy. (It’s supposed to look like you screwed it up)

As your pseudo-gumbo mix is cooking, skewer shrimp and prepare Wood Duck for the grill.
*I chose not to soak my skewers in water before grilling, because when they catch on fire and turn to charcoal, I know the shrimp is done.

Add Okra to onion, celery and green pepper. Stir and continue to let it cook and thicken.

Grill your shramps and duck(med rare)

Rest yo’ meat. Slice thinly.

Plate your rice, spoon your gumbo mixture(if it doesn’t turn out call it a okra gravy, I did) over the rice, top with grilled duck and shrimp, garnish with roasted brussel sprouts.

There's a Squatch in these Woods

Something rustled in the tall grasses behind us.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Jon’s eyes lit up, “Yeah..? Wha-waz-that??” he whispered.

“I dunno know?” I replied.





The distinct crackle and snap of footsteps sounded closer.
“Do you have Squatches in these woods?” he eagerly asked.

“I think they’re called Skunk Apes in the swamp.” I answered.


The footsteps suddenly stopped and Rich poked his head out from tall grasses.
“Hey.. I gotta raccoon over here looking right at me.” He said.


Jon and I are long time Bigfoot enthusiasts, but all these new television shows and nicknames going around is a little much. Thanks to the Blair Witch Project, watching idiots run around in the woods with a night vision camera sells. Most of my working knowledge of the Bigfoot comes from the movie Harry and the Hendersons; He is a vegetarian, struggles with suburban life( traffic, nosy neighbors and interior archways), and loves eating chips and dip while reclining in a lazy boy and watching black and white t.v. Oh, and most recently, if you’re holding a bag of beef jerky, he doesn’t like to be messed with.

The moments before shooting time can be nerve-wrecking for a duck hunter. Thankfully Jon and Rich came up from Savannah and added a little bit of comic relief. It’s not so much the anticipation of shooting, but the suspense of knowing that swamp is about to come alive with the sound of wing beats. And thankfully, they both went back to the car with their first Wood Duck. I shot a merganser.

Jon finished the morning with a spectacular shot on a drake that had to be coaxed off the water and flew right over our decoys. I’ve known Jon for nearly 15 years, and last year was the first time I have ever seen him fire a gun. Before that, I was actually kind of nervous that the state of Georgia authorized him to carry a loaded weapon as a Police Officer. But as it turns out, he is actually a really good shot.

After a quick breakfast, we headed out to Wintergreen for an afternoon of Quail hunting. Jon and Rich took turns walking in on the dog’s point and I stood by the side to shoot backup. Mid-afternoon, Dixie  trailed a scent down a muddy road to the edge of the field and Rich walked up on her point. But before I could warn him that this might be a covey, four birds exploded from cover. Four shots followed and one bird dropped.


Once the excitement settled, I asked Rich what he thought of his first covey rise.

“I couldn’t figure out which bird to shoot.” he said.

“Same here, I blanked on my first shot.” I laughed.

Luckily, I recovered on my second.

It always amazes me, that when shooting over a covey, the amount of pellets and birds occupying the same space doesn’t result in more downed birds. Just the sheer physics of it doesn't make sense.  I’ve watched hunter after hunter unload their guns on a covey rise only to have the birds scatter to the winds unharmed. In the pandemonium of a covey rise, success lies in finding a single target and shooting one bird at time. It’s easier said than done.

The more birds we found, the more Jon and Rich got the hang of wing shooting. I barely got a chance to take my gun off safety. When a quail flushes, it rarely flies the way you predict it to. The key is letting the bird get up and fly, then reacting. On our final sweep back to the car, Gus marked another bird hiding in the thick briars on the edge of the road.

Jon took his turn and walked in.  A barrage of shotgun blasts followed as the bird flew to safety. But in a last effort plea for the bird to come home with us, a single shot rang out and the bird helicopter-ed to the ground.

“Who had that last shot?” I asked.

“I did.” Rich smiled.

Who Needs A Retriever When You Have An 8 Year Old?

Its been long family tradition, that before you’re allowed to carry a gun in the field, you have to pay your dues doing dog duty. As a young kid, I was called up on my first retrieving job during a dove hunt in southern Ohio. The Old Man’s recollection of my first retrieve was his son running out into the field, picking up a dove, spreading its wings, and repeatedly throwing it back up into the air.


"What in the hell are you doing, boy?" he asked.
"I just wanted to see if it would fly." I replied.
The Old Man shook his head,
"...It's dead, son... get back over here."



I'm sure a lot of parents have asked that question of their
children.




A large part of growing up is testing the laws that govern the natural world and ultimately learning that T.V is not real and that movies have something called “special effects”. It is a harsh reality discovering that no matter how many times you jump off your swing set with a cape, you won‘t fly. So in my 8 year old capacity for aeronautics, I reasoned birds have wings and so do paper airplanes. You get the right toss on a paper airplane and that thing will fly for miles. Wings are wings, right? But after that first retrieve I learned valuable lesson: All wings aren‘t wings, and dead birds don‘t fly.

During the Old Man’s Birthday duck hunt at Wintergreen, I witnessed my 8 year old nephew continue in the family tradition. And after I saw him pick up his first duck, I knew exactly what was going through his head,

 “How in the world does this thing fly?”


But before he could start putting some mechanics together, we had ducks coming over the tree line.

“Hey! Get back over here!” My brother shouted.
"Its tongue is hanging out its mouth!"
he exclaimed.
"...Its dead, son.. get back in the blind, we still have ducks coming in." My brother replied.

We had decided that we were only going to shoot drake mallards, wings cupped, feet down. Part of the thrill of duck hunting is being able to fool a duck into wanting to set down right in your lap. And when you see 500-1000 ducks during a hunt, you have the luxury of picking your shots. Its also important when training a new retriever to knock the birds down right in front of you so he gets a good mark on the bird.

Three ducks came over the tree line and circled our blind. On their final approach, a hen sandwiched between two drakes sat suspended in the air 10 feet over our decoys. The stuttering “ba-BAM!” of two almost simultaneous shots echoed through the blind as her two escorts fell on the water.

“Can I go get those??” My nephew eagerly asked.

“Wait, there’s still ducks working, you just worry about calling out drakes.” My brother answered.

Three hens caught us off guard and set down right in front of us. As we relaxed, a drake buzzed our blind. If you’ve ever wondered what goes through your duck dog’s head when you pass on a shot, my nephew voiced it perfectly.

The hardest part of his retriever training was trying to hold back his enthusiasm and keep him quiet in the blind, not unlike most duck-crazed labs.

A dozen drakes later, we called it quits and took the customary “put-all-your-dead-ducks-in-the-back-of-your-truck” picture.

My brother and I did the most calling, my nephew did the retrieving, and the Old Man did most of the shooting.


Authors Note:  If you need a 3 1/2 inch shell to put down a duck, you're not doing it right. And if you're wondering where those two big front teeth came from,  I found it.

Dog Tired

With 4 hunts this past week and nearly 120 birds found, my dogs have laid claim to the couch. Good Luck finding a seat.  Here are a few highlights from this week’s hunts. Happy New Year!

Long time Wintergreen hunters, Jeff, Jack and Steve spent their morning taking turns putting down birds, and reminiscing 20 years worth of funny hunting stories.

“We really didn’t come here to hunt,” Jeff remarked, “apparently we just like coming out here to eat peanuts, sardines, and Vienna sausages at the car.”

“I tell ya, one time we ate ourselves sick on chocolate covered peanuts, remember that?” Jack added.


With plenty of birds to take home, they left in search of the closest place to eat fried shrimp and oysters.

Jaime Cook and his family complimented their quail hunt with a morning of duck hunting.

Their chocolate lab “Houdini” had plenty of work to do with 22 ducks to take home.

Johnny Ferguson put on a clinic with his .410 side by side, and Linwood Parker figured out a way to get him and his grandson, Jordan, out of a day shopping with the women on New Years Eve.


Happy 2012! There's three months left of bird season and the ducks are flying. Come book a hunt! www.wintergreenhuntingpreserve.com