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.