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.